a trinket and the boy

The phone call from my father had come in during the middle of the night.

His voice was a quiet surface on top of a storm that would eventually take him down to the bottom.

"He's gone".

Just like that all those years of waiting for Kevin to die had ended.

He went and finished his sentence the only way possible.

My insides hopped on to a dirty old elevator and took the ride down and down.

Susan's hand found my back, and her voice brought me back to the moment.

" Kevin", she asked.

I nodded, already afraid of the the moment I had spent so much of my life dreading, and so much of my life offering my health up for sacrifice.

The call finished quickly with committments to get over to Vancouver ASAP.

I lay for a while with Susan, accepting comfort. I had a whole bunch of opiates in my blood but they were not going to be enough in this case.

After a bit I got up and put on " Berlin" by Lou Reed. Not inspiring but ceratinly affirming.


My two remaining brothers met us at the ferry terminal and filled me in during the drive. We had a very small family gathering for today and tomorrow would bring the trip to the funeral people and all of the practical matters that come in death's wake.

Walking into my parent's house was difficult. My father had always put Kevin first. In retrospect I love him for his passion even as I see how this hurt the rest of us.

A brief story.

When Kevin was nearing 2 years old it was becoming clear that something was off. This was 1953 or thereabout, and going to the doctor was a big deal. They took him to see Dr. Schuman, our kid's doc. From there Kevin went to the hospital and subsequently given a diagnosis of Duchene's Muscualr Dystrophy. Usually fatal by thte age of 14 at that time.

My father's reaction was that of a very young man. He stormed into the hospital, sweeping my brother up in his arms, yelling and being aggresive, probably fuelled by whiskey.

Of course, this did not have any effect on the diagnosis but I guess it made him feel better for a bit.

I mention this to give a feel for the passion and entanglement that begin to define the whole family, but most of all, my Dad.

The impending death of Kevin (pronounced Kayvan for some reason) had been heartily ingnored by my father. In fact there were often fantasies of what the family was going to do when the bad sickness went away and the good times began.

My Mom was another story. She took me out in a hallway when I was 8 and told me Kevin was not long for the world. It was portrayed as a secret. Sort of as if no one noticed his decreasing mobility and loss of muscle. It is odd, upon reflection how much damage can be caused for the best of reasons.

So there we were, not surprised but not prepared in any way at all. It was at this point my father turned to all of us and said ,

" I feel as if someone needs to go down to the hospital and make sure he is ok'.

I suppose it shows our sate of mind that everyone accepted this without the obvious objections such as "He is dead. What do you mean ok?"

We watched as he struggled with the next sentence, but out it came.

"I cannot do it. I know I should but I just cannot"

What an opportunity for me. What a chance to show how worthwhile I was and how deserving of Dad's best.

"I'll go" I said, and I did.

I had last seen my brother about three days before his death. Despite strong objections from my wife of the time I took a harbour to harbour flight. Part of Susan's objection was monetary but she was also worried about me returning to my home town in those circumstances. She had good cause as I often destroyed my life under the flag of my dying brother with my anthem sounding like a paen to self-pity.

The trip is one I will always be glad I made. He could not talk as he had made the choice to switch from iron lung to respirator, and a silver tube attached to hoses came out of a hole in his throat, supplying the energy to breathe.

We held hands and I tickled his arms and chest, something he always loved. He was one and a half years younger than me and I loved him more than anything in the world. We slept in the same bed for years and I used to hold his hand and pray that I could be the one who was sick while he could be ok. That old saying"be careful what you pray for" is wise.

As I prepared to leave I took off a silver braclet my mother had given to me, and I put it around what was left of his arm. my brother weighed 55 pounds at the age of 21, having celbrated his birthday the week before.

Walking back into the hospital, I focused on the bracelet, determined to get it back at all costs. Of course, my focus was an effort to get me through the next bit but I had no clue at the time.

A nurse or a nurse's aid met me at the door to Intensive Care. I told her I was there to get my brother's belongings and to see his body.

She was not gone long and returned with his small suitcase and a large manila envelope. I went through the suitcase quickly and did not see the bracelet.

My state of being at the time was one of full blown panic managed by the tiniest of controls. Unable to find the silver bracelet I reached out for the manila envelope. Instead of handing it to me she shook out a watch, the bracelet and another silver metal piece.

