The Week My Heart Broke
August 2023
My brother passed away nearly a month ago. He was my muse in life. My everything.
I chronicled my week in the hospital with him. Mostly so I never forget this experience. I am deathly scared to forget any moment of his life, but also this was helpful as I begin my journey missing him.
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January 1991- Memory 1
One really late night, my parents drove me to my Aunt Patsy’s house. The baby was coming and my parents needed to go to the hospital to have him. When we got to Patsy’s house, I was tucked into bed with my Older cousin, I briefly looked at her Bo Jackson poster. I loved this poster. Bo Jackson was so cool and that meant that she’s cool if she has this poster of him on his wall. She was a big girl and I was going to be a big girl too once the baby came. Shortly after these thoughts, I fell asleep.
January 1991- Memory 2
One of the grown ups brought me home. I was eager to see this kid. I walked into the door of our apartment I looked to the left into the living room, and there was my mom holding this small baby. Somebody nudged me closer. I sat on the couch and they placed the baby in my hands. This was my brother, and I had been instructed that It was now my responsibility to protect him forever. I accepted the challenge
Wednesday, July 12th
I looked at the table card and saw his name. It was on my heart to take a picture and send it to him. Just to show him that his presence was missed. But I didn’t. My brother was very wishy washy about when and where he would show up. Leading up to my cousin’s wedding I anticipated seeing my brother, but when a cousin told me my mother wouldn’t be in attendance, I text my brother the Saturday before to see if he was coming. My message— You coming to the wedding next week? His response— Nah I can’t. And so I left it at that. I figured work somehow got in the way and since we have a family reunion in Costa Rica coming up, I understood all of us would have to navigate work to afford that week together.
This was our last exchange.
I always loved seeing him somewhere. We were very close, but we didn’t talk on the phone everyday. We texted, We DMd and we reserved phone calls for important and urgent matters. This helped with some of the pressure from receiving multiple random calls a day from our dad. When our parents called it was anxiety inducing. Did they need something? Was there bad news? Were we in trouble? Phone calls always felt too heavy. So, we had an approach of communication that worked for us and so we let it.
Thursday, July 13th
When I woke up on the 13th, I had the worst feeling of anxiety and dread. I honestly knew I’d be receiving some kind of bad news and for the life of me I just figured it would be due to some happenings with my job. This feeling of dread and anxiousness consumed my day. I couldn’t sit still. I felt nauseous. My stomach cramped and my body was physically uncomfortable all day. It got so bad that after my final afternoon call, I went to my room, took off all my clothes, turned on the AC and just laid in the bed. I hoped a nap would help and it did calm things down a bit. I drifted off to sleep for about 2 hours. Earlier in the day my cousin suggested we have cake and ice cream with my Aunt, who celebrated a milestone birthday the day before the wedding. I agreed, and when I woke up from my nap I ordered a cake, took another shower, restarted my day and walked to her house. At my aunt’s house, my cousins, my partner, my aunt and I ate some local Italian food, drank wine, ate cake and laughed about the complexities of how Godparents had been named and established in our Family. I think that night the only person, who although not in the conversation; had a fully acknowledging and functioning Godparent was my brother, as he shared that relationship with my Aunt.
At some point in the conversation, on of my cousins’ phone rang. As she answered her face dropped and she handed the phone to me. It was my dad on the line and he was hysterical. “It’s Papito.! He can’t die! Oh my God please don’t let him die!…something, something something, cardiac arrest!” I didn’t immediately process any of the red flag words. I only did what I do instinctively and I flew directly into fight mode. “WHAT HAPPENED!?” “WHERE IS HE?!” I demanded information from my father. What I managed to get from him was that my brother had suffered another Pulmonary Embolism and had been taken to the hospital where he went into cardiac arrest and the doctor said it doesn’t look good. I couldn’t believe this was happening again. 1 year to the date exactly. A year prior I had received a similar call from my mom, while on my morning walk. It was early enough in the morning that I was able to get on the next flight from NYC to Charlotte, and I was by his side within 2.5 hours. As nervous as that situation made me, I felt so grateful he wasn’t too far away, and for the better part of the last 366 days knowing I could get to my brother’s side in less than 3 hours, gave me peace. This time, however, felt very different, and while in the moment I could see this, I wouldn’t understand the depths of it for about a week.
As I struggled to get more information on my brother’s condition and his whereabouts from my father, I immediately put my family to work. I asked one cousin to call my mom and let her know. I asked my partner to begin looking up flights to Charlotte. At some point I realized I wasn’t going to get much further, and started calling the hospital myself. The mind fuck of trying to get information about a loved one from a hospital at 10pm at night is wild. There’s barely anyone on duty, no one answers the phone and no one is allowed to divulge the information they have on their screen. I alerted his best friends/ old roommates as well. I assumed they may have spoken to him and must know something. They didn’t. I felt guilty in my desperation to get to my brother I had startled them with the news. I promised to keep them in the loop and Immediately moved onto a plan D. I started reaching out to friends and family who knew people who lived in Charlotte, NC. At this point, I knew I wasn’t going to get a flight out of NYC that evening. Since the pandemic, the accessibility to frequent flights, especially the short distance flights had regressed tremendously. There was no red eye flight to Charlotte available, but I needed to get eyes on my brother. In that instant the strategy changed. I informed everyone in the dining room to start calling people they knew or who knew of people who lived in Charlotte. We needed someone to go on a life of death mission for us.
