At all times and at once one thought recurring,
A mind still stirring, a heart yearning
At once and at all times one phrase repeating,
From this Earth all are retreating
Out she slips to the future's horizon,
out with the tide does her soul ever flow
Can Garrietta come out to play?
Not til eternity, for only God does the answer know
At all times and at once do eyes mist and blur,
a spirit's sale lists, arms fall open
At once and at all times do scenes fade to grey,
dreams for tomorrow lie broken
The shoulders feel no more warm sunsets,
but they bear no more burdens either
The mind has no great mystery to ponder,
and no disease meant it to decipher
At all times and at once does the tide of time wash away footprints
At once and at all times does a son's "I remember" set new imprints
A mother and a father's love stir the echoes and fill forever's drum
A brother's little root rests at tree, a brother's champion race is run
Can Garrietta come out to play?
"Lift your heart, hers is heavy no more."
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Seeing Brother Mario off
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth; And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds ... Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. -- from John Gillespie Magee Jr's poem "High Flight"
As I sit across from her today, it strikes me just how much different our interaction is compared to just a few days ago. The physical therapist is just leaving after her first session with my sister. The woman says she made "really good" progress in their first meeting. Damn, are we already at the point where we are "rehabilitating." Just a few days ago, I was trying to prepare myself for the worst. The worst just missed our door ... it found the family next to us.
His name is Mario. He was in the room just before my sister's in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. He was also on life support, just like my sister, but he had suffered severe trauma to his head. My father and I both guessed that he was probably in a motorcycle accident -- One of the guys that came in to see him had on a motorcycle club vest. Through the open door into his room I would sneak a peek at him as I walked past to see my sister. Mario looked young, younger than me, probably late 20's.
A few days ago, the same day my sister went in for her third surgery, Mario's mother told me the time was very close that they would have to take him off life support, he was brain dead. His mom told me this because I had just walked past Cathy being consoled in the hallway outside of the waiting room. I remember Cathy from my first day at the hospital: Beautiful woman, Latin decent, dark hair, hazel eyes and very, very quiet. Originally I thought it was because of the heavy accent she spoke with. But on that day, standing in the hallway, I discovered the more likely reason for her silence. Mario is her husband.
Back to this morning: I look around, trying to find his father among the growing number of people here to see Mario off. I can't find him. He is probably in Mario's room, at his bedside. The door is now closed and the blinds are now drawn closed. Appropriate metaphor, I think to myself as I walk back into my sister's room. Her door is open, as is the window out to the world, metaphor just gets deeper.
Later in the afternoon: The nurse asks me to leave the room for a minute while they work with my sister. I step back into the crowded walk way and I pass one of Mario's sisters. She is more Americanized than the other family members -- she does not have an accent. She is more streetwise too. "The struggle's over dog," she says to me with as much courage and bravado as she can find. "I am sorry," I reply in a low rumble. She nods a thank you, then shrugs her shoulders. I take the elevator down to the lobby, I need some air.
When I came back up to the floor 30 minutes later the hallway is completely empty -- They are all gone. I can't say I blame them. I would want to get as far away from there as possible, to try and outrun the memory of that day. I follow these two men into ICU as I go back in to sit with my sister. At first, I don't register what they are pushing, but then -- all at once -- it hits me. It almost looks like a bed, I think to myself. They wheel up to Mario's room and knock on the closed door, then they go in. I don't dare look in now, he has earned his privacy.
I have read that a lot can be said about a man through the actions of those he leaves behind. Or how much he was loved can be seen in the eyes of those who cry at his passing. If these are truly the measure, then the world lost a good man today. God speed Mario.
I go back in and sit with my sister. I am glad her door is still open. I thank God she is still here.
As I sit across from her today, it strikes me just how much different our interaction is compared to just a few days ago. The physical therapist is just leaving after her first session with my sister. The woman says she made "really good" progress in their first meeting. Damn, are we already at the point where we are "rehabilitating." Just a few days ago, I was trying to prepare myself for the worst. The worst just missed our door ... it found the family next to us.
His name is Mario. He was in the room just before my sister's in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. He was also on life support, just like my sister, but he had suffered severe trauma to his head. My father and I both guessed that he was probably in a motorcycle accident -- One of the guys that came in to see him had on a motorcycle club vest. Through the open door into his room I would sneak a peek at him as I walked past to see my sister. Mario looked young, younger than me, probably late 20's.
