It's that time of year when the death of my nephew hijacks my emotions. What I mean by that is I could be working on the most difficult phase of my recovery and when the remorse of Aaron's death busts through any barricades I may have, it's as though my barricades were thin air instead of walls of steel.
Inconsolable sadness can erupt out of me, not just from Aaron's death, but from all the death, grief and loss that haunts and eludes my well-being. I learned how to cry silently and learned how to toughen up and not cry at all. I learned how to channel my anger/rage into eye staring contests with my drunk dad and I never lost a challenge. I learned that provoking a fight/beating with him was the best way to protect my sisters. All of these survival behaviors worked. In fact, they worked very well.February was death month. I did not shed a tear. It wasn't because I felt no sadness. It was because I did not give myself the time I needed to slow down and get in touch with what was stirring up inside. Aaron died five years ago on April 16th. I was there on Monday, the day he was brought into the ER. I was there everyday. I baptized him on Wednesday. I was asked to sit with him all day Friday. I was asked by his mom to do so (not my sister, by the way). When Aaron's blood pressure started dropping, I brought Aaron's parents and whoever else was meant to be there into the room. I was asked to stay. His heart machine was slowing down. And just like in the movies......
The machine slowed way down and then it made that awful noise.
That tone that tells you your loved one is no longer with you.
Aaron was gone.
I don't know why some people think dying from huffing is cool or funny. There's nothing funny about it. There's nothing amusing about how Aaron died. There's nothing miraculous that saved his life. Aaron breathed in propane, he went into seizure convulsions, his heart went into cardiac arrest and stopped beating. He was without oxygen for 10 minutes before the paramedics arrived.
In medical terms, Aaron had died. For ten minutes, Aaron was dead. The paramedics were able to restart his heart because he was 18 years old and he had a strong heart. But the Aaron we knew and loved was already gone. Severe brain damage, blind, deaf, paralyzed, everything that could be wrong was wrong. No hope for any kind of recovery. None.
I knew it when I arrived at the emergency room. I went back to see him alone. I placed one hand on his forehead and one on his heart. There was nothing there. I knew he was gone.
Tears. I cried a little last night and again this morning.
Maybe I'll cry again.