My first call was to my friend Brian, in Germany. The closest friend I could call who I knew had family in the area. The favor Im asking was huge. Not only was is the early morning hours in his time zone, but I needed someone to call someone they knew to drive to the hospital in the middle of the night to go see about my brother. A stranger to them, but a truly dear loved one to a person my friend loved. In moments of panic, I’m always amazed at how creatively I can think. Brian’s family had actually been out of town but they immediately had gotten on the phone to call the hospital for information with me. They were able to find out he was alive. I was grateful and relieved. My boyfriend had also gotten a hold of the hospital. He confirmed my brother was alive as well. Thank you God.
Simultaneously I had sent out the bat signal in all of my group chats. I needed someone who knew someone in Charlotte to go see about my brother. It was an emergency. The next response back was from another friend based in Jersey but with contacts all over the place. Dani text and called immediately. “What part? What do you need”. As evenly as I could I explained the situation. Within minutes, she connected me with a friend of her’s who at 11pm at night went on a mission to the hospital on behalf of a stranger to see about her brother. At this point my father had also gotten in contact with a distant cousin, in Charlotte, whom I had personally not yet met, but with the ferocity of a cousin who shared a childhood with us, he too immediately jumped in his car to go see about Papito. Another Uncle and Aunt had also called in a favor from a friend to get to the hospital on our behalf. I was still in a panic, but the panic decreased a bit, because what was most important was that someone could physically SEE he was ok, and physically let him know he wasn’t alone.
I didn’t sleep that night. Once I knew someone had been able to get to my brother’s bedside my partner and I booked the first flight to Charlotte in the morning, found a flight for my mother out of Philadelphia and went home to pack. I was nervous, but because I had been through this the previous year, I figured if he’s alive at this moment we’re fine. I was anxious. I couldn’t sleep, but I was sure this would all work out.
Friday, July 14th
When my partner and I arrived to Charlotte the next morning, we met up with my mother at bag check and found our way to the Uber line so we could travel over to the Hospital. We were all exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of it all. The 20 minute ride to the hospital from the airport was the longest 20 minutes ever. I didn’t know what to expect and I found myself getting angry that we were even in this situation. I was with my brother a year ago today, in the hospital for the same thing, when the cardiologist told us he was supposed to be taking his blood thinning medication for the rest of his life. I had assumed, he was being his usual stubborn self and had self prescribed himself to wean off the medication. Earlier this year, my Aunt had informed me my brother hadn’t been taking his medication and to check on him. I was pissed. He knew better. Why would he do this to himself? Why would he do this to me? I’m not sure if I said it out loud, but I definitely thought it— when I see this boy I’m going to lay him out! He has to take his damn medicine!
When the three of us arrived at the hospital we were directed to the 3rd floor waiting room for visitors of heart patients in surgery. My brother had been taken into surgery to remove the rest of the blood clots in his arteries. Once he was finished we could see him. We set up camp in the waiting room and in between tears and frustrations we all opened our laptops and continued working. I took some calls. My mom took some calls and my partner took a call. The heaviness was there but we were assured Papito was fine, so no need to miss out on work.
When the visiting room receptionist called my name I was in tears again. She had information about where to go to see my brother. She informed me that his surgery was complete and he was doing well and my companions and I could go to the Dixon Heart Unit to be with him. She then grabbed my a tissue, looked my in my eyes and told me to pull it together and be strong because I couldn’t have him see me looking like this. She said I need to be strong for him. I knew she meant well, but her words not only made it worse, but once we left the visitors room the notes she shared were the complete opposite of my experience making it nearly impossible to be strong.
I couldn’t help but think what on earth does it even mean to be strong in this space. How is not crying a strength? I cry all the time about everything and people tell me how strong I am, all the time. That women as well intentioned as she was didn’t understand that for me, the strength comes in the form of taking the next step, and that the only way I’d ever be able to take anymore steps in this hospital for the duration of my brother’s stay, was going to be after a series of heafty breakdowns. I needed the pain to subside before I could do anything and the only way the pain was leaving my body was in the form of big salty tears. So I gathered our bags, my tears, the little strength I had and escorted my mom and partner to the 7th floor to go see my brother.
Arriving to the 7th floor was intense. It was less busy on this floor. The halls were as long as city blocks, and it was quiet. Walking to the Dixon heart unit was about a 3-5 minute walk from the elevator. It was white. It was sterile and it was directly across from the baby unit. The irony of it all isn’t lost on me that for 7 days I walked the hall between Life (the baby unit) and Death (the Dixon heart Unit), and any any moment either unit could bring forth life or death for any patient. I just didn’t know it in the immediate moment.