A few days ago, the same day my sister went in for her third surgery, Mario's mother told me the time was very close that they would have to take him off life support, he was brain dead. His mom told me this because I had just walked past Cathy being consoled in the hallway outside of the waiting room. I remember Cathy from my first day at the hospital: Beautiful woman, Latin decent, dark hair, hazel eyes and very, very quiet. Originally I thought it was because of the heavy accent she spoke with. But on that day, standing in the hallway, I discovered the more likely reason for her silence. Mario is her husband.
Back to this morning: I look around, trying to find his father among the growing number of people here to see Mario off. I can't find him. He is probably in Mario's room, at his bedside. The door is now closed and the blinds are now drawn closed. Appropriate metaphor, I think to myself as I walk back into my sister's room. Her door is open, as is the window out to the world, metaphor just gets deeper.
Later in the afternoon: The nurse asks me to leave the room for a minute while they work with my sister. I step back into the crowded walk way and I pass one of Mario's sisters. She is more Americanized than the other family members -- she does not have an accent. She is more streetwise too. "The struggle's over dog," she says to me with as much courage and bravado as she can find. "I am sorry," I reply in a low rumble. She nods a thank you, then shrugs her shoulders. I take the elevator down to the lobby, I need some air.
When I came back up to the floor 30 minutes later the hallway is completely empty -- They are all gone. I can't say I blame them. I would want to get as far away from there as possible, to try and outrun the memory of that day. I follow these two men into ICU as I go back in to sit with my sister. At first, I don't register what they are pushing, but then -- all at once -- it hits me. It almost looks like a bed, I think to myself. They wheel up to Mario's room and knock on the closed door, then they go in. I don't dare look in now, he has earned his privacy.
I have read that a lot can be said about a man through the actions of those he leaves behind. Or how much he was loved can be seen in the eyes of those who cry at his passing. If these are truly the measure, then the world lost a good man today. God speed Mario.
I go back in and sit with my sister. I am glad her door is still open. I thank God she is still here.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Wise words from the Brus ... the continuence
Another in the ongoing series. My friends are old wise men in training ... This from a past conversation about relationships.
"I wouldn't call it ego or pride. I would call it human nature. When we invest in someone we want to feel that they are doing the same thing. It's the art of reciprocation."
"I wouldn't call it ego or pride. I would call it human nature. When we invest in someone we want to feel that they are doing the same thing. It's the art of reciprocation."
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Watching the clock
"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." -- Christopher Robin to Pooh
I think about this quote, I have passed it everyday on my way in to see my baby sister. Now, as I sit next to her bed, I survey her hospital room. I read all the numbers and charts, looking for any thing out of the ordinary. My eyes stop on the "crash box" just above and to the side of her bed. I simultaneously hate and love this clock at this moment. I love that it now reads 96 hour 45 minutes 30 seconds since we nearly lost my little sister. I hate the fact that it is even needed.
I lean in close to her and whisper "Good Morning." Her eyes dart open and study the room for a second before they find mine. "Hi there little sister." She blinks her eyes slowly, calmly as if to say "Good Morning" back. Then she tries to speak, the nurse would tell me later that every time she tries to speak she feels some pain. The tube that goes down into her lungs must burn with each word she tries to form, so this must be important. I lean in closer to read her lips.
After a few attempts, I finally make out what she is trying to ask me, "When are you leaving?" "Not until you are better," I say in my heavy-big-brother voice. She just looks up at me, but her eyes say "thank you." She doesn't need to thank me. "There is NOTHING that will keep me from you when you need me. I will always be here for you," I reassure her. She lies back and relaxes her shoulders. Big brother is here baby "Tus" you can be at ease. 97 hours 00 minutes 27 seconds, 28 seconds, 29 seconds ...
The nurse comes in and tells us that the doctors are about to come in and perform a procedure on her, and they will need to give little sister an anesthesia. Her eyes immediately tear up and she frowns, she HATES anesthesia. "It's OK. It's OK," I rub her forehead and squeeze her hand. I try to think of something to help her relax ... I start singing.
"Rise up this morning. Smile with the rising sun. Three little birdies, each by my doorstep. Singing sweet songs, of melodies pure and true. Saying, 'this is our message to you ...' " Her shoulders relax again. 99 hours 23 minutes 46 seconds, 47 seconds, 48 seconds ...
