Finding My Balance – Notes On The Death of A Brother

Most of my stories do not come with a warning, unless it would be to grab a tissue.  This one, however, does.  Some of the details are grim.  If you wish to accompany me on my journey, I invite you to read on.  If you find my tale troubling, remember, you were forewarned…

I have been told that I do not view the world the way other people do, that I do not process information the way others do.  They are probably right.  I tend to dig deep…literally, emotionally.    With a stick, and sometimes my bare hands, I probe until I get right down to the bone.  An observer by nature, I gather information and experiences like a shaman collecting stones and feathers for a medicine bag, examining each one for meaning.  And then I pass each thing through my own system of analysis: metaphorically, allegorically, symbolically, searching for connections.   So my gatherings tend to be looked at as strange and at times, unseemly. “Disgusting” is a word I hear a lot.  As recently as yesterday, in fact.  Regardless, I do the things I need to do to help me make sense of the world. And when I feel I have gathered enough, I sit down to weave them together, and then set out to tell a story.

This is a story of my brother, Eddie.

We all have a story.  The story has many elements: how we entered the world, how we navigated the world, and finally, how we left the world.   We have no say in our birth stories, where although we may be the central figure, we are helpless to play any part.  And for most of us, our exit from this life is not under our control or timing.   We would like to be able to say that the middle part, the “how we lived our life” part, is something we shape, but the truth is, much of the course of our lives is influenced by events, people, and circumstances outside our control.  Every day, in every moment, we stand at forks in the road, and every decision, small or large, takes us down a path where new choices are required.  It would be nice to think that we always do our best, on any given day, but that is not always true, and sometimes, the net effect of a poor choice, or a string of poor choices, is not truly evident until the end.  I have yet to meet a person whose life has gone exactly to plan, who could say they made the right decisions, turned down the right path, every time.  Who could look back on their life, and say every part of it had gone exceptionally well and according to plan, and turned out perfectly.

At the end of the story, once we have exited stage left, those who remain are left to supply the ending, and to try to make sense of it.  It feels presumptuous to tell another person’s story, especially after they are gone.  History is written by the victors, and eulogies are given by those left behind.  So it is.  My brother’s life and death were his, but I am his sister, and I am the one telling this story, so the only way I can tell it is from my heart, through my eyes.   I do so in a way that I hope honors him.  I have written this story for myself, as a way to try to make sense of a complicated, emotional time, and in the end, it will be the starting point on my path to healing.  If anyone else finds some small value in my sharing it, all the better.

We were a family of six, my parents plus four children.  I am the oldest, and Eddie was next, just two and a half years younger.  It was just the four of us, my parents, Eddie and I, until my sister and youngest brother arrived, six and eight years later.  I was a mostly no-nonsense child, and Eddie was mostly nonsense.  He spent a lot of time in the principal’s office, a wiggly, active child, prone to making “squirrel noises” and farting sounds, and performing other disruptive, class-clown type behaviors.  Early on, he had the serious misfortune to have a teacher or two who did not know how to deal with kids like him, and probably did not like boys in general.  I didn’t realize those kinds of teachers existed, until one of my sons had one.  Those teachers labeled Eddie, and a pattern of rebellion was set, one which probably did much to shape his view of adults, and create a disdain for adulting and “playing the game”, a crime of which he accused me repeatedly over the years.

We fought as kids, a lot.  I was perpetually irritated by him, and his antics.  He was impy and mischievous.  One of my earliest memories of him was when he crawled under the kitchen table and stabbed me in the knee with a pencil, as I sat coloring.  The lead point broke off, and was visible under my skin for many years.  I guess that was in the days before lead poisoning was a known thing, or somebody would have dug it out.  The other early memory was of the day he inadvertently knocked me unconscious.  In the house we grew up in, we had a brick fireplace in the kitchen, and hardwood floors.  The fireplace hearth was bench height, and was used for a myriad of play activities.  On the day in question, it was serving as the staging and mounting area for a game of “horsey”, in which I was the horse.  He was around two, and I was about five years old.  I was giving him horse-back rides around the kitchen, and to make it easier for him to crawl up on my back, I would position myself next to the brick hearth, on my hands and knees, and he would crawl on.  At one point, in his exuberance, he must have felt a different mounting technique was in order, so he jumped off the hearth, and landed on my back with his feet.  Unprepared for the launched attack, my arms went out from under me, and my chin hit the hard floor, knocking me clean out.  I woke up to the sensation of hanging upside down, my arms flung straight out, like the Flying Nun.  Through my hair, I could see the wall flying past me in circles, the long reach of the dangling telephone cord providing me with the only clue to my orientation in the room.  My tiny grandmother, who was babysitting us, was swinging me around by one foot, trying to get the blood flowing to my head, as she shouted into the telephone for help.  The memory ends there, but the sensation of being upside down, unable to control my body against the centrifugal force as I fly round and round in slow motion, like a carnival ride that dips and rises, has stayed with me.  It suddenly occurs to me why I have always been terrified of carnival rides and roller coasters.