When we got to my brother’s room a doctor and some nurses were in there. My brother was unconscious. I assumed, and rightfully so that this was because he just got out of surgery. The mood of the doctor and the nurses weren’t giving bad news vibes. They were reading charts, and looking at him and they seemed fine, so I was fine. I don’t remember much of what was said, with the exception for the doctor acknowledging what I was noticing about my brother. He seemed to be trying to open his eyes. The doctor said “Oh, we must have said something that triggered him. He know’s you’re here”. This would be one of the very few moments of peace I’d receive during our stay. The doctor shared that they had him sedated and would wean down the sedation the next day. He said they were able to remove over 90% of the blood clots from his heart and that they expected him to be fine because he was so young and so strong and in good health. We were relieved. I decided to grab my brother’s belongings (wallet, phone, keys, personal items, etc…) and travel back to his apartment to drop off our bags and pick up his car. This was one of the moments when I realized I wish I spoke to my brother more and asked him more detailed questions. I knew the apartment complex where my brother lived, because I had visited a few times, including the year prior, but I also knew he had recently moved into a larger apartment in his complex, so he could host more visitors. Something I was really proud of. Papito was transitioning into a new phase of adulthood that required more adult things like wall art, and the promise of house plants and a second guest bedroom to properly host guests. I believe the switch happened in December, and I hadn’t been to Charlotte since the previous July, when he had his first Pulmonary Embolism episode. After about an hour of trying to search his phone for this information, my partner suggested I check his amazon app to see if I could find his shipping address. He was right, it was right there. So off we traveled, the 10 minutes to his apartment.
The Uber ride to Papito’s apartment was another long one. I kept thinking about how far and out this way this was from family. I mean, he has the our new found cousins in Charlotte, but he had only met them the year prior. He also has our cousin who Ironically was in NY with me at the dining room table when we got “the call” but she was in Raleigh so still about 2 hours away. Then my mind wondered to the obvious. It didn’t matter in the moment because the reality is I lived in New York, mom was still in Pennsylvania and my dad lives in Houston. No one was close enough for being far to be a consideration.
I started thinking about when he told me he wanted to leave Pennsylvania, finally. He was so hesitant, but I was so happy for him. I told him I was proud of him and I encouraged him to follow his dreams and his happiness. My brother had endured some really tough breaks and traumas in his life and those heavy moments froze him in place. We talked about it often. After a traumatic, violent and racially motivated encounter with campus Police at the University of West Hartford (whom I have never and likely will never forgive), he moved back home and stayed there for years. So for the near two years he had been away, finding himself as an individual and a man, he had embarked on a new career, a new environment and a confidence in life. He had finally found a path of his own.
When we arrived to his apartment it looked like an airbnb. Everything was neat and guest ready. Like he expected visitors. Like he hadn’t just returned home from the gym less than 24 hours before and struggled to breathe as he dialed 911 for help. It was perfect in there. One thing that felt eerily weird to me was the contrast to my previous visits. I had visited my brother before, yes— it was a one bedroom but it felt lived in and warm. This apartment while larger, felt like he didn’t live there. Not empty, but not lived in. I couldn’t get over it. The thing that took me all the way out, was that there was only one mug and only two wash rags. We grew up very Caribbean/Latin American. Drinking tea and coffee was a cultural requirement. So to only have one mug felt weird. And to expect guests and not have a wash cloth for every towel also felt uncomfortable. I’m sure he had explanations for these things, but in the context of my visit it made me uncomfortable. Did he know people would be using his apartment? Did he not plan to settle here? Was he not expecting to live long? All of these things crossed my mind. But we put our bags down, went out to the apartment complex parking lot to find his car, and then headed back to the hospital.
At some point our cousin Justin came to the hospital. Justin was who my dad called the night Papito went into the hospital. I had never met him before, but I was so grateful for him. That first night before we got there he stayed so late, I had to tell him to go home. As long as Rick as alive and he had eyes on him we could sleep. He returned the following night, while we were visiting, to check on him. Although it was the first time we met, I was so happy he had already found his way into my brother’s world. He shared stories about their times together that I knew were real. You know when somebody tells you something about somebody you know really well and you’re like YEAAAAA they definitely did that, LOL. Because you know the person so well that the story has to be true. It was like that. We kicked it in his hospital room for a few hours and cracked a couple jokes to ease our worry. I was so sad Papito wasn’t awake to see us all there. We joked, laughed, silently prayed and convinced ourselves everything would be alright. Justin was the first person that ever felt as familiar to me as myself. He didn’t know my brother longer than a year or so. He didn’t grow up with us. But he loved my brother and our family enough to jump out of bed to be at his side in an emergency, stay overnight to make sure he was taken care of, and come back the next day and every day for that matter to make sure Papito was good. I only know those behaviors from myself. The overt and unconditional loyalty and dedication to people who you’ve adopted as your own in a short period of time. I will forever and ever as long as I live and remember my brother, love and be grateful for cousin Justin.
When the nurse came in that evening she was very friendly. She too seemed to not be worried about my brother’s condition. She commented on his youth, how handsome he was and his physical strength. She was young. Probably around Papito’s age. She told us she was on the team that received him after he was revived and brought to the ICU. She told us how amazed she was to see the doctors jump into action, when my brother went into cardiac arrest. She told us that the heart doctor just so happened to be in the vicinity when my brother’s heart stopped. She shared she had never seen that happen in her presence before and that it was really cool to witness. She then went on to ask if we wanted to see a picture of the huge blood clots the medical team had recovered from his arteries earlier in the day. We looked at the picture and didn’t know what to say. So I said what I always say, when I don’t know what to say. “That’s crazy”.
