Midnight Musings
It’s just after midnight. I’m in front of the computer. My dogs are asleep beside me.
Two hours ago, I contemplated going to bed. Instead I went out and bought a cup of coffee. I took the dogs for a walk and then returned home. I plunked myself down on the couch and flipped on the TV. Now I’m not going to be sleeping any time soon for reasons that have very little to do with the coffee.
Death...The show I watched was called Free TV, a local talk show. The topic du jour was death. The panellists spoke of their experiences with death. Death of a loved one. Witnessing death. Near-death experiences. Every life has been touched by death to one extent or another.
Four years ago, in the midst of my exile from faith, I found myself thinking a lot about death. It wasn’t my own death that was weighing on my mind. For some reason, I began thinking about the death of my parents. What would I do if my mother were to die? My dad? How would I handle it? Would I be able to make it through?
During the time I spent following this morbid line of thought, my dad came right out and asked me about it. I certainly never mentioned my thoughts to my parents, but I guess the subject was weighing on their minds as well. ‘When something happens to either one of us’, he said, ‘you know you’ll have to take responsibility for David, right?’
David – my brother. David – who was born with severe Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. David – who had been a part of our family since he was four months old. David – who required full-time care. The death or incapacity or either one of my parents would make me David’s legal guardian.
I worried about, pondered, contemplated, and generally obsessed over these thoughts for several months. Eventually, though, I managed to put them behind me. After all, both my parents were in good health and death seemed a long way off.
Life went on. Two years passed.
Then, two years ago, I got a phone call. Actually, I missed a phone call. I was driving home from work at the time. I never answer my phone while driving; I don’t believe it’s safe. In this case, it saved my life. My phone rang on six separate occasions as I drove home that day. Each successive time it rang, I got more annoyed. Why wasn’t the caller getting the hint that I wasn’t available? Why didn’t they just leave a message?
When I finally got home, I called a friend to see if he was the one who had been trying to get me. He wasn’t. Hmmm... Oh well, whoever it was would just have to call back.
I carried on with my day. I started making cookies. I had the dough in a bowl and was up to my elbows in the stuff, kneading it by hand. My phone began ringing again. Anxious to know what this was all about, I grabbed my backpack, covering it with cookie dough in the process. I dug through the bag, getting it sticky inside and out. I found the phone and answered it, dough making its way into the little cracks between all the buttons.
When I heard my dad’s voice, I began laughing and shouting. ‘It’s only you! If I’d known it was only you I wouldn’t have answered.’ I carried on, talking a mile a minute, as I usually do, not letting my dad speak.
Eventually, I must have shut up, because he got his chance to speak. I don’t even remember what his words were. I just remember screaming and arguing and rationalising and falling to the floor, still arguing. ‘No! It doesn’t work that way. People don’t die like that. Why are you saying that? That is not how it happens.’
All the times I thought about death, about my parents’ death, about how I would cope with the loss, about how I would manage to be parent to my adult brother, I never considered the possibility that it might not be one of them who would die first. I never imagined how I would cope with David’s death.
I never once asked myself if I was prepared to face that eventuality. In my mind, it wasn’t a real possibility. Death of a parent is one thing; death of a baby brother (even one who was 27) is an entirely different matter.
Two years ago David choked to death on a piece of KFC. In that moment, my world changed. I became an emotional wreck. I spent the next eight months sleep-walking through life. I remember things that happened during that time, but I don’t see them as my own memories. They are just things that happened – to somebody, somewhere, sometime.
On seeing how hard David’s death was on me, people inevitably ask if we were close. They always look taken aback when I respond by saying, ‘No, we weren’t; and now we never will be.’ I guess that’s not the polite answer. It’s not what I’m supposed to say. It’s just the truth.
The talk show I watched surveyed people on what they were doing to ensure a long life. I say to hell with LONG life – I want a full life. I want my life to be what it was supposed to be, what it was designed to be. If that means living for another 60 years, or merely another 60 minutes, so be it. I just want to live the way I’m meant to.
Two hours ago, I contemplated going to bed. Instead I went out and bought a cup of coffee. I took the dogs for a walk and then returned home. I plunked myself down on the couch and flipped on the TV. Now I’m not going to be sleeping any time soon for reasons that have very little to do with the coffee.
Death...The show I watched was called Free TV, a local talk show. The topic du jour was death. The panellists spoke of their experiences with death. Death of a loved one. Witnessing death. Near-death experiences. Every life has been touched by death to one extent or another.
Four years ago, in the midst of my exile from faith, I found myself thinking a lot about death. It wasn’t my own death that was weighing on my mind. For some reason, I began thinking about the death of my parents. What would I do if my mother were to die? My dad? How would I handle it? Would I be able to make it through?