One thing we had in common was our love of the beach.  We were fortunate to live on the water, and we spent every possible moment on the beach.  Our home in Edmonds was on a sloped lot, with the train tracks separating our yard from the beach.  The railroad tracks were built up on a rock wall, and the the boulders that made up the wall provided endless possibilities for forts and ships.  When we were small, we were strictly forbidden to cross the tracks without an adult, so we would be delivered to the beach in the morning.  We knew exactly how far we were allowed to go down the beach in each direction, our borders marked on one end by a shallow stream, and a certain lookout rock on the other end.  A stretch of less than two hundred yards.  We knew exactly how high we were allowed to climb up the rocks, and how far we could go out in the water.  No floating on anything, no more than knee deep.  The activities changed with the tide.  When the water was high, a certain flat rock was a ship, from which Eddie pretended to catch fish.  As the water receded, the rocky strip of beach would be exposed, calling for rocks to be thrown, and periwinkle snails to be collected.  Lunch would be delivered by whomever was in charge of us, and a picnic would ensue, another round of sunscreen applied.  After lunch, with the tide still going out, the next phase of the day would begin.  Our zone of the beach had a section of rocks that had collected from a time past when a trainload of rocks had been dumped to fortify the wall, and they had rolled down the beach and settled in a long strip along the mean tide line.  Over the years, tide pools had formed, and the “barnacle rocks” were a paradise of sea creatures.  Eels, hermit crabs, rock crabs, small fish, sea stars, anemones, and on and on.  We would spend hours exploring, studying, collecting.  On low tides, beyond the barnacle rocks, the sandy flats were exposed, and there were sand castles to be built, moon snails to collect, and flounders to be chased.  Large, shallow pools would warm in the sun, and we would crawl around on our bellies, the water as warm as a bath, sliding through the eel grass, as if we too were creatures of the shallows.  An eye would be kept on the tide, because we knew from experience that to be caught on the wrong side of the barnacle rocks on a rising tide would mean a dangerous crossing, resulting in bloody toes, knees and palms.  We eventually figured out that if we had dilly-dallied too long, we could wade down to the creek, and make our way upstream with no loss of blood.  And on the way upstream, we may as well build a dam, using rocks and driftwood, sealing the cracks with Turkish Towel, Sugar Kelp, and Sea Lettuce.  Construction complete, we would make our way to the pickup point, and bide our time by making tiny houses of sticks and shells, decorating them with dried Sea Balloons and Witch’s Hair, maybe a few desiccated crabs.  Sometimes a lucky winner, a live crab found under an overturned rock, would be gifted with the new home, its escape discouraged by redirection and carefully erected gates.

As we grew up, I became preoccupied with my own activities.  I was finishing high school as Eddie was starting, and we tended to stay in our own lanes.  He probably felt like he was in my shadow at times, and I am sure I did little to step aside.  It has become clear to me, through all the lovely messages I have received from his classmates, that after I left, or maybe while I was paying no attention, he blossomed into a funny, popular and engaged young man.  I regret now that I paid him little or no attention as I was nearing graduation.  He had fallen into casual drug use in junior high, which got progressively worse, and his use of pot was a nonstop point of contention and drama in our household.  My parents were beside themselves, and unequipped to deal with the problem.  His drug use had a dramatic effect on him, his studies, his motivation.  He would get caught again and again.  So preoccupied were my parents, they didn’t ever notice that I also dabbled from time to time.  I always felt smug that I was too smart to get caught, unlike my dumb brother.  The beginning of my alleged superiority complex, another crime, one which I can probably go ahead and just plead guilty to.