I don’t remember a lot more from that evening. But whatever there was to remember the next 7 days would over shadow it. I imagine that’s because at this point I still thought everything would be fine. We just needed him to wake up.
Saturday, July 15th
I woke up around 4am and couldn’t get back to sleep. The same nervousness I woke up to on Thursday is what I was feeling. A dreadful anxiety. I forced myself to stay asleep as long as I could before getting up to pee. I chose not to sleep in my brother’s bed because I felt like that was too personal to overstep. He’d be back soon and would want to be in his bed. So, Tristan and I took the spare room as my mother insisted to sleep on the couch. That’s how I know we thought this was all temporary. We were making choices that evaded comfort, as if to sacrifice for a short time because we knew we’d be out of this situation in no time.
Once we all woke up from another night of evasive rest, we got dressed, and planned out the day. We didn’t rush to the hospital. My thinking was if the doctors didn’t call, it meant there was nothing to worry about. So, I took my time to pack a small plastic bag for my brother. In It I gathered his glasses, some deodorant, his toothbrush and his wallet. Tristan asked me why I was bringing those things and I looked at him so confused. Why wouldn’t I? My brother is going to need to see when he wakes up and he’ll probably want to bush his teeth right? I took great care to take care of my brother. He was the baby of our household and my biggest responsibility to date. It was my pleasure to anticipate his needs.
When we got to the hospital, things were ok. The doctors had told us they would be winding down his sedation the next day and at that point they could examine his brain. So far they were confident he’d recover because his other organs, including his heart were working so well. They kept him on the ECMO machine because his body had suffered so much trauma they wanted to take some of the pressure off of him. So even as they had him hooked up to life support machines, they anticipated decent news. They were so impressed with him. His physique. His strength during all of this. The nurses fawned over his skin and his teeth. He was breathing on his own above what the respirator had set for him. Even being completely incapacitated, they continuously commented about how handsome he was. Imagine being in a hospital hooked up to machines and with drool coming out of your mouth and the medical staff in awe of your great looks. Genuinely I aspire to that level of swag. This all triggered an uncomfortable but humorous memory of my Grandfather. When he passed away in the height of Covid, another cousin (I have about 30 really close ones) reached out to CNN to share the news of his passing so Wolf Blitzer could give tribute to him during the remembrance segment of his show. The producers went on and on about how handsome he was, and in my grief I felt like this was so hilarious and inappropriate that even in death, my grandfather was a stud.
As we sat by his bed, I didn’t speak that much to my brother. In my head I was letting him rest. We didn’t even turn on the tv at this point. Eventually, my father had finally arrived in Charlotte. My brother and I exist in a complicated space with my father. A conversation for another post. There’s a lot of love there, but there’s a lot of other stuff there too. But I remember thinking how glad I was my dad would finally be here. I believed the anxiety from hearing his boomingly loud inappropriate and base filled voice would shake my brother into consciousness. I believed the sensation from my father’s penetratingly nervous energy would make him so uncomfortable that he would wake up, instantly. I almost couldn’t wait for my dad to make his way to the hospital room and annoy the hell out of all of us and imagined my brother would wake up from his sedation and ask him to be quiet. Besides, the days were trekking along now and I was desperate to speak to my baby brother.
As expected, when my father finally showed up, after several detours between the airport and the hospital, he was loud, attention grabbing and a ball of nervous energy masked within loud inappropriate jokes, and reminders to the medical staff that he too worked in a hospital. At one point he was using their suction tool to remove drool from my brother’s mouth. I told him to stop because you know— liability… But why listen to me when you can let the nursing staff tell you to stop.
The rest of the day was a lot. The doctors told us they were going to start taking the sedation off. They expected he could wake up within hours or within days. A hell of a range to give people, but we trusted that all of this was normal.
I was glad my dad had come, and I also knew I’d need immediate reprieve from him. My partner and I had decided to go to the grocery store. We figured we’d be here a while and we knew we’d need to eat. So I grabbed stuff to fill the fridge and make quickly after long days from the hospital or at least to fill us up before we made our way there for the day. My energy must have really been off because the person bagging our groceries picked up what I was putting down and after inquiring about my hospital badge, he went to grab me some flowers. He said he hoped it made me feel better. I burst into tears. It was so sweet in such a bitter moment. I wish I could thank him again.
That night was a sweetly bitter experience. My mom, dad, partner and I stayed in my Brother’s apartment together. It was the first time in decades that I stayed with my parents in the same living quarters. I remember wishing my brother could see this shit. I couldn’t wait to tell him how mu’fuckers loved him soooo much that they traveled to Charlotte and stayed under the same roof for the first time in nearly 20 years. Think about the gravity of all of this. My nuclear family went from living in a 2 bedroom apartment for much of my childhood, to eventually all moving to different cities and states spread out throughout the US. We clearly needed space, but this moment required us relinquishing our need for comfort, for our need to support my brother.
My dad slept in Ricardo’s room. My mom kept the living room and Tristan and I remained in the guest room. I should have felt safer and more secure, but once again my anxiety woke me up around 4am again. I found myself speaking to my brother for him to wake up. Begging him silently to pull through. This caught me off guard because I thought I was sure that he would. I felt like let me try to communicate with him telepathically. We’re siblings. We can feel things. I needed him to feel me needing him.
