On October 12, 2015, at approximately 2:35 pm, I received a phone call that marked the beginning of the end of my universe as I knew it. It was Monday morning and I'd had a rough weekend, I was feeling down and Monday morning I felt especially depressed and anxious. I had no idea that this was a foreshadowing of what was to come. I was sitting in the break room having a late lunch with a friend, talking about my little brother whom I'd been worried about and trying to figure out how to help, when my sister tried to call me. We were almost finished with lunch so I figured I could call her back in a few minutes when I returned to my office. Then my aunt called and I stared at my phone for long seconds - something was wrong - the sense of foreboding was dense. When I answered the phone I tried to sound casual, I didn't get far before she said words I never even thought to imagine. She told me that my brother, Amir, had shot himself in the head. I didn't hear a whole lot after that, I could only stare at my friend sitting across the table, tears streaming down my face, as my aunt explained that it was serious and I needed to get down there (to Texas) and she already spoke to my dad. All I could think was no, no, no, not my baby brother, no, she couldn't be right, this wasn't real.
When I got off the phone I started crying harder and I started losing control. I was shaking and convulsing and I couldn't comprehend the call I just received and had no clue what to do next. My friend ushered me to his office and retrieved my supervisor. I cannot explain the thoughts that were rushing through my head. Guilt, horror, incredulity, the deepest sort of grief imaginable. I sat there shaking and crying and probably babbling for what seemed like hours, but was really only about 15 minutes. At some point I remember something along the lines of confirming the severity of the situation, something like: "This is really serious right? People don't typically recover from gunshot wounds to the head.. my brother is going to die, isn't he?" What a question to have to answer. The sadness in his eyes confirmed more than anything he could have said. I knew deep in my heart, that I would never, ever get to see my brother alive again in this lifetime. I thought of my father and I knew I must get moving, we were going to Texas and I was wasting time. I started rambling about what I needed to do and bless his heart, my supervisor really tried to help. I'm sure it was obvious that I was in no condition to drive, but I did not want to involve anyone in the horror that awaited and so I insisted on handling things on my own. Somehow I made it to my dad's house and somehow we got on the road. After talking to him on the phone, I was sure I'd need to drive, but my dad was adamant about driving and proceeded to do so better than any professional driver I'd ever seen, with more intensity and focus than I'd ever witnessed in my father. We flew across the state. Without a thought, I picked up one of my dad's cigarettes and started smoking again. And I continued to smoke the entire drive - whilst sobbing and staring out the window, praying to any and all sources of Higher Powers that be and chanting to myself that he was going to be okay. I couldn't remember the last time I'd prayed before that, funny how crisis suddenly instills hope and faith. The closer we got to JPS Hospital in Fort Worth, the more my chants changed from he's going to be okay, to: please wait, please wait baby brother, wait for me, for us, hang on, you're going to be okay, please wait, baby brother...
When we got to the hospital, my family was there. My uncles, my mother, my sisters, my niece, my cousin and his family. My aunt had to leave, but she was there with my sister until others could join her. My other little brother was incarcerated and unable to be there. The moment my dad stepped out of the car he fell apart and I knew he held onto strength as long as he could to get to his son, but that now it was my turn. We held each others arms, greeted the family, and went up to see my brother. I think I expected/hoped to get there and it come out that a mistake had been made; that either it was a terrible joke, or that the wound wasn't as serious as it sounded, or that somehow they had the wrong kid... anything other than what we encountered. Even though, deep down I know I knew. Why else did I start grieving from the moment I received the call? There, lying in a hospital bed, was my beautiful, strong, hopeful, selfless, stubborn, misunderstood, tortured baby brother. The first of four younger siblings that I held in my arms as a baby, that I loved with all my might at five years old.
The first to have been able to instill rage and laughter in me simultaneously as he would vandalize my "things" while looking at me with this impish, "aren't I cute" glint in his eyes.
|See what I mean?|
We spent hours at the hospital the first night. A gentleman from LifeGift, the organ donor organization in Texas, met with us and went over numerous questions regarding my brother's health and lifestyle. If there were such a thing as comfort during this time, this man would have been a comfort. He seemed like a genuinely good person and was one of the few people I dealt with during that time that I could handle being around. The questionnaire was one of the hardest things to endure because the truth of the matter was that my brother had spent years incarcerated with short bouts of freedom and he had just been released in July. There was much we did not know about my brother over the past several years and coming to terms with how little time we had with him was difficult. It felt like a failure on our part. Though the prospect of lives that could be saved due to my brother choosing to be an organ donor kept us answering questions. Finally we finished, and though we didn't want to leave the hospital, staying there was unbearable. We said good night to my brother, got in the car to drive to my sister's and this song came on the radio:
That night I did not sleep, I'm not sure if anyone did. I lay on my sister's couch in the dark staring at the ceiling with a terrible cacophony in my head: different flashes and memories of my brother throughout his life; endlessly screaming gibberish inside my head; all the conversations and letters that I should done differently; horrific images I won't describe ... I silently raged, cried, berated, shattered through the night until it was morning and time to make arrangements. (I repeated this process countless nights over the next several months.) I knew no one in my family was able to handle the business at hand and I honestly think that taking charge and having something to focus on is the only thing that kept me going the next week because otherwise I have no explanation on how I survived. I was desperately driven to make sure my brother was buried with honor. I used smoking as a crutch. I went from not smoking at all to smoking two packs a day. We had to drive back to Oklahoma the day following our arrival to get pictures of my brother. I needed one for his obituary and others for the slideshow the funeral home would prepare. So my dad and I sped back to Oklahoma, conducted our business and went straight back to John Peter Smith hospital. My brother's body was still on life support until they could find recipients for his organs. I held his hand for the last time and whispered things I'd wished I'd said to him over the years, I told him how sorry I was for failing him and how I wish he'd given us and himself a chance and how that miracles happened and if he chose to come back to his body and awaken that we were there waiting and that there was still an opportunity to come back. I said a lot to him. I said a lot, but not enough. Too late I realized that I had never said enough.We sat there quietly for awhile. Then, when my pleas went unanswered and no miracles came, I told him it was okay, that I loved him so much and that somehow, we would be okay, and that it was okay to move on - it was okay to seek that peace he couldn't find in life. And then I told him that I would see him later.