During the time I spent following this morbid line of thought, my dad came right out and asked me about it. I certainly never mentioned my thoughts to my parents, but I guess the subject was weighing on their minds as well. ‘When something happens to either one of us’, he said, ‘you know you’ll have to take responsibility for David, right?’
David – my brother. David – who was born with severe Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. David – who had been a part of our family since he was four months old. David – who required full-time care. The death or incapacity or either one of my parents would make me David’s legal guardian.
I worried about, pondered, contemplated, and generally obsessed over these thoughts for several months. Eventually, though, I managed to put them behind me. After all, both my parents were in good health and death seemed a long way off.
Life went on. Two years passed.
Then, two years ago, I got a phone call. Actually, I missed a phone call. I was driving home from work at the time. I never answer my phone while driving; I don’t believe it’s safe. In this case, it saved my life. My phone rang on six separate occasions as I drove home that day. Each successive time it rang, I got more annoyed. Why wasn’t the caller getting the hint that I wasn’t available? Why didn’t they just leave a message?
When I finally got home, I called a friend to see if he was the one who had been trying to get me. He wasn’t. Hmmm... Oh well, whoever it was would just have to call back.
I carried on with my day. I started making cookies. I had the dough in a bowl and was up to my elbows in the stuff, kneading it by hand. My phone began ringing again. Anxious to know what this was all about, I grabbed my backpack, covering it with cookie dough in the process. I dug through the bag, getting it sticky inside and out. I found the phone and answered it, dough making its way into the little cracks between all the buttons.
When I heard my dad’s voice, I began laughing and shouting. ‘It’s only you! If I’d known it was only you I wouldn’t have answered.’ I carried on, talking a mile a minute, as I usually do, not letting my dad speak.
Eventually, I must have shut up, because he got his chance to speak. I don’t even remember what his words were. I just remember screaming and arguing and rationalising and falling to the floor, still arguing. ‘No! It doesn’t work that way. People don’t die like that. Why are you saying that? That is not how it happens.’
All the times I thought about death, about my parents’ death, about how I would cope with the loss, about how I would manage to be parent to my adult brother, I never considered the possibility that it might not be one of them who would die first. I never imagined how I would cope with David’s death.
I never once asked myself if I was prepared to face that eventuality. In my mind, it wasn’t a real possibility. Death of a parent is one thing; death of a baby brother (even one who was 27) is an entirely different matter.
Two years ago David choked to death on a piece of KFC. In that moment, my world changed. I became an emotional wreck. I spent the next eight months sleep-walking through life. I remember things that happened during that time, but I don’t see them as my own memories. They are just things that happened – to somebody, somewhere, sometime.
On seeing how hard David’s death was on me, people inevitably ask if we were close. They always look taken aback when I respond by saying, ‘No, we weren’t; and now we never will be.’ I guess that’s not the polite answer. It’s not what I’m supposed to say. It’s just the truth.
The talk show I watched surveyed people on what they were doing to ensure a long life. I say to hell with LONG life – I want a full life. I want my life to be what it was supposed to be, what it was designed to be. If that means living for another 60 years, or merely another 60 minutes, so be it. I just want to live the way I’m meant to.
4/10/04 22:10thank you for those words. reading it made me feel alive today
24/11/04 22:33
When you get done with Corrie ten Boom, I have another suggestion for you: "Gentle Closings: How To Say Goodbye to Someone You Love," by Ted Menten. This is an unsung classic about life, death, and coming to closure - even after the person I need to close with has died. You can get it dirt-cheap on Amazon - shipping is actually more than the cost of the book. And it's worth it's weight in gold. Let me put it to you this way...if you buy it, and don't like it, I promise to buy it from you.
Enough book-salesmanship. The point: you (and I) both have at least two challenges: to let go of the physical shell of life that has died, while holding on dearly to the memories and the spirit of the one we loved dearly; and to live each moment fully...being fully alive until the moment we die. I think those two things are complementary - to do one ensures doing the other.
You may be able to truthfully say that you weren't close to your brother; however, it's pretty clear that you loved him. We simply don't react that strongly to people that we don't care about.
One other gentle suggestion - part of being fully alive, for me, is asking God to remove fear from my life. I'd suggest that perhaps fear of having to take care of your brother might very well have distanced you from your brother while he was alive. Fear, for me, can corrode and corrupt even the most innocent of situations. Obviously, I have no idea about what your situation is - but I *do* know this has made a big difference in my life...both when I have been able to let go of fear, and when I've failed to do so.
Thanks for being honest enough to share this story.
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