Sunday, July 16th
Getting to the hospital the next day was a lot. Wrangling my father to do anything in a timely fashion was nearly impossible. So we had gotten to the hospital around 11am. My partner had decided to head back to NYC this day and was scheduled for an evening flight so he packed his stuff and brought it along to the hospital.
The day before someone had shown Tristan the room where doctors deliver bad news to families. So I had decided that as long as nobody asked me to go to that room we would be ok. But that was short lived. Once we got to the hospital we were asked to meet the doctor in that very room. The conversation with the doctor was a long winded way of saying “his brain is swelling, we’re going to do some tests, but we don’t think there’s anything we can do and we don’t think he’s going to make it. We’re not sure, but we’re no longer confident”
I didn’t even know what to do with that information. Just the day before they were confident he’d wake up anytime between hours after sedation was taken off and a week later. Today, not even 24 hours after the sedation was removed, they weren’t confident. This was the first time I hesitated. In my own beginning stages of grief, I felt like everyone needed to be by my brother’s bedside. He needed the prayers, the love, the energy to pull through this. But I wasn’t sure where my mom was at with all of this information. How was she processing it? My mom keeps things close to the chest. It’s how she copes. I didn’t want to invite unnecessary anxiety into her world. But then I saw my dad had posted on Facebook for the world to see that my brother wasn’t doing well. So I said fuck it, and started making thing calls. I called my cousins and called his friends and I told them it’s not looking good and if you want to be here, you should be here.
I had also alerted my team and my supervisors that I wasn’t going to be working this week. My brother needed me.
I started to make calls. I called my friends directly and asked them to pray. I called people I hadn’t spoken to in years and begged them to pray. My aunt coordinated a live prayer call and family and friends from everywhere were invited.
By that evening, people had arrived to Charlotte, NC. His friends had driven down from Pennsylvania, and Maryland up from Florida and had parked up in an Airbnb. Our cousins from New York, had driven down and gotten to his apartment by midnight. More cousins from Texas made arrangements to arrive the following day.
Tristan’s flight was delayed that night and eventually cancelled. Everyone was here for Papito. Although the circumstances were not very positive, having everyone there gave me a much needed strength. I wish he could have seen it. His apartment finally got the housewarming he sized up for.
Monday July 17th
We got to the hospital around 10am on the Monday. The nurses said he started regressing over night. Around the same time I had been up in the 3/4am hours of the night. There was a new nurse as well managing his ECMO machine. She looked so sad for us and I hated it. She knew our fate and was doing her best not to lie to us. But I wasn’t looking for a lie. At this point I was looking for hope. Any sliver of hope that would allow me to believe we weren’t all here for Ricardo in vane. As we watched his movements and saw what seemed to be glimmers of life beneath what would officially be diagnosed as a Coma now that the sedation had ran through his system, she made a comment to me that she had seen this before. “But he’s moving”, I said. “Those are neurological movements’ she responded. This was the beginning of the end. What made me mad wasn’t what she said or that she said it. I was angry with her because I knew not only was she probably right, but that she was saying this because she too was emotionally connected to this. I could feel how much this job pained her. I said ok and walked away. My cousins and my partner were less forgiving. To their point, what other kind of movement is there if the movements aren’t neurological? We learned shortly after it was less about him moving and more about him making the movement due to his own cognition. That’s what separates people from animals one doctor said. She said think of the brain like a mushroom. The stem of the mushroom controls natural instinctive movements. The cap of the brain controls our ability to do things because of will and want. The doctors were not seeing Mushroom cap movements. Just stem movements.
That evening, my mom’s cousin had flown in from Miami to sit with us and to pray. About 15 years ago she was is car accident that left her seriously injured and she too was in critical condition and in a coma for a long while, very similarly to my brother. She shared that while she was in a Coma she had crossed over to the other side. There she found herself to be greeted by her father, who had passed away many many years before. In fact, shortly before I was born as I am told. She said that her time on the other side with him was the most peaceful and beautiful experience she ever had. She told me she could feel people praying for her. That made me happy. She told me she could feel people speaking to her and touching her. That brought me peace. She also told me she didn’t want to come back. This made me nervous. The closest I’ve ever felt to pure joy was coming back from being under Propafol anesthesia after a surgery and separately macrodosing on shrooms. I asked her if it was better than drugs and without hesitation she said YES.
This made me question, that if what she was saying was true, and if this was truly a choice my brother had, why would he make the decision to come back? I mean, yea he’s got all of us to love on him but his life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses. Life had been difficult and complex for my brother. I had often felt like the world was conspiring to take my brother from me. It sounded like the same elation a child feels during a trip to an amusement park. Why would he come back, if it would cause him to feel that happy and that much at peace? She told me she came back for her children. My heart dropped. My brother was a handsome single man, with no children and a life of his own. Completely beholden to no one. When you’re alive this is a sexy story, but if he was in between the realms of Life and Eternity, and if it was as good as my mom’s cousin said, he wouldn’t and he shouldn’t come back. Morbidly I thought to myself that I know I wouldn’t come back.
Never the less she prayed with him, blessed him with oil and sat with my mom to comfort her. I can not begin to articulate my gratitude for her.
