My Brother's Heart Surgery

For awhile now at my job, it seems like Death likes to hang around. News of someone's passing travels across email. Phone conversations linger over conditions, concerns, and fear. Wakes and funerals come and go, and condolences are given with hugs and cards. And every day you come in, you hope not to hear that Death was around, that nobody is sick or dying, and you hope for just one quiet, peaceful day. The one thing that I learned about Death is that it doesn't always mean death. It means change, the end of the way life used to be.

My older brother, Brad recently went in for heart surgery. He had Mitral Valve Prolapse. A routine echo revealed an enlarged heart, and the time for repair was now. He was driven down to Manhattan to meet with the surgeon, and the surgeon wasted no time. The surgery was scheduled for the following week, and my brother had to rush through the pre-surgical testing. But he was told to not worry. This was all routine.

The day before the surgery, he was admitted into the hospital and underwent a catheterization procedure. Afterward, he was told to not move his legs for four hours. There was risk of a blood clot, if he did move, and he did. He was scared. His mother took a seat beside him and held his hand, and she told him to not worry. And then the anesthesiologist walked in and explained the entire procedure.

Nobody wants to know the truth. They want to be consoled, taken care of. They want to be okay. They want to know that their life is in good hands, and his life was. The idea, though of taking his heart out of his chest to repair the valve just did not sit well, or the fact that there would be a breathing tube to help him breathe. But the surgery had to happen. There was no arguing that, and there was nothing left to do but to wait for the next day.

I spent that night at my brother's apartment in Brooklyn. My mother remained at the hospital, taking care of my brother. I didn't know what to think. I was scared, and I feared to think the worst. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to sleep, but surprisingly, I did. Before I knew it, it was three a.m., and my family got ready to go back to the hospital. We hardly said a word to each other, and my mind was quiet. I was grateful for that, but I didn't like the emptiness that I felt.

My brother was pale. He shook like a leaf. He barely made it into the bathroom before he was sick all over the floor. He was scared, and nobody could blame him for that. Anybody would be scared. They would be ready to run out that damn door, but they couldn't. He couldn't because this had to happen. This was his life, and the surgeon was going to save him. But for seven hours, we would be left in limbo, hoping for the best.

The waiting room was surprisingly warm. Television sets played in the corner. The cafeteria was only a step away. Massage therapy and yoga was given to relieve stress, and we were stressed. But I curled up into my chair with a cat book in hand, and my mind refused to talk to me. I was afraid. I was afraid to think because I feared to think the worst, and I could not bring myself to that idea of losing my brother, god forbid. Death seems to hang around a lot at work, but I wanted him to leave me be. Leave my brother alone. Let him survive this operation. Let him come home.

Time slipped by. I dared not look at the clock. I hardly spoke. I just read, trying to bury myself into a book about furry, cuddly cats. I noted the concern on my family's face, but I didn't know how to be supportive. I said nothing. I thought nothing, and then I looked up to see the doctor approaching. And a knot twisted in my stomach, but I still sat up, ready to hear his news.

The surgery was a success, thank God. There were unforeseen complications, but the surgeon dealt with them. Now, my brother was in the I.C.U., where he would recover for the next two days. The breathing tube was still in place, pushing air into his body, but they would remove it later that day. And we were asked to go see him, but we had to go in groups of two. So, my parents went first, following the doctor to the I.C.U.

My oldest brother did not want to see him like that. I remembered when we snuck into Massapequa General's I.C.U. to say good-bye to our grandmother. She too had a breathing tube down her throat. She was hooked up to several machines. It would have been better, if it looked like she was sleeping, but she didn't. And I knew that image haunted him, but I try to keep it out of mind. I'll never forget, but I don't have to remember. And now we were walking into the I.C.U. to see our brother with that damn tube down his throat and hooked up to all those machines. You never want to see a loved one like that, but sometimes, you don't have a choice. And you can't refuse because of the fear of never seeing them again, but I was the only one that walked in. My oldest brother waited by the door.

We were going to stay with my brother in Brooklyn, but then we decided to go home. We would return the next day and the day after and the day after that. We would be there for him, no matter how long it would take for him to recover. We wanted him to get better. We wanted him to come back home.

My brother came home yesterday. He has a long, ugly scar down his chest. He has to take a fistful of pills at different hours. He was no longer weak, pale, but he still had his breathing exercises and walking to do. His recovery will take two months, at least, and next to me, he carried the weight of chores in this house. That has changed. That has forever changed, and now my youngest, baby brother has to learn something called responsibility. He has to carry that burden now and probably later.

I remember my own surgery last June. I remember how hard it was to move, to walk with stitches across my stomach. I can't imagine what it is like to have stitches down your chest, but I can imagine the discomfort, the pain. Surgery is not an easy thing, and nobody should want to jump on that table. It takes time to heal, and he has time. He has all the time in the world. All he needs to do is take one step after another and not to rush. We're just happy that he's home.

I realized something over these last few weeks. My brother, Brad and I are not close. We hardly talk. He could get on my nerves especially with his O.C.D., but we do spend time watching the same television programs. That's about it, so during this time, his time of need, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to be there for him, but he was happy that we were there. He lit up more when our mother walked into the room, but it saddened me that we weren't close. But I'm happy that he is home, and I will be there for him, whatever he needs. I know things have changed. I know the way that life was before is now at an end, but maybe instead of an end, this will be a new beginning, another chapter in his life waiting to be written. And I will be there, ready to take his hand.