What I Learned from Loving Someone Who's Unafraid of Death....
For My Big Brother.
Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock
“I went to check on your brother and was going to ask him if one of y’all could pick up my brother from the hospital, but I can’t get him to wake up. He’s not responding.” She said in a frantic voice.
My heart dropped. This could not be happening. I’d get my little brother to go and check with me, because I couldn’t imagine what I’d find….
The Essence of My Big Brother
My brother was born in the last year of Generation X, 1980. He was a charismatic, affable, and around-the-way type of guy. Everyone felt comfortable talking with him because he treated everyone with respect. No matter what season of life a person was in, he showed them grace.
I’d seen my brother befriend people from all walks of life: older people, people who were homeless, and even people struggling with addiction. One time, after I picked him up from work, we saw an older man walking. “Ah, Sis, can you stop? That’s old school. I met him when some young boys were making fun of him while he was trying to work. I told ‘em we respect our elders. I call him ‘old school’ because he came before us. All he does is work and walk home every day.” I picked up the nice older man and took him home. “It’s human decency,” he would say as to why you should treat everyone with kindness.
My brother also didn’t need a reason or much to celebrate anything. He’d take his Black and Mild cigars and Svedka vodka, with plenty of food to follow, preferably barbecue, and relax within life. Life was meant for celebrating, and he believed that wholeheartedly. If your birthdate was near, “What you doing for your birthday?” he’d ask in his fast-talking soft rumble voice. He’d even celebrate with you if you asked. For the sole reason of one deserving to have fun and celebrate being alive. He had a simple take on life. “We all got to leave one day, so you might as well enjoy yourself.”
Within our relationship, there weren’t many deep, bonding moments like you’d think between siblings. Not for any bad reason—we were generational gap siblings, 17 years apart. Yeah, go ahead and say, “Wow!” When I was just being born, my older brother had already moved out. My mom started over completely with my little brother and me. She had two sets: a Gen X, a millennial, and two early Gen Zs. In a traditional sense, we’ve always been a close-knit family. I mean, how could you not be in a multi-generational home for years? But we’ve always just done our own things within our own capacities. But even with those differences, my big brother’s belief in me was there; I just didn’t comprehend it then.
Over a decade ago, my family separated when we moved to a different town, well, mostly. My big brother had decided to stay in our hometown, while the rest of us moved almost an hour away. I remember getting signed out of school once and hurrying to get back to our hometown. My brother was sick. When we made it to the hospital and got to his room, the first thing I noticed was his legs. They were swollen like the Michelin Man. He was in good spirits, but why in the world were his legs swollen? The doctor told us he had a pretty good idea what was wrong, but needed to run some tests. Once the tests were done and we got the results, my brother was diagnosed with Stage B Congestive Heart Failure.
The doctor thoroughly explained to my big brother all the things he would need to do to live a life with Congestive Heart Failure: diet, light exercise, a low-sodium diet, and lastly, no tobacco or alcohol. He also explained how bad the effects of “CHF” were to get, if he didn’t take care of his self. The thing was that my brother was as stubborn as a mule. He wasn’t going to stop doing what he wanted because of a little sickness, as he put it. He loved to drink, smoke, and eat a whole lot of pork. What could progressively get worse and take him, he was unafraid. Death didn’t instill fear within him; no, he wanted to enjoy his life even to the detriment of his own health. And no, that isn’t necessarily a good mindset to have or adopt, but you can’t convince someone unyielding in their ways. We respected his autonomy. The lesson was in who he was and how he treated all, despite the challenges he faced. We would see.
His Belief in Me
Once, I had a loved one spat at me, “You think you’re better than us, because you want to go to college.” During that conversation, I was just speaking about my dreams and plans. Resentment, or jealousy, I don’t know, but it was heavily felt. After saying that and leaving the conversation in anger, my brother, who’d been there quietly observing, said one simple thing, “Whatever you do, I’m proud of you. From where we come from, you go do better than us.” Relief washed over me; at least someone believed in me. I never went to college; life had other plans. (I’ll get into that in a newsletter soon.) It wasn’t whether I lived and attained my goals or not, but rather my loved ones believing I could. It’s human nature to want that validation, and I got it from who I’d least expected, my brother.
My writing isn’t something I’ve shared with much of anyone since I was a little girl, when I was rejected for it. In my teenage years up until now, writing has been my secret bestie. When I had no one to really listen, I wrote. My deepest conversations have been between me and my journals. So, you can imagine my brother didn’t know either, or at least I thought he didn’t. We honestly didn’t have many deep conversations either, like I said, age-gap siblings. As I got older, conversations with my older brother consisted of talks no more than about sports, shows, and memories. Our deep conversations were few and far between. But there is one I remember in particular. We were sitting on the porch of our family home, talking about where we’d move to settle in life, goals, and more. “I’m proud of you, lil sis. You have the tools to make it. I see how you like to write. Keep doing that.” I didn’t realize he noticed me writing. Like I stated, we were age-gap siblings by a long shot, but he noticed that my writing meant something important to me. That was my brother, though, quiet, but seeing all.
The saying “you’re damned if you, and you’re damned if you don’t” is popular for a reason. I don’t fault or judge anyone for wanting more; it only becomes a problem when you’re never satisfied with more. Would you be surprised if I told you that I’ve been judged for valuing less? I’ve never been the type to need to do much to enjoy life. The urge to want more to enjoy life is pushed heavily by society. As I started this piece, I realized my brother and I share a similar perspective; simplicity has always been just fine for us. Not every person will live grand experiences, and that’s just life. Many people speak of grand dreams that they have for their lives. After I graduated high school, I made a list of things I wanted to do, but honestly, they were mundane compared to what you’d write on a bucket list, things like: learn to cook (I can now), visit New York (Hopefully one day soon), and so on. With my brother, though, he was content with simple pleasures: family, food, and his two favorite things, which I stated. My simple pleasures are family, faith, reading, and writing. He was always deeply content in life, and I realized, I too.