At one point I realized there were about 20 or so people at the hospital with us. During the day we camped out in his room, the hallway and the cafeteria. Taking turns to remain as respectful as we could as we ignored the hospitals two visitors at a time policy. My brother was so loved. I don’t think he ever realized how loved he was. But if he could have seen the mob of people who travelled to Charlotte, North Carolina’s Atrium hospital, I know he would have been surprised, maybe even embarrassed. It was a testament to who he was. I mean I knew my brother. I knew his heart and most recently after a few deep heart to hearts, I understood his motivations. They were similar to mine. We grew up in a very tight village of love. But after my maternal Grandmother passed away, that village splintered, and the cocoon we both rested in so confidently no longer existed in the same way. Family grief forced us both to create new bonds with new people and build a village around ourselves to supplement the emotional safety our very first village provided to us.
My brother’s village consisted mostly of friends from back in Pennsylvania. This was where we differed the most. I left home with no intention to ever return. I never felt I belonged, I was told I didn’t belong and I acted accordingly. However my brother returned home after 2 year’s in college. Not because he wanted to but due to unfair circumstances, racial inequities, prejudice and horrific policing at the hands of the University of West Hartford. To this day, I hold their campus police AND their school administration accountable for their very racist and violent treatment of my brother. It deterred his path, traumatized him and forced him into a place a dark place for a long time. Papito was forced back to Downingtown Pennsylvania, and in the midst of his own trauma and grief linked up with old friends, met some new ones and started a new life.
The first set of folks who turned up to the hospital were his chosen family, the Quinn family and two of his close homegirls Sarah and Abby. They took care of him back home. They traveled the world with him. They shared milestones with him They loved him. I was so grateful they came. They shared shifts watching over him with us. Not that it was a burden to stay with my brother but I knew the early onset of grief was intense. Most people don’t opt to share these moments with you. It’s too raw. It’s ugly and it’s real. Being in the ICU with no good news is heavy. It was like holding a heavy table of love. You do it because you want to and because you want to support your loved one, but it tears at you and demands a live confrontation with your fears. Honestly the more people that came to support him, supported us. Between the twenty+ of us it just meant there were more people to hold each other up. While we looked after Papito to see if we could coax him awake, everyone made sure everyone ate, had water, coffee, a laugh here and there. His friends even bought my mom a couple mugs after she told them he didn’t have any mugs or tea. I hope they know how much this meant to us.
As the cardiologist prepared us the previous day, my brother was scheduled for a few tests. By the time my brother had his brain tested the doctors were prepared to tell us by this time he had been brain dead. They had expected he no longer had any oxygen going to his brain. However, we had a miracle that even the neurologist couldn’t explain. Although he was declining, he still had oxygen pumping. They didn’t expect this result. We prayed for it. We had a little more time with him. This wasn’t going to be the day.
I remember the Neurologist, Dr. Taureen, walking into my brother’s room. He didn’t even want to look at my brother’s paper work. He came in prepared to tell us there’s nothing they can do. To basically give up. He spoke super fast. Used a lot of medical jargon and became annoyed when my parents and I had questions. I could see it in the nurses faces. This was piss poor bedside manner. He made them uncomfortable, so I knew the pissed off energy I was summoning was well deserved. Especially at a bed side at the intersection of a patient who is dying. He decided to take a call in the middle of explaining what was happening to my brother’s brain. I was furious. I won’t say that there was an explicit bias in how he treated us, but I will say my constant experience with Non-Black people negating the pain and emotions of Black people, and my own experiences with such treatment set me up to give one of my most thorough reads to date.
When he left, I sternly asked the nurses to make a note that EVERYONE who comes into this room needs to be reminded to respect our family. I hate that I had to say this but I was in pain. My heart hurt for my brother. I wanted to hear him say anything. I wanted him to hug me back. I wanted his friends to have their friend back. His cousins to have their cousin back and his parents to love on their conscious son, again. There was no excuse for Dr. Taureen’s behavior. It was demeaning and condescending. It was insensitive and hurtful and not to mention stereotypical of how how medical professionals treat Black patients.The nurses agreed they had witnessed his behavior and they agreed it was inappropriate. And as if to test the boundaries of absolute assholeism, he barged back into the room and demanded the nurses follow him. Baybeeee I was through. I began to raise my voice and told him “NO, You come in here and close the door because what I’m saying to them is ACTUALLY for you!” I reminded Dr. Taureen that while he gets to see thousands of patients a year and to give good news and bad news as it comes, we only have one Ricardo. Every person in this room, the hallway and on the phone is ONLY here for him. And we expect to be treated with dignity and respect. Our questions about our loved ones conditions deserve answers. Our need for clarifications for words we don’t understand are reasonable. I let him know that I am a marketer and NOT a doctor and therefor it was HIS DUTY, not mine, to not only ensure the patient is seen AND to manage the hearts and expectations of the loved ones surrounding them. When he left, I asked to never see him again. And I supposed based on the new security guard posted in the hallway to ask us to leave, that HE asked for security come to come see about me. Fuck him.
