I think my brother’s sickness and subsequent passing (“death” seems so permanent and cold, doesn’t it?) has actually brought us closer together. At least it has made us realize that we have not kept informed and “in touch” with each other as we should. Although if one of us ever gets in a jam, we would come to their aid without hesitation — as we did in my brother’s case.
A phone call on October 9, 2013, changed my family’s life forever. The caller said she was a nurse from the Baptist Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas, and that they had a patient in the Emergency Department by the name of James O. Nash Jr. She said a family member should be there with him. My sister in Michigan called me around 4:50 p.m. Phoenix time and asked, “How far are you from San Antonio?” I was able to stop by my house to pick up a change of comfy clothes, my Nikes, a toothbrush –oh, and a credit card I knew wasn’t at the limit. My boss at the law firm I was temping at was kind enough to give me my pay check early. (I think that’s what the rich do when they simply have no words to say — give money.)
A coworker stepped in next to get me to the airport — since my only transportation was the light rail and I had no desire to save the environment; I needed to “save” my brother. (More, on that word later.) I made it to airport in time for the 6:20 p.m. flight that luckily had been delayed, so after a $103 upcharge fee I was in the air. My sister had purchased the ticket and emailed me the confirmation number. On the short Southwest flight from PHX to SAT, I thought about two things: what am I walking into and how the hell am I going to get to this hospital?
I wasn’t in the mood to strike up conversation on the airplane. I just wanted to sleep and pray. My seat was the dreaded middle one sandwiched between two talkative white women – one heavy set who clearly violated the “oversized person” policy and the other about 65 to my left who I was careful not to be too overly friendly too to avoid plane travel small talk. It worked; she said very little to me except to comment on the fact that I couldn’t get my Dramamine packet open. “Looks like you’re having some trouble with that,” was all she said. I grunted in agreement. I really didn’t want to talk.
It seemed liked we were in the air a short time before it was time to put our tray tables and seats upright in preparation for landing. I decided to extend the olive branch first having been rude not to engage in the customary airplane seatmate talk for the last 150 minutes. “Do you live in San Antonio? “What brings you to Texas?” “Where did you fly in from?” She was a grandmother arriving to see her grandson who was off to Okinawa that following Sunday. I told her my brother was in the hospital and I was headed to Baptist Medical. I asked if she knew where it was, she didn’t. End of conversation.
Heading toward baggage claim an odd family stood at the end of the escalator ready to hug their grandmother who was now a few feet in front of me. There was a teenage son with black hair, piercings wearing those “fuck the world t-shirt ,” a teenage daughter who stood as my own teen would with arms folded with a face that said “I wish I was some place else ” wearing one of those “F-the world” shirts, and a tall pimpled-faced boy with a new military buzz cut. The raspy voice lady next too them with dirty blonde hair was clearly the mom. The kids fought to shower the older lady from my flight with hugs that said it may have been years since they had seen grandma. As I walked past with an envious smile, I heard this woman say to her daughter, even before saying hello: “This lady is looking for Baptist Medical Center, do you know where it is?” Her daughter responded in that telltale long-time smoker’s voice: “No, but we can look it up.” I stood there impatiently waiting for directions, still wondering how many hundreds of dollars it would cost me in cab fare. Her kids, including the Navy cadet who was the reason for this elderly lady’s visit, all whipped out their smart phones and started the Google race to see who could find Baptist Medical Center first.
The cadet grandson was first (He should have been a Marine): “It’s downtown.”
The daughter: “We can take you.”
I was so eager to get to whatever crisis awaited me that I didn’t even hesitate to let these strangers, who smelled of smoke and were eagerly ready to take a distraught black woman to a hospital 20 minutes in the opposite direction of their home to see about her dying deaf brother, take me to the hospital. I sat quietly in the back seat of their Ford Explorer half eavesdropping in on their family conversation, half praying that I wouldn’t end up in a cellar as their second black sex slave.
And it was indeed a crisis I walked into that night: he had been found in his apartment near dead, lying in his own fecal matter for at best guess what could have been three days. It was unclear if he had had a heart attack or stroke. It was clear that he was severely dehydrated and been a few hours away from death (the cold, alone kind of death) if it hadn’t been for the landlord’s tenacious rent collection process. (Funny, my brother’s failure to pay his rent on time “saved” his life. Or, at least, extended it.)
But, the Doogie Howser-looking doctor assured me that it wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack. But he didn’t know what “it” was.
I remember thinking how cold the hospital was. I’m always cold, but this hospital was freezing. My brother didn’t see to mind. He just laid there, looking at me. I don’t think he really knew who I was. In fact, our first conversation was me telling him — in my broken sign language — that I was his sister, Renea. I fingerspelled it: R-E-N-E-A.
There were no tubes coming out of his throat, no loud beeping machines keeping him alive, just an IV drip, a heart monitor and the strong smell of urine and a smell I can only recall smelling when I get too close to a homeless person on the streets of Phoenix. Still, my brother didn’t “look” like my brother and his sad, jaundice eyes told me that his sickness was serious, his legs and feet told me that his sickness had been ongoing. (I thought his feet resembled the legs of my Aunt Gracie who died of diabetes when I was younger.) Although he was deaf and able to sign, he remained mute. He himself told me nothing.
My head told me that this was going to be bad. My heart told me that I could help get him back well and convince him to go live with my father in Michigan — finally. Yes, this was going to by my mission, my purpose; I was going to save my brother.
Then the morning came. And, instead of joy coming in the morning, in walked a long line of doctors in their white jackets and stethoscopes draped around their necks, carrying my brother’s chart. No, they were not delivering the joy spoken of in the Psalms. They were the Book of Revelations: And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
My brother’s diagnosis: an ejection fraction of 5-10 percent, end-stage heart failure, end-stage kidney failure,beginning-stage cirrhosis of the liver and a heart arrhythmia that could kill him at any time.
The first renal doctor summed up the prognosis: “We’re in trouble. We’re going to need a miracle.”