One of my dearest memories of Eddie is him standing in the doorway of our house, crying, as my parents and I loaded into the car, headed to Ellensburg, to deliver me to college.  I was surprised, thinking he should have been all too happy to be rid of me, and touched that he was so emotional over my leaving.  Though we must have lived under the same roof for another two summers, I have no recollection of it.  He went away to the Army not long after his high school graduation, leaving while I was away at college. After college, I moved to California, and was not home when he returned from the Army.  In the years that followed, we were not close, divergent interests and distance keeping us from connecting, except for family gatherings.

Eddie had found success in the army.  Surprisingly, he excelled in a structured environment, and concepts like chain of command, neatness, and clear orders made sense to him.  He served as a medic in the 82nd Airborne Division, and traveled overseas.  He did not talk much about his time in the Army, at least not to me.  Or, possibly, I was too busy to listen.  Another regret.  When he returned from the service, he wanted nothing to do with the medical field, even though he was well trained and highly qualified. No amount of persuasion by his family could change his mind, and he often cited a fear of blood, which would prove all too ironic, in hindsight.  Instead, he embarked on a career as a construction worker, eventually becoming a skilled finish carpenter, and in his spare time, pursued his love of music, playing in bands at local clubs.

Sometime along the way, he fell in love, and married a woman from Peru, named Vanessa.  The ceremony was held in Peru, and by all accounts, was a lovely affair.  My sister and I were the only family members who did not attend.  Yet another regret, added to a growing list.  Their union was short lived, and ended acrimoniously.  After the wedding, Eddie returned to the States, and Vanessa was to follow, after approval of her visa, which never came through.  Eddie returned to visit her once, and the visit was a resounding failure, probably sealing the fate of his marriage.

Also, sometime along the way, my brother contracted HIV.

We will never know how he became infected, or when, or where.  We do know that it went undetected for many years.  So many years, in fact, that when he was diagnosed, he was merely days from death, nearly succumbing to cryptococcal meningitis, which would leave him with profound and permanent brain damage.  Later, we would find out that Vanessa had died in Peru, at the age of 32, the very week Eddie was diagnosed.  We will never know if she also had AIDS, and if so, which of them infected the other.  Or, if he had been infected while having dental work done in Peru.  Or he could have been exposed to tainted blood as a medic, but it was probably too far back.   Or if he was exposed during a heroic standoff in a bar, in which he and a friend defended a petite woman who owned the Chinese restaurant from a group of gang members who were threatening her life, and he was savagely sliced across the face, and wound up in the ER at Harborview.  Or if a poor choice of a one-night stand became a life sentence.  We do know that he tested negative for other drugs, so at least that could be ruled out, and his son, now 13, tested negative, so that narrowed the window of time.  The virus, in the end, did not kill him, but it certainly set the stage for his death.

He spent a year in hospitals, fighting for his life.  After being transferred to an end of life facility, his weight dropped to just over a hundred pounds, he lost his ability to speak, and could barely swallow.  Whenever I would visit, I would bring him a treat, usually blueberries.  We would sit together, watching a movie or a tape of a rock concert, and I would feed him blueberries, one at a time, as he stared at me, unable to communicate.  Miraculously, over time, he began to slowly improve.  His vocal cords healed, and he learned to use his voice again.  He gained some weight, and began to slowly regain the use of his legs.  Eventually, it became clear that he was not going to die imminently, and he began to chafe against the strict no-smoking rules and lock-down restrictions.  He escaped a few times, and they would find him across the street, ordering food at a Chinese restaurant, or smoking on the street.  He flirted with the nurses, and participated in the music programs, but as he would make friends, they would die, and it was very hard on him.  He began to realize that the ones that were not dying were also suffering from brain damage, and he wanted no part of being around them.  Our mother, with the intuition only a mother can have, had been the one who refused to believe his increasingly bizarre behavior was drug related, and had taken him to the hospital, where he was diagnosed.  And it was our mother, against the advice of the doctors, and the otherwise unanimous agreement of our family, who refused to allow the doctors to withhold treatment and let nature take its course.  It was our mother, who against all advice, decided to bring him home and care for him herself.  And it has been our mother, ever since, who has refused to leave his side, in the six long years that followed.