Tuesday July 18th
Tuesday was interesting. We all found ourselves in Papito’s room again and spilling out into the hallway. As we continued to pray and hold onto Ricardo as long as we could, someone suggested we start playing music. Earlier in the afternoon the doctors had hooked his brain up to gauge for brain activity, and we could see very minimal movement, but movement none the less. We wanted to see if he would respond to music. We put on Dipset’s Oh Boy, and his brain wave went crazy! We figured if we could see his brain move he was still with us, so that night, we turned the fucking hospital room in to a full party. We played music from Ricardo’s favorite artists. J.Cole, Jadakiss, Camron and Dipset, Michael Jackson and more. My cousin Denea sang. Together, friends, family and some of the nurses, we watched Rick & Morty and sang, and danced and rapped until it was time to go home.
That night, we went up for my brother and then we all went to bed.
I don’t know where I found this strength to party for my brother. But I suspect it was from a private moment I shared with him earlier.
I had decided to talk to my brother as he lay in the bed hooked up to the dozens of machines completely incapacitated. I leaned into his ear and told him how much I loved him. I told him I was so proud of him and I could see him fighting to stay with us. I told him how badly we all wanted him to come back to us. But I also told him that I respected whatever choice he made. I told him that I wanted him to be happy more than anything else. Not just at peace but happy. He deserved happiness where ever he could find it. So if he found his happiness and it was on that other side, that I would be ok if he decided to stay where he was. I would be hurt and I would miss him terribly, but that if he’s happy I want him to be happy.
I don’t know where that came from, but it was on my spirit to say it to him. When I looked up at him there were tears streaming from his eyes. My cousin Kara and the chaplain saw it as well. He was crying. So I wiped his tears, kissed him and let someone else in the room to have time with him.
Wednesday, July 19th
Devastation had started to set in for me. I hadn’t given up, but I was aware it was a strong option. The constant rotation of people in the room, hallways and cafeteria continued. The vibes of everyone started to decline as well. At this point this was the third day walking down the long hallway to his room just to hear he had taken a regressive turn over night. It was heavy. I had to breathe deeply every time I entered the elevator. Similar to how the characters of AppleTV+ Severance would transition into their work selves. I used the elevator ride to adjust my brain. To harden my armour. I had to train my brain that when the doctor brought bad news to find gaps where good news could fit in. I couldn’t listen to the bad news any more, I had to find hope where I could.
When we arrived at his room bright and early there wasn’t any bad news. In fact, when we saw his doctor, we learned his brain hadn’t gotten worse. I took that as good news. The doctor had said they wanted to see if they could wean him off the ECMO machine. They felt at this point his heart seemed to still be strong and he was still taking breaths on his own so maybe he didn’t need all the machinery. As the prepared him for that test, I decided to go take a long and casual lunch. While in the cafeteria I found some energy to laugh and joke and have some fun with my cousins. But by the time I had finished, and returned to the 7th floor Dixon unit to see my brother, things had turned. The doctors informed us that the left side of his heart wasn’t pumping as strongly they would like it to. That was fine. But then shortly after the doctor came back in and asked to speak to the family. I don’t know what I missed. But things went from this test didn’t work so we’ll try a few others to within the hour, the doctors had seen my brother regress again. This time the ECMO doctor had pulled up my brother’s brain scans and had showed us the extent of the damage. By this point his brain had become so swollen there were no longer any ridges in his brain and as it expanded it had began to herniate or push out of his skull. The doctors had said they next test they planned to do was to validate that his brain activity had ceased. All we had left was prayer and each other. So I asked the primary doctor, how long they could wait before doing the test? She said take as much time as we needed. I asked for an hour and she obliged.
In 20 minutes I coordinated across 100 people 20+ live and 70something virtually to pull together for a final live prayer call. Coincidentally a colleague I admired greatly text me to ask how my emergency was going. I told her things weren’t looking good for my brother and she immediately connected me to a Reiki healer she trusted. I got in contact with the healer and despite being away on vacation in Europe she immediately started to pray for and heal my brother. Simultaneously our family and friends prayed for 30 minutes on our own prayer call.
After we all prayed and cried the doctors came in and did their exam. I walked out of the hospital and into the parking area and sat and cried an awful gutteral cry. As I sat and cried I could feel my brother’s presence. It was like I felt him come sit on the bench with me. Like he used to do. It brought me so much peace. An unexpected calm came over me and gave me enough strength to stand up, walk back into the hospital, back down that long and dismal hallway and into my brother’s room, where the entire family and friend group surrounded Papito. On my walk the reiki healer had text me back. She said she had cleared negative energy from his body and light was brought in. She also said there was an older man with him, our grandfather. Thank you God, he wasn’t alone.
When I got to the room, my mother said something to me and I can’t remember what it was but something in what she said to me validated that the doctors had officially marked him brain dead at 4:44pm. His brain was no more but his heart kept on beating.
Before we left the hospital, our nurse,Thomas, who greatly resembled my brother, gave us all printouts of my brother’s heart beat in small mason jars. It was so sweet. We were able to save his heartbeat in a bottle.
Thursday, July 20th.
