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.