I think about this quote, I have passed it everyday on my way in to see my baby sister. Now, as I sit next to her bed, I survey her hospital room. I read all the numbers and charts, looking for any thing out of the ordinary. My eyes stop on the "crash box" just above and to the side of her bed. I simultaneously hate and love this clock at this moment. I love that it now reads 96 hour 45 minutes 30 seconds since we nearly lost my little sister. I hate the fact that it is even needed.
I lean in close to her and whisper "Good Morning." Her eyes dart open and study the room for a second before they find mine. "Hi there little sister." She blinks her eyes slowly, calmly as if to say "Good Morning" back. Then she tries to speak, the nurse would tell me later that every time she tries to speak she feels some pain. The tube that goes down into her lungs must burn with each word she tries to form, so this must be important. I lean in closer to read her lips.
After a few attempts, I finally make out what she is trying to ask me, "When are you leaving?" "Not until you are better," I say in my heavy-big-brother voice. She just looks up at me, but her eyes say "thank you." She doesn't need to thank me. "There is NOTHING that will keep me from you when you need me. I will always be here for you," I reassure her. She lies back and relaxes her shoulders. Big brother is here baby "Tus" you can be at ease. 97 hours 00 minutes 27 seconds, 28 seconds, 29 seconds ...
The nurse comes in and tells us that the doctors are about to come in and perform a procedure on her, and they will need to give little sister an anesthesia. Her eyes immediately tear up and she frowns, she HATES anesthesia. "It's OK. It's OK," I rub her forehead and squeeze her hand. I try to think of something to help her relax ... I start singing.
"Rise up this morning. Smile with the rising sun. Three little birdies, each by my doorstep. Singing sweet songs, of melodies pure and true. Saying, 'this is our message to you ...' " Her shoulders relax again. 99 hours 23 minutes 46 seconds, 47 seconds, 48 seconds ...
Monday, January 6, 2014
In the waiting room
"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." -- Lao Tzu
I walk past a sign of this quote hanging in the hallway of the hospital's surgery floor. Darrell,
Latoya's only child, has a firm grip on my right hand. In my left hand is the bible my Grandmother Nancy carried with her most places until the day she died. Over either shoulder I support the weight of my emotions, as varied as they can be and as heavy and deep as they currently reside.
"Uncle, where are we going?" "For a walk Darrell. Let's go take a look out at the night skyline." I really just needed to get away from the cramped waiting area where we were sitting. My sister's condition has taken a turn that has raised everyone's attention, thereby raising the tension level to an unbearable amount.
My mother talks with family members, about something, everything, nothing. Anything to release the pressure in the room. My father sits back in his chair, falling into his thoughts. I'll leave him there for a few minutes, I need to go for a walk.
The view out of this ceiling-to-floor window in the elevator lobby isn't that great at all. In the distance there is a faint view of the bridge I wrote about my mother not wanting to cross, when she had "Salt and Pepper Locks." The hair she has left is mostly grey now, she cut it about six months ago.
My father looks over the top of bifocals as he speaks now. I see the lines across his forehead that only time can bring. Time is like the tide, constantly moving, never resting. It moves in toward land, then back out to sea again. The events of the past few days have been like a tidal flow.
Our family stand at the shore, waiting to see if high tide will bring our Toya back to us. Or if low tide intends to take her out the horizon of eternity. I can't just sit here and wait. I have to do something, so I walk. I bring Darrell with me to try and give his mind something else to focus on. He knows something is off. "Uncle, I can see my mommy through the window." "No you can't Darrell." We walk on and go down the elevator into the lobby before we realize we cannot go any farther. It's after hours at the hospital and most areas are now closed.
So we go back up to the cramped waiting room. The tiny room with my dad thinking and my mother talking and we wait. Maybe that's what people with courage do, they wait.
I walk past a sign of this quote hanging in the hallway of the hospital's surgery floor. Darrell,
Latoya's only child, has a firm grip on my right hand. In my left hand is the bible my Grandmother Nancy carried with her most places until the day she died. Over either shoulder I support the weight of my emotions, as varied as they can be and as heavy and deep as they currently reside.
"Uncle, where are we going?" "For a walk Darrell. Let's go take a look out at the night skyline." I really just needed to get away from the cramped waiting area where we were sitting. My sister's condition has taken a turn that has raised everyone's attention, thereby raising the tension level to an unbearable amount.
