Entry Title: Lamenting the Unfairness of Life
When my brother was diagnosed with a brain tumor, they thought he would die. But he didn't. He lived. He was in the hospital for a long time. I'm not sure how long, but it seemed like years to me. Not that I was worried about him. I was seven years old and couldn't figure out why my parents left me. They stayed in the hospital with Kevin, spending nights on the chair by his bed. I can't imagine now how horrible it must have been for my parents at the prospect of losing a child, or how scary for my four year old brother. But then all I knew was that Mom and Dad and Kevin had left me and that all anybody could talk about was Kevin. If he had died, we would have grieved. But there wasn't a death, just months of limbo and years of healing later.
When the paramedic called to tell us that my father had died of sudden death, I picked up the phone. I remember my mom running out the door and her telling me to watch my brothers. But my dad didn't actually die. He was dead for over an hour, but they got his heart ticking again. So there was no grieving, no funneral. You can't grieve when nobody dies, right? There was, however, lots of waiting in the hospital, waiting to see if he'd live for long. And after the waiting and the surgery were the questions. "What day is it?" "Tuesday." Ten seconds later, "What day is it?" "Tuesday." This could go on for hours. You see, when you're dead for an hour, meaning no oxygen reaches your brain during that time, there is a lot of brain damage. We got lucky, he wasn't a veggetable, and he'd get much better with time, but it was a lot of work. He didn't die, so I never grieved losing my fater, but he couldn't remember what day it was much less anything any of us said. He used to be really interested in what we said. And he couldn't pick me up anymore, much less even get himself up the stairs. Months of patience and therapy, and so many years of surgeries. I think we're up to sixteen major surgeries at this point. Each one dangerous, we're told he could die during any of them, but he doesn't. Just more worrying and more therapy.
When my mom had thyroid cancer, they didn't even bother to tell me until the day she went in for surgery. But she was fine.
Through all the sicknesses and various emergencies nobody ever actually died. Well, until a couple of years back when all my grandparents seemed to die at once. But aside from that, no funnerals. I'm supposed to be grateful for how lucky I am. Grateful that my family is alive I never had to stand over a casket and mourn as some other children do. But I sometimes mourn. Every sickness and event took away a part of all of us, and as cliche as it sounds, maybe I mourn for all the parts of me that I lost during those years.
