Red Sand: An Elegy

EDITOR'S NOTE: I really wanna thank many people for their messages of support after the passing of my Gram. Specifically, I want to thank the Boatmans, Jeri, Ruth, the ladies at Case Management, Carrie, the ladies of DPHHS, Barb and everybody else who really reached out. I really really appreciate the sentiments. It's taken a while to process this but it's time I laid to rest my erratic thoughts. So, I guess we'll see. :D

Okay, I don't know how many of you have scattered the ashes of cremation. When we laid my brother Michael to rest, I had an incidental chance to see the ashes his broken body became. I saw a sparkling shower of reddish sand floating downward through a shaft of afternoon sunlight that found its way through the pines. I swear it was red like martian soil or like a summer sunset. I could envision myself trying to hold the dust in my hands as it inevitably trickled through my fingers to be caught by the western wind. These ashes are never meant to be clutched onto no matter how much we wish it otherwise. I learned the meaning of impermanence that day. All beings should be valued as gifts of the earth. We should also remember that earth takes all things back...eventually.

Gram had been sick for a long time. Even though she appeared to bear illness with the same stoic resolve she displayed in everything she did, it wore on her. She so rarely complained that the toll on her wasn't ever truly expressed. I heard it in the undertones and subtleties that a lifetime of being her grandson provided. The things she enjoyed became more difficult. I guess any rational person in her place would reach a point where they would ask at what price was it worth remaining in this miraculously flawed gift of a world? At what price?

I can't look at Gram's passing as an unfair act by a being who would rip her from me. Michael on the other hand...well, that's my contention with the Other. I will speak only of Gram here. Her life was blessed and cursed in one, colored with joy and pain and triumph and retreat. It was a long and worthy life. She left behind all who called her mom, gram, teacher and angel. We are her legacy in this world and making her proud is the greatest achievement we can reach. I will always try for her. It's who she raised me to be.

Now, I can only envision her journey to that place built for her, perhaps with Michael awaiting her. Although I may somewhat lack in trust for the gatekeeper and his master, I know that Gram has earned her way. The pillar of faith has ascended and her rest is reward for her faith. She remains in my heart and pangs of yearning to talk to her do overtake me, but they are short. I know what is must be. The red sand and the lessons she taught me are what I have left. For now, it's got to be enough. I do love you always Gram. Always.

D

Speaking for the Dead

My brother Michael died on July 4, 2003. It was five days after his 26th birthday. He died of pneumonia and heart failure caused by the weakening of his heart by Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. The same disease I have. Our Perfect Enemy.

We didn't always get along because there was only two years between us. I must admit that being the older one did have its privileges. Primarily picking on the younger one is the biggest privilege. I really, really pushed that privilege. Mike had cognitive delay issues as well as a plethora of learning disabilities. His temper was thermonuclear, but it was easy to find his "big red button" and push it. I caused quite a few meltdowns. His brown eyes turned darker brown, his Italian complexion shaded red, his voice became tight and he stuttered. The relationship we had in our youth was natural, but like all things in nature our relationship evolved. When we entered our twenties, we fought no more. We realized that we were the only brothers we had. From there, he became my best friend. I could tell him anything and he could count on me to listen to anything. I had a treasure and I knew it.

I don't remember when the conversation with God happened. After high school graduation I'm sure. I had it all figured out and I was laying out the plan. When I used to speak to God, I didn't bow my head with eyes closed. I always looked up and spoke aloud in a quiet place locked away from the world. The plan was simple: I would die first, then Grandma who was our caregiver and Mike would go last. It was fair, straight and statistically likely. It was my only askance.

Michael went to the hospital in June 2003, one year after having an episode of pneumonia that hospitalized him. He recovered then. I knew he would. I knew. In 2003, I knew he would fight and win again. In 2003, I was wrong. He was gone and ooooooooooooohhhhhh God there was pain. Now, hollowness. Then, rending pain. I WAS SUPPOSED TO GO FIRST. ME. Not him. Me. I was older, weaker and sick more often. Didn't matter. None of it mattered. He was GONE. Taken. Taken from me.

I understand survivor's guilt. I understand it wasn't my fault. Yet I still feel betrayed, cheated and even rage sometimes. He should be writing here and I should be in the next place. It is only fair, but life's not fair. So I live. I move along. There is a caveat, however. A vow I made to myself, the universe and Whoever is listening. I live FOR him. I will speak FOR him. He always trusted me without question. He believed in me, believed in goodness, believed in justice. So, as debt to him, I will live to try to create the world he wanted. When I speak of compassion, empathy or what is right, I speak for him and the power of his spirit. I will speak for the dead because they can't speak for themselves. I speak for him. I am proud to do so.