It was a shock to everyone when Eddie was diagnosed, and it took a huge toll on our family.  Opinions were divided, battles were fought, my mother’s rule prevailed.  My father moved out, worn out by being the target of my brother’s anger.  In the beginning, he was too out of it to understand his situation.  He would parrot the words “I’m sick. HIV.”, but it was clear that he did not understand the ramifications.  As he slowly got better, there were moments of bitter sadness, like the time he picked up a hammer, and said “I used to be a carpenter.”  I would hear stories about people with AIDS, and the crusades by those who loved them, and I would think, “How sad…”, and then it would strike me later, like a punch in the gut, that I should identify more, because I, too had a loved one with AIDS.  But because we did not know how he had gotten it, it was hard to identify with a group, as if being HIV positive was not enough to qualify for a group.  He was not a gay person with AIDS.  He was not an IV drug user with AIDS.  We could not say definitively that he had been infected by accident through a medical procedure or accidental exposure of blood.  I had been taught that people got infected with HIV by making bad choices, or, in rare cases, they were innocent victims of extreme bad luck.  By the time he got infected, AIDS had been around for long enough that it seemed everyone should know how not to get it.  He was a smart man, and a trained medic, how could he have gotten sick?  And how could he have been so ignorant of his own body, that he never suspected any symptoms, and sought treatment, which might have saved him from the brain infection that almost claimed his life?  If he had possessed the mental capacity to think it through, once diagnosed, he probably would have been as stumped as the rest of us.  But by then, it was too late, and the mystery would never be solved.  The no-nonsense part of me was left with no choice but to be angry; I just didn’t know who I should be angry with.   And it was easier to be angry than to be sad.  Besides, there was barely time between emergencies to grieve.  As the years passed, I had begun to realize that anger, practical concerns, and power struggles had sucked all the air out of the situation, and that I had never grieved the loss of the brother that I once knew.  Soon, though, I would be forced to grieve both deaths.

Out of lock-down, my brother tested his freedom.  He would wander away, and much time was spent trying to track him down.   The local police would pick him up, and in the beginning, before they knew who he was, they would think he was high or drunk.  His clothes hung on him, and he often looked like he had crawled out of a dumpster.  My mother did her best, but no grown man wants his mother picking and poking and washing him.  He was testy, and wanted to dress himself.  He shuffled around like an old man, so thin, he could barely keep his pants up.  He would whisper, or repeat phrases over and over, and he was almost impossible to understand.  If something wasn’t to his liking, he would bark a staccato “No no no no no, fuck you!”  If my dad was around, it was “Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you”, spoken over and over. On the day before Eddie died, my dad took Eddie for a movie, “Ford vs. Ferrari” which he loved, then took him to pizza at their favorite restaurant. In a last, monumental blessing, for which I will be forever grateful, Eddie said to my dad, “You know what? You know what? I love you.”

One part of his brain that was destroyed was the emotion center,  which left him unable to control his emotions.  He would laugh or cry, or both, at anything that gave him rise, often at inappropriate times and places.  If corrected or redirected, or asked to make apology, he would, but moments later, he would do the same thing again.  My mother found ways to handle his outbursts, but the rest of us found it awkward and difficult to be around.  If he was feeling upset or stressed, or felt put on the spot during a doctor visit, he would always point to his right shin, and say “You know what? You know what? Shark. Shark. Shark bit me” and then he would shake his head, and cry.  As a child, he had been fascinated by sharks, and he spent hours pouring over a picture book of sharks.  When he was old enough to go fishing, he would sometimes catch a dogfish at the fishing dock, and then go on and on about it being a shark.  One of the stories he would tell, after he regained his speech, was that he had wrestled a mako shark in the San Juans, and had needed two hundred stitches.  Though that story was clearly not true, it was often hard to tell fact from fiction, and some of his tales, especially his military stories, were often just plausible enough to be true. It was so hard to know, so we would just nod and pretend we believed them all, assuming we could even understand what he was saying.  I did always find it interesting that the “shark bit my leg” was his go-to when stressed, and he often tried to use it as a way to shift the topic away from whatever, or whomever, was causing him the stress.  It was curious that he always wore a large shark tooth necklace…maybe he felt like it gave him some power over his troubles.

