My father hates the doctor. He hates the hospital and all things that he considers to be invasive to his personal self. So, when he believed he had a heart attack, I was scared--shitless. Especially when he decided he needed to go to the emergency room. That was not my father. He is the strong, silent type. You know the man's man; pain is just an expression of hard work and being alive.
But I've been lucky because my family is close. It had always been my mom, dad, my brother and I...always together. Always battling; always conquering anything that came along. So this incident was no different. However, I have learned that even the strong things fall. Sometimes, they fall hard enough never to get up again.
But this isn't about my dad or his heart attack. This is about last moments. The moments we don't realize are the last until they're over.
Thursday, book club day, a last moment. As my dad and mom stayed in the hospital, my brother and I went across the street to the coffee shop to meet with our friends. The book on the line: "The One and the Many: A Contemporary Thomastic Metaphysics" by Norris Clark. What casual book club reads Thomistic philosophy for fun? Ours did. It had been my brother's turn to choose the book and he chose that and Saint Pope John Paul II's encyclical: Fides et Ratio.
So far it had been a hard summer for my friends. One friend had just recently lost her father, and another had a father lying in a comatose state for the last 7 weeks following a massive stroke. Oh, and mine was across the street on recovery from heart issues. But for just a few short moments, we put away the pain and delved into the philosophy of life.
Andrew, my brother, once again led us into the deeper questions: Is there unity within all humanity, and if so, who or what established the existence of this unity within the positive bounds of the journey to faith and reason? It almost sounds too pedantic, but it was relevant.
We were an eclectic group of people. All raised within evangelical Christian homes, but some of us had changed religions, my brother and I now Catholic, and a couple others had foregone the faith and we're now embracing the agnostic life. But the questions we were asking were the universal questions. And we always enjoyed these questions.
Looking back, it would be that warm, August evening with my friends that I would tuck away forever. But how was I to know it would be a last moment?
As the evening progressed, Andy and I headed back to the hospital to eat dinner with my parents. Well, I went with my mom to the cafeteria and my brother stayed with my father. If I remember correctly, I ordered a cheeseburger and fries, but what I remember more from dinner was chipping my tooth on a piece of ice from my soda. Damn, it hurt. The kind of dull, achy hurt that sticks around awhile. I guess you could say I was blessed or cursed with a reminder of that day. My mother and I began to discuss the future of our family and where we planned to be in a few months. See, the end of May had drawn a chapter of our lives, that of living in Tulsa, to a subtle close. So moving back to Arizona, the homeland, was the plan on the table, and we were all more than a little excited about the idea.
"I think we need this. I can't see the reason to stay here. I mean, I love my friends, and to be away from them will be hard, but it is us four, I know we'll be okay."
And that is how I felt. Honest. In that moment, in that hospital, I felt safe. Connected, maybe--to my family and to our place in life and the direction we were heading.
Mom and I headed back up to my father's room, and my memory of what I saw would be branded in my mind forever. My brother, a not so graceful sleeper, was slouched in the visitor's chair, drooling onto his shoulder as his snores echoed around the room in perfect unison with my father's, who was also sleeping. My mother and I exchanged eye rolls and smiles. Men...give them a little time and they will either find something to eat or fall asleep. Again, that feeling of contentment washed over me. I was there, with my father sleeping in a hospital gown, my brother snoring quite loudly, my mother standing near me like a pillar of strength, and me, contented.
Three days later, my brother was found, in his apartment, dead. Unannounced, unexpected, and unforeseen, my contentment was shattered. So what would have been considered a normal Thursday, surrounded by my secure little family, turned out to be a day full of last moments.
They say that when tragedy happens, you either remember every moment or forget everything. I remember it all. The days that followed his death were hard. Very hard. And perhaps there are more special moments that I sometimes recall about my brother, but that Thursday is one of my favorites. Not only because of the way I felt, but also because it was the last. Had I known it would be the last, I would have stopped time. I would have sat there and memorized every detail until nothing else could take place in my memory. But what I have is what I have. And it will have to be enough. And it is, because it is mind.