“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” — Robert Frost.
Trigger Warning: The Ending….
Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock
“I went to check on your brother and was going to ask him if one of y’all could pick up my brother from the hospital, but I can’t get him to wake up. He’s not responding.” She said in a frantic voice.
My heart dropped. This could not be happening. I’d get my little brother to go and check with me, because I couldn’t imagine what I’d find.
My little brother and I slowly trekked to the back-house storage, with the echoes of my heart thumping in my ears.
I entered slowly, my little brother a few steps behind…. the oldest, the boisterous, and the bigger than life, my brother was quiet. I discovered the body of my brother as what I can only describe as an awkwardly placed teddy bear, on the ground, eyes open, legs bent back awkwardly, slumped over, and still. Fear paralyzed me; I couldn’t touch him like that, so I settled for yelling his name. He didn’t answer.
“Would this be the first time I perform CPR on a live person? I’m CPR certified from a nursing class in high school, but I’ve never done it outside of certifying. God, I hope my brother isn’t dead. He’s been getting worse, but I didn’t think this would happen. Oh My God!”
Those thoughts ran through my head simultaneously while I sprinted into the house to grab gloves. Somewhere in between me moving fast and grabbing gloves, I notified my family, and they were there.
About three weeks before, I remember my brother’s legs being really swollen, just like that first time in the hospital. He had a hard time trying to catch his breath. “Are you okay?” I asked him. “No, I’m just tired, sis.”
I remember every detail of my brother and the back-house storage that night under the moon. The visceral pungent smell, foam at the corner of my brother’s mouth, eyes hazed over, and cool stillness in the air.
I would begin CPR, my brother-in-law next, then a police officer, and after I don’t know. As I trudged to the front, all I could do was pray. I did what I could. He couldn’t be gone.
I’d experienced a tragic event earlier in my life, but this was different. I’d never seen so many firefighters, officers, and paramedics—ever. They surrounded our family home like a fortress.
A few weeks before September 8th, my brother had a doctor’s appointment. After, we asked how it went, and he said, “Everything was cool, probably got to go back.” What he didn’t tell us— he was in dire health, and he’d need to go back sooner rather than later. His heart had a low ejection fraction.
Ejection fraction is the percentage of blood that is pumped out of the heart’s ventricle with each contraction. Normal percentage is between 50% to 70%, and <30% is severely reduced. We were told that my brother’s condition was between 17% and 30%. That big-headed brother of mine never told us. He was in the last stage of Congestive Heart Failure. He kept on like nothing was wrong. That was my brother, though.
After almost an hour of these first responders surrounding our family, a machine working to push life back into my brother, they’d done all they could…. his heart wouldn’t restart. They’d exhausted everything they had. My kind and boisterous big brother was gone on September 8. I thanked the paramedics for all they did. They went above and beyond for my mama, and us, we were truly grateful.
My brother’s night of transitioning is a night indelibly etched in my mind. I’ve seen the coming of death up close before, but this was different. This was home, family together, me trying to bring him back, entrenched in his transition. A night of pain, but also a gathering of family for love of my brother. One of our cousins came, a friend, calls, all within the few hours after my brother officially passed. He was loved.
We would later find out my brother officially died minutes before I found him. The fact was chilling, stilling me in that moment I found out, the coroner encouraged my mama to watch over me.
After years of my brother’s “CHF” progressively getting worse, that wasn’t what killed him, though. It was fentanyl. What he was smoking was laced. To say we were devastated was an understatement. They never had any identifiable suspects in my brother’s death. We’d never know who provided him with laced recreational drugs. There were never any arrests made. And though it was devastating, we came to be at peace. My brother was tired in his dying body; we witnessed it. We knew he was now at peace, rejoicing in Heaven.
I don’t know why it was me to find him, begin CPR, to be in his presence right after he died. Thinking about it now, maybe it was like the few times in which he was there for me, a still strength quietly willing me forward…
The coroner told my mom a lot about my brother’s last days. “He was a ticking time bomb. Your son could’ve been waving at someone and would’ve dropped dead. He was in his last days; I suspect he knew, but just wanted to keep on living like he did until it was his time. He didn’t want y’all to worry or treat him differently.”
What He Taught Me
“CHF” progressively got worse over the next decade before my brother passed. You wouldn’t know, though. He didn’t tell anyone. The only time you’d know was if you witnessed. There were a few times in which he didn’t have his medication, and his legs would swell, and he had trouble breathing. In the face of death, he didn’t change who he was, or how he lived, no grand bucket list or last hurrah, he lived as if he had all the time in the world. He still held life to its highest regard. He still celebrated, moved with kindness, and his joy radiated until the end. He knew he didn’t have long, he said to our mom months before, “I’ve enjoyed my life, and I’ll be okay. I get to be somewhere far better than this crazy ass world.” I’m still shaking my head at that brother of mine. Though, I admire the way in which he lived in the end. He lived according to what was important to him.
A Message
Months after he died, as I was lying on the couch, he gave me a simple message, “Keep moving forward, little sis. I woke up happy to see him and thankful for his unwavering belief in me still. I mentioned in my first Substack that I don’t know where this will lead, but I’m honored to be here, writing the words of my life.
I’ve finally moved forward…. Thank you, big bro. I love you.
28/80…. He’d tell you about his birthday in a heartbeat, LOL
Resources:
How to stop a fentanyl overdose?