It was too much for my mother to care for Eddie alone.   It was impossible to keep an eye on him every minute.  He was prone to repetitive activities, like pouring a drink, putting it down somewhere, then pouring another, and another. Or walking out the back door, coming around the house, and back in the front door.  Over, and over.  Then, with no notice, he would take off, and in the few minutes one would expect him to come back in the front door, he would be gone.  It took him a long time to eat, and it was not unusual for him to spill, drop his plate, and otherwise leave a trail of destruction and mess behind him.  Incontinence and digestive issues plagued him until the end, and laundry and human waste cleanup were nonstop.  State agencies supplied some help with in-home care, but the horror stories about the caliber of state-paid in-home health care workers are all true.  There were a few caregivers along the way, and without exception, they turned out to be dishonest and opportunistic at best, and negligent and criminal, at worst. They all committed unconscionable acts against my brother and mother.  Theft, neglect, manipulation, setting him up to be robbed by others, losing him for hours in Seattle, and much, much worse.  My mom finally gave up on the in-home caregivers provided by the State, and found a friend through church who agreed to move in and help.  He has been a true blessing, and a good friend to them both. Eddie’s case workers, who were kind and dedicated, offered what help they could, from within the framework of a system that is inadequate to provide the level of help Eddie needed.  The care Eddie received from the hospitals and doctors was exemplary, across the board, especially the VA hospital, and I cannot say enough about how caring and responsive his team was.

As Eddie improved a bit, his desire for independence caused more problems than just wandering off.   He would be up all hours of the night, running endless loads of laundry of the same shirt, or showering and leaving the water running, once flooding the septic system.  He would get hungry, and get up in the middle of the night, when the others were asleep, and try to cook, often leaving the pan on the stove.  Oddly, when he was a toddler, he used to get up in the middle of the night, and my parents found him once sitting on the stove in the kitchen, cutting a banana with a butcher knife.  Shortly thereafter, they put a chain on the outside of his bedroom door, where it remained as long as we lived there.  Often, he would wander away, and wind up at a restaurant.  Sometimes he would have a little pocket money that my mom had given him.  At his favorite diner, where he would often show up, the staff was kind to him, and they would let him order a meal, and put it on a tab.  Then they would call my mom, to let her know he was there, and she would go pick him up.  He knew his way around the neighborhood, and would usually find his way home, but he also had a tendency to wander off from places when they were out running errands.  We put a tracker on his phone, but he would often leave it places.  We thought about putting a tracker on his shoes, but there was no guarantee he would be wearing shoes.  Once, he went for a walk in the snow, barefoot, but carrying his boots.  We made him a tag, with our contact information, and a description of his impairments, and insisted that he wear it at all times.  For the most part, he complied, but only because my sister had found him an 82nd Airborne lanyard to hang it from.  More concerning, no matter where my mother hid the keys, he would find them, and take the car, eventually wrecking it.

A lifelong smoker, he became more and more obsessed with smoking cigarettes and pot.  It was one of the only things that brought him pleasure, and the pot helped him with his anxiety and anger, and also helped him with his speech, so the doctors encouraged it.  It was a constant worry that he would start a fire.  For every confiscated lighter, another one would mysteriously appear.  We tried to make him use a vape, but he would try to light it. Or lose the pieces of it.  Or use too much, because he did not understand how to monitor his dosage.  The other part of his brain damage included the loss of executive function, which meant he was unable to make connections between actions and consequences, and could no longer learn from his mistakes.  When I got the frantic call a year ago from my mother, yelling that her house was on fire, it was the call I had long dreaded.  Though he had been told repeatedly that he could not smoke in his room, he had managed to find his pipe, and a lighter, and had started a fire in his bedroom while my mother was asleep.  When he realized there was a fire, he had shuffled off to the kitchen to get a glass of water to pour on it, singeing his face and scalp in the process.  He went back to the kitchen for another glass of water, only to return to find the bedroom completely engulfed.  At no time during the process of trying to put the fire out did he think to alert my mother, sleeping in the next room, who woke to the alarm and the smell of smoke.  She was barely able to get them both out of the house, which was quickly destroyed.  They lost everything, including one of their dogs.  A tragedy from which she has not yet fully recovered.

