The nurse looked at me as I sat on the side of the bed, her eyes compassionate. “Do you want to take off the necklace, or would you like me to?”
Her voice registered in my ears, but it took a few moments for the words to sink in.
I stared at my younger brother’s body, lifeless and gray. It had been less than five minutes since they pronounced him, and still, I had not quite wrapped my brain around the fact that he was gone, even though the proof lay right in front of me.
“I’ll do it.” I finally said. Something inside of me felt an obligation to take care of him, as if it would be a dishonor to let someone else do it. With eyes that threatened to flood my face with tears, I reached shaking hands up toward his neck and fuddled with the clasp.
A simple task that should have taken seconds took an eternity as emotions and thoughts coalesced into a kaleidoscope of agony in my chest. It just didn’t seem fair. He was only thirty. He had an entire life ahead of him. How would my parents cope with the loss of their youngest son?
It’s strange the thoughts that run through your head at a moment like this. The things that matter. The things that don’t. The things that come out of nowhere and punch you in the gut.
The thing I remember, and hate, the most about that moment was that it was going to be this image that would be the last of my brother. Him, lying in the hospice bed, the cancer having done its worst, eyes closed, gone.
I don’t talk much about this moment. Not even with those whom I am close to. But, I hate that it had to be me. I’m not sorry and I don’t regret it. I even understand why it had to be me. But, with all that I had gone through in years prior, and with everything that was about to happen in the next seven…
It ended up being another death that oversaw.
It ended up being another image of a loved one in the worst possible moment.
And my head is full of those images.
Those “Last Moments”.
Disclaimer: I wrote this for a class. It is a true story (hence it being located on my Non-Fiction blog). Wasn't really sure where I was going with it or what I wanted it to say. Needless to say, however, sometimes, writing is great therapy.