My heart was completely broken at this point and most folks had already started to make their way home. My parents and I were at a crucial moment to decide when to turn off my brother’s life support and whether or not to donate his fully functioning organs. My mom let my dad make that call. He opted for it. I wasn’t against it, but I had definitely not been informed properly. I had decided that I would stay with my brother in the hospital with my brother for the duration that he was there. I would not leave the state of North Carolina without him. I honored my brother’s life so much that it was important to me to carry out my sisterly duties until his last breath. And while his brain activity had ceased there was still air in his lungs all be it by means of the respirator. Once again I had mentally prepared myself to be with my Brother the entire day and to brace myself for our final goodbye. His friends came to say goodbye earlier in the afternoon and headed back to Pennsylvania. Those who were left were my Mom, my Aunt, my Cousin and my Dad and his wife, cousin Justin and our Charlotte relatives.
We had agreed on a 6pm end time for the life support. But somehow in this process It was not clear that once my dad had decided to donate Papito’s organs the hospital would no longer be shutting down his life support. Instead he would remain hooked up to life support as long as it took to find donors. So as 6pm rolled around I asked what was next and the nurse Kiera (God bless her) met my look of unclarity with her look of horror. She asked if I had spoken to the life care team and I explained that no one had given me clear direction on what was next. When she finally explained I’d have to leave my brother here I lost it. Completely. I couldn’t bring myself to leave my brother’s side and wait unknowingly as he sat in this hospital with no family friends or anyone to see him through his transition. I stormed out of the hospital. I couldn’t take any more heartbreak. I wanted to be by my brother’s side to the end as much as I had been there in the beginning of his life. I was his big sister and I was supposed to protect him and I felt like I had failed.
The life care team called my mom that evening to explain. This is where they fucked up. I didn’t need an explanation, I needed it to be fixed. I didn’t care how, but they needed to find a donor and with urgency. I shared with the team that while I can respect that this isn’t an episode of ER and there would be no helicopter barreling toward the hospital with an ice bucket ready for my brother’s organs to ship off to Timbuktu to save some one far far away, I expected that when I was leaving this state my brother would also be making his way back home to his final resting place, in Pennsylvania. I wasn’t leaving without him, but I wasn’t leaving the timing to fate OR them for that matter. And as assertively requested, within that evening they found 3 donors.
Friday, July 21st 2023.
This was my official last day of big sister duties. It was our final and official goodbye. For the most part I held it together. But as the hours sprinted by the reality that I was leaving this hospital never to see my brother warm bodied and heart beating became heavy on my shoulders once again. I spent a lot of this day touching him. Holding his hand. Hugging him. Kissing his nose and forehead. Admiring his physique. I hugged every part of him that I could grasp as he lay in that hospital bed. I played songs that I remembered we loved since childhood. I had J. Cole on repeat, particularly January 28th. We both LOVE J.Cole and my brother’s birthday is January 28th. It was a real goodbye. I watched episodes of South Park and boondocks. It was the most authentic thing I could do for our final moments together. Both shows represent the childhood we shared together. We loved the fuckery, as much as we loved each other.
Around 5pm the doctors started to get ready for his organ retrieval. This is when it all hit. The Life Care team member who would be managing the retrieval introduced himself to me. He let me know that the process would be done with dignity and he would be ensuring so, until the very end. I asked what dignity looked like, he said respect was expected the entire time. Beginning with introducing Papito to the surgeons before they began.
As I sat with this information, I appreciated it but I couldn’t help but realize the introduction would be sterile and pulled from the paperwork. So before, my brother’s final exams took place before his final surgery, I asked the Life Care team to join me in his hospital room so I could introduce them to the person I loved the most in this world.
I introduced them to Ricardo Antonio Lawson, Jr. Our beloved son, brother friend and loved one. I let them know that in a world that saw his height, his gender and his skin color as a threat, he was the kindest, sweetest most beautiful person I know. I shared with them that when he was a baby he was so sensitive that butterflies scared him. And that over time while his exterior hardened to navigate the cruel world, he remained that sweet, sensitive, funny and loving person that each and every person that was here that week came to know. I told them how much I loved him. I told them how much he meant to me. I told him I was his protector, and that I was putting him in their care to aide in his transition. I asked the team to hold his hand through the process until the very end I as would have, if I could be there. Because he deserved to be loved and cared for until the very end. The team agreed and I allowed them to take him away.
As I stood in the hallway for my last goodbye I felt lonely. Ive spent 32 of my 35 years, as a big sister. I didn’t know and I still don’t know what my life looks like on the other side of this. The doctors proceeded to wheel my brother’s bed into the hallway. I felt a hand on my shoulder. My partner had flown back to New York earlier in the week but had come back to help get me home. His flight had arrived just in time to be here with me for this final moment. One by one we all hugged him goodbye and cried and cried.
When they rolled him into the elevator I screamed as the door closed. The sound was from my gut. I screamed until I had no more breath and then I gasped and cried for my brother. It was over. My time loving my baby brother in his human form had come to an end.
That night in his bed was peaceful but painful. I fell asleep in his bed and woke up massaging what I thought was his hair, only to realize I was massaging my partner’s hair.
I don’t regret much. I think I did everything I could have and should have for my brother. From the moment we knew my mom was pregnant to the day I said goodbye. I’ve tried to search for things that could have changed the outcome. I can’t find any. For the time being as I continue my journey of grief, I’ll just do my best to be grateful and to remember my brother and his impact on my life. I’ll share those stories in different posts.