Fast forward almost a year.  Mom, Eddie, and their live-in caretaker have moved back into the restored house three weeks prior, and have not yet finished unpacking.  Eddie, as obsessed as ever with smoking pot, decided on Sunday evening that it was time for him to smoke.  They had all been sitting in the living room, watching a movie, and the caretaker had dozed off.  My mom, recovering from a knee replacement ten days prior, reminded Eddie that he has to go outside to smoke.  The fear, of course, is that he will burn down the new house.  They had managed, over the last year, to make it a routine for him to smoke outside, since the lease at the rental house they were living in so required it.  The next thing they knew, a neighbor was pounding on the door, yelling that the garage was on fire.  Eddie was nowhere to be found.

After I got the call from my sister, who lives on the block behind my mother, I was out the door in under sixty seconds.  By the time my son and I arrived, the fire was mostly out, and the block was swarming with firefighters.  Three fire engines, police. People everywhere.  I inquired if my brother had been located, and one firefighter asked if he has a beard, to which I reply yes.  I am informed he has been located, and when I look where they are pointing, I see the caretaker, who also has a beard.  I tell them to keep looking, that my brother is still missing.  Somehow, the message that he is mentally disabled has not been effectively communicated.  I ran into the house, to confirm that a call had been made to the police, to request help searching the area for Eddie. I have no doubt that he has started the fire, but I hold out hope that he has fled the scene.  I ran back out, and my son and I began searching the yard, hoping Eddie is out there, watching the commotion from a safe distance.  I poked my head into the garage, where firefighters with full masks were searching with flashlights, and beginning to board up the front, where they has hacked the garage door down with axes.  I tell them again that my brother is still missing, that he has severe brain damage, that there is a high probability that he is somewhere in the garage, and that they have to look harder.  They can’t imagine where, they say, the garage is so full of boxes.  I go back into the house to check on my mother, and to make another search of the house, and in the time it takes me to check the shower and two bedroom closets, and return to the living room, my family is being informed that Eddie has been located.  In the garage.  And he is gone.

It takes a long time for a fire scene to wrap up.  Even longer, when there is a fatality.  Statements must be taken, reports filed, fire inspectors and medical examiners woken up and summoned.  Because I cannot bear to be inside, witnessing the grief of my family, I remain outside.  In matters of emergency, I am the default family spokesperson.  In matters of grief, I am far better off when there is work to be done.  Under the harsh lights from the fire trucks, I stand vigil, answering questions, watching fire hoses be drained and coiled, watching the firefighters mill around, waiting to be released.  It is forty degrees, and the winds are whipping the trees into a frenzy.  I had been watching TV when the call came, and in my haste, I had jammed my feet into the first pair of shoes I encountered, with no socks, and now the wind is cutting right through the mesh of my sneakers.  I had grabbed only a vest as I ran out the door, and I have scrounged a mishmash of outerwear from the trunk of my car, so I am weirdly attired, and definitely under dressed for the weather.  I stand on the front porch, smelling the familiar toxic stench of a house fire, a smell I had hoped I would never have to know again in my lifetime.   A stream of misinformation has begun to trickle in, tidbits offered by the various firefighters, and I occupy myself with each new piece of information as it is accepted, then tested against what I know of my brother and his history.   I have tried to gain access to the garage, because I must see for myself.  The need to know what happened, to try to piece it all together, is all-consuming.  A crime scene tape is hung, and we are asked to step back more than once.

Finally, a police detective presents himself as the person in charge.   More interviews, a taped statement.  I make it clear to him that I must be allowed to see my brother’s body.  He strongly discourages it, but apparently, it is a family trait to go against the advice of experts.  I know, have always known, that if faced with a situation where I am denied information, “for my own good”, my imagination will be far worse than any reality.  He explains what I will see, and I am able to convince him that I can handle it.  That I will not take no for an answer.  He is not the medical examiner, but he and the fire inspector have made a preliminary assessment, which is that Eddie died quickly of smoke inhalation.  He explains the position he is in, the extent of the burns to his body, the way his face looks.  After having first offered to cover his burned legs, he has now decided that he cannot cover anything until the medical examiner has come.  I opt to go in, anyway.  My brother in law and the caretaker also feel the need to know, so they follow me in. I have already witnessed the devastation of a house fire, so I am not shocked by the sight of the blackened walls, the massive holes in the ceiling, the melted plastic tubs that have dripped down from so many shelves, threatening to disgorge their contents.  I already know the muddy soup of soot and water on the floor will ruin yet another pair of shoes, and that my clothing and hair and skin will need to be scrubbed, and that I will smell and taste smoke for the next few days.