My mother talks with family members, about something, everything, nothing. Anything to release the pressure in the room. My father sits back in his chair, falling into his thoughts. I'll leave him there for a few minutes, I need to go for a walk.
The view out of this ceiling-to-floor window in the elevator lobby isn't that great at all. In the distance there is a faint view of the bridge I wrote about my mother not wanting to cross, when she had "Salt and Pepper Locks." The hair she has left is mostly grey now, she cut it about six months ago.
My father looks over the top of bifocals as he speaks now. I see the lines across his forehead that only time can bring. Time is like the tide, constantly moving, never resting. It moves in toward land, then back out to sea again. The events of the past few days have been like a tidal flow.
Our family stand at the shore, waiting to see if high tide will bring our Toya back to us. Or if low tide intends to take her out the horizon of eternity. I can't just sit here and wait. I have to do something, so I walk. I bring Darrell with me to try and give his mind something else to focus on. He knows something is off. "Uncle, I can see my mommy through the window." "No you can't Darrell." We walk on and go down the elevator into the lobby before we realize we cannot go any farther. It's after hours at the hospital and most areas are now closed.
So we go back up to the cramped waiting room. The tiny room with my dad thinking and my mother talking and we wait. Maybe that's what people with courage do, they wait.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Tusta, I am not ready
I'm sitting in an airport, waiting for a flight to take me home. Take me home to Jacksonville, Florida. Take me home to my baby sister. She is on a ventilator after complications with a surgery meant to save her life nearly took her life, and it still might. She is not conscious.
I sit in this quiet corner I have found for myself trying to workout my feelings at this very moment. Sadness? No, I guess I am simultaneously optimistic and resigned to the fact that "Baby Tusta," as I sometimes call her, has been fighting for her very life for quite a few years now. And it is a battle she may not win. Still, I am half hoping I will walk into the hospital room she is in and hear her say "Whatchu want boy," in a playfully antagonizing voice I have gotten accustomed to hearing for nearly 30 years. I don't think I have fully come to terms with what's happening. I'm not ready.
I stopped a family member from crying while on the phone last night. "We have to be strong for Toya, mom, dad and Darrell. My God, Darrell. How do we tell him ... what do we say to him. He is still so young. What would I be without my mother? What do I say to him? What do I say?
If I am being honest I have cried for my sister many days before, in secret when I could really let out how I really feel. I have questioned God, damn near cursed him once. Yelled and gnashed my teeth to the point I passed out of exhaustion. For what? She is still sick and I can do nothing to change this fact. So I ask God for serenity.
Recently, I have been lamenting a break up that I have chosen to take pretty hard. How self-absorbed I must look right now. I'm disgusted with myself. I allowed myself to feel self pity because someone chose other than me, and my little sister has been fighting everyday since she was 7 years old just to stay alive! I wish I could trade places with her right now. She deserves to live far more than I do.
Her name is Garrietta Latoya Vereen, and she is loved. She is a far stronger person than I could ever hope to be ...
I sit in this quiet corner I have found for myself trying to workout my feelings at this very moment. Sadness? No, I guess I am simultaneously optimistic and resigned to the fact that "Baby Tusta," as I sometimes call her, has been fighting for her very life for quite a few years now. And it is a battle she may not win. Still, I am half hoping I will walk into the hospital room she is in and hear her say "Whatchu want boy," in a playfully antagonizing voice I have gotten accustomed to hearing for nearly 30 years. I don't think I have fully come to terms with what's happening. I'm not ready.
I stopped a family member from crying while on the phone last night. "We have to be strong for Toya, mom, dad and Darrell. My God, Darrell. How do we tell him ... what do we say to him. He is still so young. What would I be without my mother? What do I say to him? What do I say?
If I am being honest I have cried for my sister many days before, in secret when I could really let out how I really feel. I have questioned God, damn near cursed him once. Yelled and gnashed my teeth to the point I passed out of exhaustion. For what? She is still sick and I can do nothing to change this fact. So I ask God for serenity.
Recently, I have been lamenting a break up that I have chosen to take pretty hard. How self-absorbed I must look right now. I'm disgusted with myself. I allowed myself to feel self pity because someone chose other than me, and my little sister has been fighting everyday since she was 7 years old just to stay alive! I wish I could trade places with her right now. She deserves to live far more than I do.
Her name is Garrietta Latoya Vereen, and she is loved. She is a far stronger person than I could ever hope to be ...
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