I Started The Fire

Monday. I had just gotten home and sat down to eat some dinner. My husband was laid off last month, and the energy around the house is a little low. A lot to process there. The phone rings just as we’re starting to eat. It’s my stepson’s mother. She’s in tears. She says we need to get to stepson’s house, that he needs his father. That her youngest son is dead.

Her youngest son lives with my stepson. We really don’t know what to do with this, but there’s only so many questions you can ask. We tell her we’ll go immediately. We don’t know what has happened. It’s going to take an hour to get there so we drop everything. We text my stepson and his wife. My daughter in law calls moments later, also in tears. She explains that stepson’s brother overdosed.

He lives with my stepson. Which means, my stepson just found his brother dead.

We’re convinced we’re going to sit with them while they wait to take a body away. But we’re an hour out. We call a friend of stepson’s, who can be there in 20 minutes. He drops everything and goes.

We’re halfway there and we’re in shock. Everyone is in shock. That’s when we get a text that the paramedics got a pulse, and they’re transporting to the hospital. We call the friend, and he’s 2 minutes away. We call stepson and tell him to wait, that we’ve sent help. He’s too upset to drive. We tell him to wait, help is almost there.

We reroute to the hospital. In a surreal turn, it’s the hospital a block from the clinic I worked at back in the 90s. As we’re about to turn into the hospital, my husband says, “I think they’re behind us.” I look in the side view mirror and there’s the ambulance, still a ways off. We hurry into the hospital lot, but while we’re looking for parking, the ambulance arrives. It drives right past us.

I can see in the window. I already know. This is bad. This is a worst case scenario. This is about to be the worst night of many people’s lives.

We’re the first ones there. At the front desk, they haven’t checked him in yet. Even when they do, they’re giving very little. We’re not family (although after a point, everyone started writing my husband off as an uncle just to reduce the hassle). My husband sits, but I pace like a caged tiger, checking at the front desk. Is he checked in yet? They finally tell me that we can see him in 8 minutes. I don’t need to see him. I need to be there to make sure that his family can see him. I am pacing.

Finally his grandmother and his other brother arrive, and I’ll never forget their faces. I hug them. And that’s my vigil, now, I wait for people to walk in the door, I take in their grief. I let them know that they have help. I try to take a fraction of their grief. It’s like taking a cup of water out of the ocean. It’s useless. I know it is.

They start letting people back to see E (as I’ll call him). E isn’t in the room; they’ve taken him for a CT scan. My husband stays with E’s grandmother and other brother. I know where the room is now and how to direct people there if needed. I go back to my lobby vigil. My husband and I exchange updates, me from the lobby and him from the room, to take the communication burden off of the family.

E’s parents arrive. His mother wants answers and she’s upset but crisp. She knows her shit.

More arrive. Sister. My stepson and his wife. The other grandparents. Stepsister. Cousins. Only 2 can go back at a time. They let us break some rules because of how grim it is.

I try to get a double drop of Swedish Fish from the vending machine. The trick hasn’t worked in years, modern vending machines are too smart, but I don’t know what else to do with myself.

I move everyone into a corner of the waiting area, to try to coral the grief into a space that’s not spilling into everyone else. I try to be comforting, but the other grandmother hates me and I know it. She lets me hug her anyway. We have news it’s brain damage, but she doesn’t want to know. I’m surrounded by people whose world is shattering. They’re processing at different rates. Some want the specifics. Others need to be alone with their pain. E’s grandfather sits alone.

My daughter in law lets me hug her. My stepson barely lets me, he’s stiff as a board. I already know he thinks it’s his fault. Details slowly start to leak out, a picture that takes hours for me to get my head around. After finding his brother, my stepson administered two doses of Narcan and started CPR. His wife, a nurse, then took over. They’re tired. They’re traumatized. They wish they’d realized sooner, they wish they’d checked on him, they wish they hadn’t just let him sit in his room while they cooked dinner. Wish. Wish. Wish.

My daughter in law looks like she’s curling up on herself, while my stepson sits with his spine too straight. They still haven’t gotten to go back and see him, and that’s unfair, too. They did everything to try to save him, they did everything *right*… just not in time. And that’s not their fault. They’ve seen the worst of everyone, but they haven’t got to see E yet. Finally they send them back and I don’t know if I’m relieved or horrified.

My stepson’s friend is sitting there. I go over and tell him if he needs to get back to his wife and kid, we can take stepson and his wife home. He says, “I’m not going anywhere.” He is resolute. This is why my husband called him; he’s that kind of friend. He stays at stepson’s side. He’s probably more comfort than we are, but also, he’s a lot closer to E. His heart is breaking, too.

There is a man named Alex with a broken arm. He’s been here 5 hours and he’s hungry, and doesn’t have money to get anything out of the vending machine. I’m on my way over to the vending machines and this is a problem I can solve. I take Alex to the vending machine and buy him a sandwich, chips, cookies, and a soda. I try to get some water for the family but the vending machine is shit. I think about just kicking the shit out of it but there’s two cameras. I don’t want to be removed from the hospital for beating up a vending machine for an overpriced bottle of water.