I have to stare for a long while, before my mind can fully comprehend what is before me, but what I do see makes me feel better.  Eddie is lying on his back, and he looks relaxed, and peaceful.  His arms are at his sides, hands resting gently, as if he had fallen asleep in that position.  His abalone ring glows in the reflected beam of the flashlight, and I have a hard time taking my eyes away from it.  Before going in, I had asked if he would have felt the burns, and the detective thought most likely not.  Eddie shows no signs of struggle or discomfort, so I believe the detective is right, that he was dead before he was burned.  The tops of his pant legs are burned away, and his legs are red and badly burned. The hem of his jacket had also started to burn, and I can see red spots on his stomach.  His head is hidden from my line of sight, and in the dark.  I ask to see his face.  The detective gives a heavy sigh, but swings his arm up to shine the light on his face anyway.  His eyes are open, as is his mouth, and I am told that those would have been involuntary actions, upon him waking up from his presumed sleep, his lungs making their own search for oxygen.  A quick glimpse of his face is enough.  Satisfied that he had not struggled, and had not suffered, I turn away.  This is the last time I will see my brother, at least in this form, though it is not the last time I will ask, and for me, even though it is a sight that I cannot unsee, as the detective put it, it answers many of the questions which, if I had not seen with my own eyes, would have haunted me forever.  I cannot speak for my brother in law, and the caretaker, but my sister, who later asked to be allowed in to see him, was sorry afterward that she had.  For most people, the expert advice is probably right.

In all, I stood outside for five hours. I was not alone as I stood watch.  Family members came and went, more persons-in-charge provided updates as they went about their tasks. I was frozen to the bone.  My stomach had been in cramps for hours, and the contractions in my stomach were pulling at my back.  Every few minutes, I had to double over, to try to stretch my back. But no matter how cold I was, I could not leave until they took my brother away.  The chill did not dissipate, and for the following week, I dressed in many layers, in the warmest sweaters I could find.  Six days later, my knees are still so stiff, I can hardly walk.

In the week that followed the fire, I was consumed with the to-do list of making arrangements, notifying the authorities, filing claims, battling suspicions.  The delicate relay of information, tailored to the needs of each recipient.  Not a sugar-coater by nature, I had to think twice, sometimes three times, before speaking.  It was too difficult to focus on work, so I stayed away, afraid I would make a costly mistake.  The day after the fire, I had driven to Edmonds, to the funeral home  through which my mother had prearranged a plot for herself, my dad, and Eddie, to make the arrangements.  I had put down a deposit, but still owed the balance, which needed to be paid before the cremation.  All week, I procrastinated in making that call.  On Friday, I woke up, and with sudden clarity, realized why I had been procrastinating.  They would not do the cremation until it was paid in full, and if I didn’t pay, it would not be done, and it could not be done without me knowing it.  The medical examiner had finished her work on Monday, and had confirmed that he had not suffered from the burns, and that with the levels of carbon monoxide in his body, he would have been unconscious very quickly.  He may not have even realized what was happening, and was probably asleep, or at least very pleasantly high when the fire started.  It comforted me to know he did not struggle, did not suffer, and did not have to feel panic.  What I could not tolerate now was the thought of him in a cardboard box, in a refrigerator.  I called the funeral home, and asked if they could do the cremation that day, and could I be allowed to attend.  I was suddenly certain that I needed to be there, with him.  That it was my duty, and would be my honor, to be with him during his bodily exit from this world.  To witness the flames that would finally consume him, after so many false starts.  I also knew that if my mother asked, she would be comforted by knowing that he had not been alone.  It seemed to have been preordained that he would die by fire; a cremation was now the fitting and logical finale, and that ritual required witness.

The funeral home agreed to the timing, and confirmed that I could be in attendance.  For a small additional fee, of course.  The price seemed a small one to pay, for a ritual of such importance.  It occurs to me now that the business of death has probably never been free.  The building of funeral pyres has probably always involved an exchange of chickens, or something.  I advised my sister and brother, knowing that for them, this would not be a task to which they would be up for.  I knew, when I said yes to the offered appointment time, that I would barely make it in time myself, and the short notice would make the decision for them not to come that much easier.  Still unable to shake the cold, I bundled in many layers, and set out on the one hour drive to our home town, my second in a week.