Done transferring them to me, we both stood still and looked at what was laying in my palm. At about the same time we realized that the unknowm trinket was the piece of technology that had been in Kevin's throat, keeping him alive.

Obviously, a mistake had been made. I mean, I do not think grieving loved ones show up at the morgue and are given pacemakers, knee replacements, breast implants or other medical exotica. Yet here it was.

In all honesty I do not remember getting from there to the morgue itself, but it happened and a resentful looking fellow was standing in front of a door, all but tapping his foot as he looked at me.

I gave him paperwork by the simple means of holding a handful out as if starting a card trick, and waited for him to pick the right one.

The door was still closed to the morgue but I could feel my Kevin on the other side. Big brother to the rescue.

The attendant had said something.

I started and looked at him.

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

Nodding, he repeated, "are you sure you want to do this?"

I was stunned. It never occurred to me that a choice was possible.

Nodding back, I answered, "I have to."

He opened the door and the cold flowed out along the floor, touching my legs first, then moving up. I stepped into the largest fridge I had ever seen.

The room was institutional green and an empty metal gurney sat in the middle. There were a number of drawers on two walls and I expected the guy to roll out Kevin like in the movies. Instead he went to another door and opened up onto a dark room that was full of occupied gurneys, covered in white sheets.

Rustling paperwork, the attendant began the process of identifying which body he needed to match numbers with. It would really not do to pull out the wrong corpse.

I clenched inside when I realized I knew which form was my sweet brother. Muscular Dystrophy tightens all the ligaments and tendons resulting in feet and hands curled inward. The disease also draws up the legs to the waist, and there he was in all his bent splendor. The only body in that dark room that had a tent like silhoette.

"That's him" I pointed out to whatever his name was.

I was about to find out if he was OK.

Moving quickly, the man brought out the gurney and bent back the sheet to show his face. My first view was of the back of his head and I was put out with how messy his hair was.

I moved up, finding the courage somewhere, doing my Big Brother duty. Taking care of my boy.

His mouth was open a bit and the place where the trinket had been was bandaged. I reached out and touched his skin, wanting to comfort.

All those adjectives apply so completely. Cold, waxy, sunken, empty, so clearly and absofuckenlutely gone.

Except for one thing. One detail.

His eyes were open. His eyes were open in that dark frozen room where the dead made up the neighborhood.

His eyes were open to all the horror of his death.

Was it not enough to die without having to be a witness?

These are the type of thoughts I had as my knees gave out and I sunk to his caved in chest, sobbing out words that I guess may have sounded like "oh no oh no my baby boy oh no no damon is here i will fix it oh no my lovely boy i love you i love you now and always oh no oh no

A hand on my shoulder.

I am not proud of the fact that the person who looked up at the attendant was one who had enough of sadness and chose rage instead.

"Why are his fucking eyes open"? I screamed.

He just looked at me. I imagine he had some experience in these Hallmark moments.

"I'll get it fixed", he replied and headed off to do whatever. I went back to what had been Kevin. Not only were his eyes open, they were golden. Really golden and for a moment this calmed me down.

I looked closely at Kevin's face but there was no sign of suffering or pain. Instead, it seems as if death had ambushed him while he was looking the other way. He never saw it coming.

I was grateful, but not near enough to quiet the rage. I leaned over again and kissed his forehead and cheek.

I waited until the guy came back. He took large bandages and covered the golden eyes so he could not witness the horror that was trashing his older brother.

After the business was done and the morgue door closed I sat down in the hallway. The suitcase and envelope beside me.

At some point two women walked by and were laughing. I spit at them, calling them cunts.

Finally, I got back in the car and drove to my parent's home. The ride was about ten miles and it was 9 at night or thereabouts. I did not stop for a light or stop sign. I recall hitting 85 mph. Grief and rage mixed is selfish and I am glad I did not hurt anyone that night.

I walked into the hallway and the front room went quiet.

My father was standing when I came in.

Smiling, I heaved a big sigh as if letting some worry go.

"He is ok. He looked just like our boy".

Then I went upstairs, aware only now that my brother's illness was sheparded in by his father's passion and rage, and led out by his brother's rage and grief.