Bearing Witness

Sometime in mid-March of 2018, I got a call from Ron. He was a guy I didn't know too well. In fact, my half-brother, John, also didn't know him very well. I am not sure the exact circumstances under which John met him, but I would guess it was at Pop's Branding Iron. This was John's favorite watering hole and was walkable from the small house he had been building for going on a decade.

About a year or so prior John let Ron move in with him because he had nowhere else to go. It was a very kind gesture from my brother, and very characteristic of him. From what I had been told, I had actually met Ron a few years earlier at one of John's barbecues. I honestly don't recall. He hadn't made an impression on me, because as I would learn, he usually sunk into the background with his mild mannerisms and soft spoken introversion.

On this occasion, though, he had a clear and commanding tone. "I think you had better come down right away." By down, he meant making the trek from Seattle (where I lived) to Albany, Oregon (where he and my brother lived). This was usually a 5+ hour drive with traffic, but as I processed the words I knew it must be serious so I packed a few things and took off.

That morning Ron had woken to find John in the midst of a severe fever. A day or two before John had seemed better than he had been in quite some time; lucid and positive when we spoke on the phone. This fever though was different. It was the beginning of the end for John. I wasn't even sure I would make it to him in time. Each update I got was progressively worse, until John's fever plateaued somewhere around 110. I didn't even know that was possible at the time. It left a pit in my stomach the whole way there.

When I say he had been lucid and positive, that was a stark change from what I had experienced for months. John had been dying of a combination of cirrhosis, Hepatitis-C, and liver cancer since sometime in October. I've realized recently that my recall is on the poorer side when it comes to family and friends dying. I assume it's a defense mechanism to help me cope, so take some of the finer details in this story with a grain of salt.

Anyway, when the liver is damaged from severe alcoholism it has a drastic impact on behavior. Unable to filter toxins from the body, the brain takes the brunt of it and the sufferer endures hallucinations, paranoia, and often aggressive behavior. I witnessed John panicked by invisible animals circling him in his hospital room and intricate conspiracies that were being plotted against him from under his kitchen sink. He had often felt murdering the plotters was his only solution. It was so bad that John spent all but maybe the last month of his life confined at the hospital, which refused to release him given his state. I can only imagine the torment he must've felt during this time.

That last time we spoke, however, he wistfully remembered how we had grown closer over the prior five years and how much fun we shared throwing barbecues in his backyard with his biker and bar patron friends. It inspired him to start planning a new party. While I was supportive, I knew I was simply humoring the idea. He didn't have much time and certainly whatever time he had would be marred by his cognitive state.

Only a handful of weeks before, had the hospital released him during his only truly alert phase. He had regained his awareness briefly, had passed the hospital's release criteria during an interview, and was sent home. A decision that neither my half-sister, Joanne, nor I, agreed with. But that was what was to be. Joanne was the only family member who was there alongside me as much as she could be. Most of our kin had written him off as an unworthy inconvenience.

And yet his friends were constantly there and helping. Laurie, Jerry, and many others. Such good human beings who I didn't know well, but felt instantly connected to. But most importantly, I cannot emphasize how much of an angel Ron was. He not only remained at John's house to keep an eye on him, but he made sure there was food, John ate, took his medicine, showered, and helped him with everything else he needed. All without complaint. All at great expense to his personal freedom. I came down every few weeks to visit, manage affairs, spend time with my brother, and give Ron breaks. But it was nothing compared to what he did. Especially amidst John's rapidly turning moods and paranoia.

Over that last month, this took a heavy toll on Ron. I learned he had broken down crying to one of his friend's. He looked exhausted and beaten every time I saw him. I loved John and I did a lot for him, but I drew a personal and subconscious line at devoting my life to his care. It was selfish because I left Ron in a bad situation and took advantage of his kindness. Nothing I did monetarily for Ron will ever make up for the emotional trauma of what he had to endure.

It's important to know that I had only met John for the first time at our father's funeral in 2010. I had spoken to him once before on the phone as a teenager for about twenty minutes. But he just wasn't a part of my life. Meeting him in person I expected we would grieve together alongside our other family and then part ways.

But I was in for a surprise. I immediately sensed his kindness and concern for others. Unlike almost anyone else in my family, he took the time to get to know me, ask me who I was, and interact with me in a two-sided manner. He wanted to spend more time together. He wanted to grow our relationship. He felt like a real brother to me. Not a half. We both really enjoyed those subsequent years when I came to see him multiple times a year, and often monthly once I lived in the region. But I also knew it was a finite proposition because he had lived life so hard. He had conquered heroin, but then transferred that addiction to alcohol.

When I arrived at the hospice facility the day Ron called me, John was not conscious. The staff informed me that he was in his final days, if not hours, and it was best for his comfort to keep him in a sleep state. I decided to get a hotel and stay with John all day and all evening, but keep a separation at night for my own well being.

The first few days I tried to do a little work as I sat by his bed. It was unproductive. I found myself going out for a coffee. Taking a short run. Grabbing a bite to eat. Swinging by to see Ron. Calling his friends. Welcoming those who stopped by. Many of these reasonable actions, but I knew the larger underlying drive was avoidance. I was watching John die in real time. Each hour getting a little worse. Seeing it in his body. hearing it in his breathing.

John lasted almost a week after the temperature befell him. On his final night, I played music I knew he loved, thought he would love, or felt appropriate for what he was going through. I talked to him, told him I loved him and was there with him, and did my best to comfort him. In spite of the heavy sedation I saw him desperately try to open his eyes and use his mouth. It was the only voluntary action I saw him take leading up to his death.

As midnight approached, his "death rattle" worsened. His chest began heaving more and more until it seemed almost violent. His head sort of convulsed in a rhythmic pattern. It was the most upsetting thing I had ever seen. Watching a person die. Someone I sincerely loved without exception. He was flawed and difficult and none of that mattered to me because he was genuine and caring and I was better for having him in my life.

I tried as hard as I could to stay in the room with him as he died, so he wouldn't be alone. But as it got closer and John worsened and I had to leave. The nurse comforted me and helped me get set up in a bed out in the hallway nearby. She came and woke me a couple hours later when John passed. I sat in the room with him for a while. I called his friends and let them know. No one came, and I could understand it. Many people find comfort in remembering a person as they were alive. I didn't have any choice in the matter. I was the only one to bear witness who knew him. I wasn't able to do it when my mother passed shortly after my father in 2010, so it held additional importance as another chance to right a wrong and rise up for a loved one.

Many months later we held a celebration of life off the Calapooia near Brownsville, where John and I would skip rocks, talk about life, and enjoy the beauty of the area. Dozens upon dozens of people showed and praised John for the kind soul that he was. While it was a wonderful day, the pain of the end of his life is what remains most with me.