In my last post I described
how I relive my son’s last Friday and Saturday on this earth every Friday and
Saturday. The reliving is painful physically as well as emotionally. It is
called “heartache” or having a “broken heart” for good reason. Don’t think I
would trade a moment of being with Brandon for those two days, however, any
more than I would trade the privilege of being his mother even if doing so meant
I could have been spared this current pain. This pain IS worth any amount of
time I had with the baby/child/man I often referred to as a “honey,” since he
was born knowing you catch more flies with honey. (Yes, I also have a “vinegar”
or two, but my lips are sealed. However, the vinegar[s] have taught me equally
important and joyful life lessons. Each is so integral in my world.)
It was truly a gift to share
his last days with him -- to be able to tell him over and over how much I love
him, how much I would miss him, how much I want him to haunt me. To be able to
say such things, wipe his face, moisten his radiation-dry mouth, stroke his arm
and hug him were gifts to each of us – his wife, his father, his two brothers,
his two sisters and me – from him. (I think he “stayed” until he felt certain
that anyone who needed to see him and say good-bye had the chance to do so.) His
wife and I were lucky enough to hear that his sense of humor was intact when
soon after he’d said, “Done,” his best friend called and promised he’d always
watch over Brandon’s wife and daughter. In a weak voice, Brandon joked, “You’d
better not hit on my wife!” He said nothing further for almost 15 hours. The
entire family was with him when he said his last words, about eight hours
before he died. His 15-year-old nephew, and godson, (our grandson) had come in
to say good-bye. “Hi, Uncle Brandon, it’s Konrad. I love you.” And Brandon, who
had appeared to be sleeping or in a coma for several hours, replied, “Love ya.”
Not bad for one’s last words said aloud. What a special gift – 24 hours of time
– our family was given to shower our love on someone so special to us and share
his last breath as he and his body parted ways.
On September 11, 2001,
almost 3,000 individuals who were special to many others thought they were beginning
one more ordinary day. Of these, 246
“regular” special persons boarded four airplanes that were to take them across
the country for business, vacation, family time, homecoming, etc. None of these
innocents could have imagined these planes would take them into buildings or a
Pennsylvania field. In New York City, among the thousands who entered the World
Trade Center’s north and south “Twin Towers” to begin their workdays, 1,985
special persons did not know they would never return home that evening or any
other. Also, 411 emergency services workers were going about their usual
business. Did any imagine that today would be the day he or she would lose the
life willingly put on the line day after day for others? At the Pentagon just
outside of Washington, D.C., another 125 special individuals were also beginning
the routines of a typical Tuesday at work most likely thinking of none of this.
It was just a “normal” day.
By noon EDT on September 11,
2001, 2,977 special individuals were dead, and too many mothers were abruptly
pushed into the pit of unimaginable grief and left to face the death of someone
who’d started life within their bodies. Too many spouses/partners/significant
others were suddenly without their special other. Too many children were left
without the special love of a second parent. Too many siblings lost a special
sister or brother. Too many relatives lost someone who had a special place in
their extended family. Too many friends lost a forever buddy. Too few of those
left behind got to say good-bye via cell phone or were left with a good-bye on
an answering machine. None of the grieving got to shower these special persons
with love during a last instant, minute or hour, and none got to share their
loved one's last breath. And because they weren’t there, how many wonder about
the fear and pain their special person went through before dying?
What I relive can be raw and
painful; what they relive must be torture.
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