But I've been lucky because my family is close. It had always been my mom, dad, my brother and I...always together. Always battling; always conquering anything that came along. So this incident was no different. However, I have learned that even the strong things fall. Sometimes, they fall hard enough never to get up again.
But this isn't about my dad or his heart attack. This is about last moments. The moments we don't realize are the last until they're over.
Thursday, book club day, a last moment. As my dad and mom stayed in the hospital, my brother and I went across the street to the coffee shop to meet with our friends. The book on the line: "The One and the Many: A Contemporary Thomastic Metaphysics" by Norris Clark. What casual book club reads Thomistic philosophy for fun? Ours did. It had been my brother's turn to choose the book and he chose that and Saint Pope John Paul II's encyclical: Fides et Ratio.
So far it had been a hard summer for my friends. One friend had just recently lost her father, and another had a father lying in a comatose state for the last 7 weeks following a massive stroke. Oh, and mine was across the street on recovery from heart issues. But for just a few short moments, we put away the pain and delved into the philosophy of life.
Andrew, my brother, once again led us into the deeper questions: Is there unity within all humanity, and if so, who or what established the existence of this unity within the positive bounds of the journey to faith and reason? It almost sounds too pedantic, but it was relevant.
We were an eclectic group of people. All raised within evangelical Christian homes, but some of us had changed religions, my brother and I now Catholic, and a couple others had foregone the faith and we're now embracing the agnostic life. But the questions we were asking were the universal questions. And we always enjoyed these questions.
Looking back, it would be that warm, August evening with my friends that I would tuck away forever. But how was I to know it would be a last moment?
As the evening progressed, Andy and I headed back to the hospital to eat dinner with my parents. Well, I went with my mom to the cafeteria and my brother stayed with my father. If I remember correctly, I ordered a cheeseburger and fries, but what I remember more from dinner was chipping my tooth on a piece of ice from my soda. Damn, it hurt. The kind of dull, achy hurt that sticks around awhile. I guess you could say I was blessed or cursed with a reminder of that day. My mother and I began to discuss the future of our family and where we planned to be in a few months. See, the end of May had drawn a chapter of our lives, that of living in Tulsa, to a subtle close. So moving back to Arizona, the homeland, was the plan on the table, and we were all more than a little excited about the idea.
"I think we need this. I can't see the reason to stay here. I mean, I love my friends, and to be away from them will be hard, but it is us four, I know we'll be okay."
And that is how I felt. Honest. In that moment, in that hospital, I felt safe. Connected, maybe--to my family and to our place in life and the direction we were heading.
Mom and I headed back up to my father's room, and my memory of what I saw would be branded in my mind forever. My brother, a not so graceful sleeper, was slouched in the visitor's chair, drooling onto his shoulder as his snores echoed around the room in perfect unison with my father's, who was also sleeping. My mother and I exchanged eye rolls and smiles. Men...give them a little time and they will either find something to eat or fall asleep. Again, that feeling of contentment washed over me. I was there, with my father sleeping in a hospital gown, my brother snoring quite loudly, my mother standing near me like a pillar of strength, and me, contented.
Three days later, my brother was found, in his apartment, dead. Unannounced, unexpected, and unforeseen, my contentment was shattered. So what would have been considered a normal Thursday, surrounded by my secure little family, turned out to be a day full of last moments.
They say that when tragedy happens, you either remember every moment or forget everything. I remember it all. The days that followed his death were hard. Very hard. And perhaps there are more special moments that I sometimes recall about my brother, but that Thursday is one of my favorites. Not only because of the way I felt, but also because it was the last. Had I known it would be the last, I would have stopped time. I would have sat there and memorized every detail until nothing else could take place in my memory. But what I have is what I have. And it will have to be enough. And it is, because it is mind.
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