They let everyone go back before they transfer him. We fill the room. E’s grandfather walks up and just turns and leaves, letting out a choked “I can’t.” I stay in the room for a bit, my hand on E’s mother’s shoulder. There’s nothing I can do.

To contextualize, this is my husband’s ex. We haven’t always gotten along. But over the years we all formed respect and eventually friendship. I can’t imagine her hurt, and I don’t think I want to. My hand on her shoulder is the lamest gesture in the world, but it’s all I have. We’re standing around her son on a ventilator. It’s grim, and it’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking but there’s no way to process this, to deal with the sight. I saw E on New Year’s Eve. We played the Trolley Problem game. It was a brutal round and we laughed so hard.

It’s not fair. It’s not right. He’s 26. This isn’t supposed to happen. The wrongness and shock of it fills every corner of the room. His pulse is 205. His blood pressure is something high but I don’t remember. It was a lot of flashing numbers to me, even though I know how to read all of those displays. It’s just a lot.

I leave, not because I can’t stand it, but because some of the family is struggling and I want to go check on them. His other brother just can’t keep looking. He’s stoic but it’s in that contained way. He’s going to explode, at some point. The sister and stepsister are with him outside.

E’s uncle shows up. It’s all over his face. I know that E’s uncle lost a brother a long time ago, too. And I recognize that maybe everyone hoped they’d never have to feel that kind of pain again. I offer to take him aside to update him, because E’s grandmother is not ready to hear what’s happening. I’m trying to spare her. But E’s dad steps in and he’s blunt. He explains there’s no brain activity due to lack of oxygen.

E’s dad’s health is not great, he’s had 2 TIAs. His walking is unsteady. We get him to sit. I’m not certain his health can take the strain of this. Now we’re in double jeopardy.

Finally he’s transferred to neurology. We’re moved to a new area, where we cram in, taking up every chair possible. I leave the seats for the family and I sit on the floor. The doctor explains there’s no brain activity, and answers questions. She pulls aside E’s parents. I know what this is, and I think we should probably go soon. We’ve done what we can. They’re going to let everyone go see him in pairs. We don’t need to go. That space should be for his family. But we do check to see if anyone needs food, if they need us to help. To drive anyone home. We offer to go check on stepson’s dog, and in my mind I’m thinking maybe we can make sure there’s just not anything left of what happened. My stepson says it’s fine, and we can’t make him give us a house key. His friend will drive him home.

There’s nothing left to do. We drive home in shock. E’s mother texts us that it means a lot that we were there.

There’s a thread of hope, but I can’t tell if it’s real or if everyone is pretending for each other’s sake.

For the night, he is stable, but no brain activity. Updates become more sporadic into Tuesday as everyone enters the holding pattern. I take the day off of work, I barely slept. I can’t focus. Anyone who asks me how I’m doing, I know we’re just kind of cracking a little. We want to be there if stepson needs us, but we don’t want to hover at the hospital. We wait at home.

Wednesday they plan for the brain death test, but his temperature drops low. They wait another day. We tell them to not worry about updating us. If it happens, it happens, but the last thing E’s mother needs is to remember to text her ex/father of her oldest child. I ask my stepson how he’s doing. He says “I don’t know how to answer that.” It’s fair. I just want to know that he’s safe, too.

E’s mother gets in a fight with the charge nurse, whereupon she states “I just want to be with my dying son.” The charge nurse shoots back with, “ALL of my patients are dying!” As if it’s about her. As if it’s personal. As if it’s not her job. E’s mother is filing a complaint. Good for her. I hope that nurse had a terrible day. All E’s mother says is “Her whooping started tonight.”

Even this upset, she’s still sharp, and she’s not taking shit. She’s always fought for her family, and here she’s at her most fierce.

Today he stabilized enough that they did the brain death test. 1pm. Everything went silent. I was at work. My manager quietly asks if I’ve heard anything. I say no, they did the brain death test at 1pm. We both know what that means.

If the news was good, my husband and I would have heard.

A couple of hours later, we get the news from E’s mom and from my stepson. They declared death at 1:27pm. It’s a formality at this point, a confirmation that must be done before what’s next.

My stepson asks if we’d like to see him, since there wasn’t much time left before they turned off life support. We decline. Not because we don’t care; we care a lot. More than I can even convey in this format. My husband isn’t sure if he can do it, or if it’s necessary. I want to be there for the family, but E is already gone. My attention is on the living, but at this point, there is nothing, at all, we can do. All I can think is how much trauma this family is going to be in. This is all I’ve thought about for days. I’ve known E his whole life, but this is his *family*.

I go to a friend’s house to eat pizza and crochet. I need a moment.

We get a text from E’s mom, a few hours ago. She says that they removed life support 30 minutes previous. She apologized for the lack of updates, there wasn’t much to say.

She’s right. There’s not. She’s lost her baby, and nothing, ever, will fix the hole in her heart. In all of their hearts.

I’m so sorry, E. And I’m so sorry for your family, who loved you fiercely.

He found his brother dead. He did everything he could to save him anyway, not knowing how long he was out.

He was the only one that stayed when they pulled life support, effectively watching him die twice. He held his hand and waited for them to take little hair clippings.

He’s been the strongest leg in this table of tragedy.

Why won’t she just let him rest?