Before we knew he was lost to us.
One day Andrew fell over. He just couldn’t hold himself up. There was a time in the recent past year when he lived in a wheelchair in a rehab center. His ex-wife had Power of Attorney. No one seemed to know what he ‘has’.
From my home, it would take at least 19 hours and 24 minutes to drive to Andrew, not counting the ferry or an overnight stay or a coffee, or delays at the border. Instead, I dial the switchboard at the Nurses Station. Usually, the receptionist is friendly. I tell her my name.
“I’m calling from Canada trying to reach my brother, Andrew.” And before she can patch me into his room, I quickly add: “He’s locked in; he can’t speak, he can’t walk; I don’t think he can even hold the phone. Can you help me reach someone who can hand him the phone?” She reassures me she will page his nurse. Sometimes when I call, it’s too close to lunch, or he’s already in rehab.
The first time I reached him this way, I could feel it over the lines: he was glad to hear from me. He mumbled a greeting, which I understood! He knew it was me. I told him I just called to say ‘I love you.’ And I’m sure he said “I love you” too. Then, after a few minutes of him mumbling, and me cheerleading ‘you’ve got to try hard in rehab’ ‘you’ve got to get strong’, somehow, I understood him say that he was cold. I called back and asked the receptionist if she could make sure he got one of those magic blankets that they put in the dryer. She promised.
I was thankful when another one of my sisters drove up from Southern California to visit Andrew, a distance of 302 kilometres, or the plus side of three hours. I heard that she told Andrew she is the only family member who loves him enough to visit him in person. But that’s not true, is it? My problem is: I live in Canada, and they won’t let us cross the border. Last Christmas I sent him a package of thick socks, a scarf and a hat to keep him warm; I don’t even know if he got it. Apparently, stealing is de rigeur there. He lost two cell phones this way.
The last time I called, when the nurse put the room phone up to his ear, Andrew shook his head, ending our conversation. Maybe he doesn’t remember me anymore. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he believes that no one cares for him. It’s hard to know.
I have a friend who sings. And she used to tell me about her brother who was ‘locked in’ with ALS. She would visit him where he lay in bed and she would sing to him. She opened her mouth and let her love out in the form of a song. They would look deeply into each other’s eyes because that’s all they could do.
We don’t know how long Andrew has. Or how long anyone has! This photo is from months ago, when he could still sit up.
We do know
that our brother, Andrew declined to the point that he could only live in a bed, tethered and tubed. He couldn’t communicate, or swallow, or hold the phone. Or eat in a normal way. One of my sisters got a picture of him holding her hand. By then, that’s all he could do, squeeze. His mouth was gaping open to accommodate the tube in his throat. The image sent a shock through me. She said, sometimes his eyes moved to follow her. Sometimes during her sporadic visits, he held onto her hand like he would never let go. I was so grateful that she was there, squeezing his hand.
Then he was isolated with another bout of COVID, in spite of being ‘fully vaccinated’ and boostered. He was transferred to a hospital when he got pneumonia again. I was still locked out, forbidden to travel. I tried to arrange for him to get a massage on his feet, every so often, because a foot massage can feel so good.
I’m leaving a lot of time out. A lot of emails out. There were so many conditions he endured in this state. Alone in the hospital, being administered to. Or not. One day, an email from his ex-wife: the hospital was saying that Andrew’s heart was failing. Again, inexplicably.
I got the email, knowing Andrew was still alive, it was still the present, when we both inhaled and exhaled, sentient beings on a beautiful planet.
A few moments later, he had moved onto another realm. With a broken heart.
Where were we all? Such a big family, and no one at his side.
-I wrote a furious hybrid piece of writing about this, called IMAGINE ANDREW.
