Puzzle Pieces

It's strange how this thing called grief works. Or doesn't work at all. Maybe I could liken this process to taking a chance on buying a used 500-piece puzzle box. You hope all the pieces are still there, right? You accept that it will take time to put the picture together like on the front of the box. But you want to trust, so you give it a shot.

At least it will feel like you are doing something that makes sense, right?

I always start with looking through the pieces for the four sides or frame. If I pick up one and it doesn't have a flat side, I then sort all of those into their family of colors for "later." In my world, I need this to make some sort of sense, and I need to be doing something about the chaos. I want the pieces to fit together and show me what's left of my world because my world, is just like these pieces. I am "not" all-together right now.

Where do I put the "May 28th" piece? The one with the three-way conversation with my sister and the case manager from the hospital they had taken him to? The words I jotted down on paper while she spoke (like when I was a nurse getting a patient report.) Facts and events and plans all in regard to his condition, but so very different than any other patient. This was my loved one the stranger was talking about.

Then came the "getting-there" piece. The frenzy and the throwing clothes and necessities into a large duffle bag which I would stash in my jeep that had a bad tire and needed an oil change. My phone's GPS was not working, and I was going to have to go by hand-scribbled directions to make it to Houston in six hours. And I hoped to get there before dark because my night vision was poor at best. And the glasses I did have were scratched from age and wear. Not a great pairing for traffic in a big city I was pretty much unfamiliar with. It had been years since I'd been there. And of course, the night came faster than my driving and there was some rain was added into the equation. The rain would not have been so bad if I had both wipers working. I got "honked-at a couple of times before I reached my destination. But I was too devastated to allow trifling anxiety to reach me.

The "against-all-odds" piece came next. Hospitals are where I spent most of my career in. When I lost my son during his heart surgery less than a year before, I decided I never wanted to go into another one. Yet here I was. I knew I was walking into a battlefield and I braced myself.

My sister had flown in from another state, also and had met me at the emergency entrance to take me to his room. My brother's friends were all there in the waiting room. My cousin came from another Texas city. We were my brother's soldiers, but he had suffered greatly at the enemy's hands.

Now, before seeing "him," I saw machines. One for his heart, one for his kidneys, one for his lungs. And there were lines attached to several fluids and monitors. All were seemingly alive and making noise. That is what intensive care looks like to a family member. I had seen it many times before, but as a nurse. This experience was nowhere near the same. It resembles a Frankenstein nightmare. Even though the cardiac surgeons had done their due diligence, the rest of his body wasn't cooperating. The lengthy time without oxygen and the multiple codes made for a poor prognosis.

The "windows of the soul" piece...While my sister and I saw him encircled by cold machinery, what did he see? I wondered if he could hear my voice? I called his name and he turned his head to me. His eyes spoke loudly to me. They said, "I'm scared. What is happening? What is going to happen?" And then his stare became even more intent, like a plea for me to do the right thing for him. I whispered to him, "I'm not going to leave you. I will be here beside you no matter what. You can rest and let your body fight. Just as long as you fight, I will fight for you. You are loved. You have many people here for you." My words seemed to calm him and so the battle for his life continued.

The "in-between-two-worlds" piece was the all-out battle. As the days continued, we looked for any signs of improvement. There were ups and downs, but as each hour passed, we knew it was out of our hands. This war was not just about the physical battle that my brother was fighting, but about the spiritual ones that were happening in that hospital room and beyond. I prayed for him as did others. One of those prayers was given in Spanish with "El Senor" being called out. As she prayed, the Spirit of God and angels ministered to us. Tears rolled down my face.

I encouraged him to be at peace. I told him we were okay and not to worry about us but concentrate on the beautiful things he was seeing through his spiritual eyes. I knew he was between two worlds. I know he was given the chance to commune with God and decide to stay or go. I also had experienced that kind of journey. It had not been my time.

The "roller coaster piece" My sister, cousin, and close friends (who were more like his brothers) were vigilantly taking turns by his side. We never gave up hope for a good or best that it could be good outcome. With each medicine the nurses reduced or weaned him off of or each machine setting that became reduced, we celebrated. And then they took him off the heart machine which helped to regulate the heart that the team of cardiologists had worked so valiantly to save. It was up to my brother now.

On "the sixth-day piece." For non-believers, it is impossible to comprehend the extent of God's love and power, so my sister was having a hard time with me openly saying these things. On the sixth day, the Neurologist came in, trying to explain that he didn't really know how much of our brother would come back to us, because at this time, and because there had been no brain scanning done, all he could say was at right now, most of what he saw was autotomic, or basic survival from the brain.

And then we went to the waiting room for him to have a further discussion with my sister and her husband because they were unfamiliar with the neuro system and had questions about recovery and prognosis.

"It was his decision piece;" I really believe my brother heard and understood the doctor and what it meant, though...because we had not been in the waiting room two minutes before my brother's nurse rushed in to tell me he was in "V-Fib." Every nurse knows that means the heart has lost all rhythm and must be shocked to try to regulate. And his heart was the strongest part of him left.

As I entered his room, his face was beet red, and I literally screamed for them to pull the ventilator tube out. Enough! He had decided to stop the fight for this side of Heaven and go to the Savior's arms. As the machine was out, he sighed and smiled. He looked like himself again, his complexion was back. He was at peace at last. My sister and I were on each side of him as he went.

"I went numb piece:" My brother shared a house with one of his friends and, desperately wanting to stay close to my brother in any way possible, I asked him if I could stay in my brother's bedroom until we held a memorial. My sister and her husband had hotel accommodations and tasks needed to be taken care of. I needed to process and have stillness. I wanted to be in "his" world once more.

"His World piece:" I found just what I had expected. My brother had not changed much in his habits since childhood. Everything was organized in a disorganized pile. Sports memorabilia and computers, a big television, and spread over his computer chair were the work clothes he had prepared and placed the night before the horrible morning of his heart attack/stroke. Each stick of his clothing brought a painful, beautiful memory back to me. I turned the tv on and found his music playlist, wept, and the Beatles put me to sleep. Good night, June 2 and all I could think of was how happy my mother would be to see him again. He had a new world.

It's just that my world is a whole lot emptier without you in it, dear brother...