Yesterday, the call we had been dreading came, catching us off-guard after the joy of Thanksgiving. Vainly, we still clutched to small shreds of optimism, that perhaps he would pull through this once again, that wishing it away might change the outcome.
Somehow, I knew when the ambulance raced into the hospital parking lot, and the patient rep ushered me into the "quiet room", that things were worse this time. The quiet room was brightly lit, filled with overstuffed couches and boxes of kleenex, and bad hotel art on the walls. How I now hate this stuffy, windowless room!
Having to call his sister to share the bad news with her was the hardest thing anyone's ever asked me to do. At that moment, I didn't want to be the brave, dutiful niece; I wanted someone to comfort me. My voice was thick and shaky, and I knew even the gentlest words were simply breaking her heart. How do you tell someone their brother is gone?
I am weary. There are no other words.
