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Losing a Sibling

10 Years Later

By Valerie Furr-CollinsPublished 5 years ago 6 min read
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Our Last Mother's Day Together, May 2009

My oldest brother, Arthur Jr., always looked out for his younger siblings. I remember him making things for me at school and presenting them to me, his baby sister, with so much pride. He was in the third grade by the time I was born. He and I never even went to the same school due to our age difference. Although we became distant for a few years as adults, by the time he and his third wife separated, we were close again.

Arthur had nine children. He loved them all, but circumstances prevented him from being a part of his first five children's lives. His last four his wife took to Tennessee in the middle of the night as he slept off pain medicine from back surgery one Halloween night. Left alone in Arizona, he reached out to us in Alabama on the phone to let us know he was going to kill himself. It took several of us on that phone, pleading and praying, but he finally agreed to leave everything there and get on a bus to Alabama.

A few months later, he and his wife agreed to separate the four children. He raised two, the oldest and youngest, and she raised the two middle children. They were all so young then. After he was reunited with his son and daughter, he seemed to be mentally stable. We didn't know, at first, that soon he would be addicted to street drugs and pain medications very badly over the next few years. Although he beat the street drugs, the prescription medications still had a hold on him.

Fast forward. During the months leading up to his death, he would occasionally allow my mom or myself to give him his medications to prevent him from overdosing, which he had done so many times. But for months, he had taken them back and was self-medicating. Our biggest fear would be that his children would come home from school and find him already dead in his room. I prayed against that every night.

Those addicted to prescription medication do not realize that they not only hurt themselves, but everyone who loves them. I should know. I used to be addicted to pain medicine. I tried to use my experiences in outpatient rehab to help my brother, but only he would know when enough was enough. When he came to that wonderful conclusion, sadly, it would be too late.

We did all we knew to do to stop him from doing this to himself. We would beg his doctors to not prescribe narcotics and beg his pharmacy to not fill them while explaining what was going on. But, of course, they both did. He, like the rest of our family, would get really painful migraines when he was stressed. Being the weekend, he ran out of his prescribed migraine medication. During that time, he was overdosing on his other medications, narcotics, Benedryl, and was taking Ambien. But he refused to go to the hospital. He knew my mom and I were disappointed in him because we stopped talking to him. So he made up in his mind that he was going Monday morning to get help!

On the night of June 18, 2009, between nine and 11 PM, with no vehicle at home, he decided to walk to our local Walmart about five to seven miles away to buy Excedrin Migraine tablets. From our understanding, he made it to Walmart and was fine, shopped, spoke to, and joked with our cousin who was working there that day. He left the store to walk back home.

Unfortunately, he never made it. According to homicide and police officers, he collapsed two blocks from our home. He could only mutter the words, "Help me, I can't breathe," to the woman who drove up to him, lying in her driveway as she returned from working a three to 11 shift. She and her mother called the ambulance, but he passed away before they arrived.

It felt like months went by before we were allowed to view his body. They had transferred him to the coroner's office two hours away from the scene before contacting us. Because of this and our persistence, the coroner was kind enough to speak to us directly. After nearly two weeks, we were told that my brother died from a massive heart attacked caused by the consumption of what appeared to be two doses of the same medication within a few hours.

After carefully going over the events of that awful day, from the accounts of several people and thorough testing, the coroner determined he did not commit suicide because all the medication was not taken at one time—like that of someone committing suicide. Instead, it was all in the process of digestion hours apart, most likely accidentally. He forgot he took his medication late that morning, and before leaving, he took it again too soon. Because his body (nervous system) couldn't possibly keep up with the extra medication he had been taking over the years, the early dose he took proved fatal.

Arthur may have been in pain and somewhat unhappy, but he was a devoted father, son, and brother first, so to hear his death was ruled an accidental overdose eased our hearts some. But still, even as I wrote his obituary, and tried to help organize the funeral, I didn't believe he was dead until I touched his cold skin and kissed his forehead the day of his funeral. I so wanted him to breathe. We had just lost my dad three months before. How could this be happening? But yet, I couldn't change anything or make it stop hurting.

We all took losing Arthur very hard, especially my other brother! Us four girls and my mom thought we'd have to hold my other brother up, but instead, he held us up. I only remember bits and pieces about that day, such as how packed the church was, how my cousins broke into a beautiful rendition of "I'll Fly Away" upon the procession, how our family supported us, and how numb I felt, not speaking a word for hours during the repass and family gathering at our house.

This June 2019, my big brother will be gone for 10 years. It still feels as if it were yesterday. For those reading this, who may be going through such a loss, I'm not going to lie to you. Time does not make it easier to heal all wounds. Some anniversaries will seem full of peace, others full of pain and tears.

Only the grace of God has gotten us through. It has to be God's mercy because, in 2009, we not only lost my dad March 23rd on his 68th birthday and my big brother on June 18th, but we lost my grandfather on December 22nd. As I wrote my grandfather's obituary, I realized those we lost that year represented the heads of three generations of men in our family. Sometimes our only comfort outside is knowing they are together, no longer suffering or in pain.

Arthur would be happy to know all his children are doing good. He has three more grandchildren. Six of his kids have graduated high school and the other three are on their way. I know he's in Heaven watching over them and us, too. Sometimes I feel his spirit, and for that brief second, I'm okay. I look forward to and cherish those brief seconds.

grief
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About the Creator

Valerie Furr-Collins

I am a writer, poet, blogger, stage actress, influencer, nurse, and caregiver. I am self-publishing for the first time this year one of two books. I am a devoted mother of two and a grandmother of one.

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