The days tick on. Moments fluttering into the past. Shaking loose of the tree, a leaf blown from the branch floating on the wind until it gently rests somewhere on the ground below.
There are flashes of joy, of pain, of agony. The things that drive us are different for each person. I sit pounding away the keyboard, waiting for inspiration on something to write. The days tick on.
He’s always with me in my every waking moment. I try to focus on his face or a particular memory. It’s never an image; it’s a feeling. It’s a raw emotion undefinable unless you lived it. The realest of memories we can have. Like a scent that rattles a dormant memory past and floods you with a feeling.
Today, it was his hair. The last video I have of him is in his apartment when I took a video of David when he had attempted to kill himself by overdosing on Ambien and whiskey. I can’t watch it. I can’t watch any video, for that matter, at this point in my life. It hurts to much… it peels back a layer in my core that is so sensitive to touch that the slightest provocation of contact will ruin my entire day.
I know that video is on my computer and my phone. I breeze by it daily when I am looking for a picture for the blog or for a new photo post on Facebook. It hurts just knowing it is there. I see the thumbnail, and I am reminded of that day. His Hair. I found him on his couch.
I knew, as I always knew, something was wrong. I left my office early and went directly to his apartment. I had my key, and I walked in.
The room was nearly pitch black, shades drawn, clothes and stuff strewn about. I thought he might actually be dead. He was motionless, sitting straight up. I couldn’t see his chest moving. I thought to myself, “This is it.” I walked up to him, telling myself to be strong and to not start crying. I went up to him and put my hand under his nose. He was alive—relief washes over me.
I scan the room, determining what has taken place here. An Ambien bottle is on the bar—it had a quantity of 30, and it was prescribed only a day or two ago. There wasn’t a pill left. On the floor next to the glass table, a bottle of Jameson is laying on its side. Empty.
I turned on my video on my iPhone. I knew we were going to make it through this one, so I wanted him to see what it looked like from the other side.
His Hair. That is what I am reminded of right now. I slap him. He opens his eyes. He’s there, but he is not there. I tell him I called an ambulance, and he peps up and becomes very lucid for a moment. He is scared of the hospital. He tells me he just wants to sleep.
I stroke his hair. I am choking back tears. It is so soft. He hugs me. I tell him I cannot stand to lose him, and we will get through this thing. I pet his head, I hold him. The only thing left in my life that I truly love and care for. He cannot leave me. Not this day.
I go into the bathroom and get a towel. I soak it in cold water. He’s burning up to my touch. I go back in, putting the towel on the back of his neck and holding him close to me. I hold him like he was the infant whom I held when we were younger, just rocking and being so excited at the prospect of this new friend I have been blessed with. We are grown men and children at the same time. I am scared—my insides are a panic. I am not armed with the tools to fight this demon. I want nothing more than to shoulder his burdens and take on whatever pain my brother is experiencing
He tells me later in the week that he doesn’t remember much, but he remembers me putting the cold towel on his neck and the relief and safety he felt with me in the room. I am thankful because I have done something right.
We sit there in each other’s arms… I am stroking his hair, thinking how soft. He is sweaty, his body fighting to live regardless of how much he is trying not to.
I just rock him back and forth in my arms. “Stay awake, David, help is on its way.” Petting his head, doing anything I can to let him know I am there. There’s a knock at the door, and I yell for them to come in. I won’t let him go. I can’t let him go.
I can’t watch that video. It hurts so much to see him that way. I am upset that that is the last video I have of him. I remember his hair, petting his head… I don’t need a picture or a video to remember that. But every day I pass by that video, I remember his hair.
Silly, really, but that is how this works I guess. The powerful stuff isn’t the imagery—it’s all the other senses in tandem that can knock you off your block when you least expect it.
Damn, I wish I knew what else I could have done. There were so many moments where you thought you were cresting the hilltop and going to have some smooth downhill, only to find another hill to climb at the peak.