I arrived at the crematorium with exactly one minute to spare. The building was in a light industrial area, the sign in the window barely an acknowledgment of the business at hand.  I stepped inside, to a small lobby.  A couple of side chairs, a meeting table.  Boxes of tissue all around, all looking a bit battered, for the reason I would understand a few minutes later, as I mindlessly crushed one in my hands as I clutched it to my chest.  In negotiating how I would be in attendance, if I had just wanted to be on premises, I had been informed that I could wait in the lobby for free.  For me, that was not going to be enough.  The order of events, having been explained in detail over the phone, was gone over again; what I would see when I stepped through the door, the sights and sounds to expect.  The two directors on hand were respectful and kind.  They struck me as men who would be incapable of ever raising their voices in anger.   I had asked on the phone if it was going to be possible to see his body, but had been told no.  The opportunity had been provided previously to have his body prepared for viewing, but the fee for that was substantial, and we had made the choice to bypass the funeral home and have him arrive directly at the crematorium.  I could imagine well enough what I would have seen.  When asked if they could cremate his ruined clothes with him, I had said no.  I wanted him clean, and free of the reminders of the messy tragedy.  I wanted him to exit the world as he had arrived, naked and pure.  Early in the week, the medical examiner had described to me what actions had been performed.  She had been kind, and thorough, and gave me as many answers as I had questions.  Requests had been made by her, permissions had been granted, and his body would bear the evidence of such.  Evidence confirmed by the funeral director, because I had asked.  More than once.

They led me to a curtained waiting area, and left me alone with him.  The box was sitting on a metal gurney.  In making the arrangements, I had chosen the vessel for his cremation, so for that, I was already prepared.  The cardboard box was practical and no-nonsense, and tied with knotted orange twine, which secured it to the raw wood base.  Well knotted, I know, because I checked.  The box seemed too small to contain the body of a man.  There was a tag on the end, with his name, and a small metal disc, with a corresponding identifier number.  Not sure if it was allowed, I took a few pictures anyway, in case any family members asked later.  Though they won’t.  Just like they never asked to see the pictures I took of my dead grandfather, where he rested in his bed, after dying peacefully in his sleep. You never know when questions might arise.  I had a short, one-sided conversation with Eddie, but there was not much to say, and he would have wanted me to get on with it, already.  I opened the door, to signal I was ready, and the directors came in.  I still had my phone out, so they explained the tags to me, and maneuvered the gurney so I could get a picture, though I am certain they knew I had already done it.  They did not seem concerned about me taking pictures, so as they wheeled him around the curtain to the functional area of the facility, I took a video.  A funeral procession consisting of Eddie, two strangers, and me.  They were clearly well practiced at getting on with things.  Earlier, they had told me that some families like to push the button themselves to lower the door of the crematory.  I kept filming as they slid his container into the unit, and before I could lower my phone, one of them went to the panel, pushed the button, and the door slid down.  They see all kinds there, I am sure, and they had already correctly identified me as a documenter, not a doer.  The machine came to life, and the sounds of the blast of flame and the oversize fan were loud, but not as loud as I had expected from their earlier explanation.  They retreated to the lobby, and left me alone again.

I stood in the doorway of the furnace room, and tried to memorize everything about the room.  It was spotless, and almost military in its order, for which Eddie would have given his stamp of approval, in his prior life.  No unnecessary clutter, just ordinary tools of cleanup.  A small shop vac in the back corner, its cords neatly coiled, looking like any shop vac one could purchase at a hardware store.  An industrial cart with shelves, holding only a couple of whisk brooms.  The lower metal doors of the unit, where the fragments would be collected, were shiny and clean.  I stood and watched the computer panel on the side of the unit, watching as the temperature climbed, the numbers clicking by rapidly, like a gas pump run amok.  For the last week, I had been unable to get warm.  I had dressed in layers again that morning, and as I began to sweat, and my face heated up to an uncomfortable leveI, I contemplated removing some layers, or at least my sweater.  During the prior discussion about what to do with Eddie’s clothes, the funeral director had told me that Eddie had been wearing five shirts.  Not differing types of layers, not for any fashion purpose, just five different tee shirts.  It must have struck him as odd, even though he had been told about my brother’s condition. As I stood there, I tallied my layers, and including my sweater, I had on four.  I was getting uncomfortably hot, but the effort that it would require to remove any of my clothes, or even just move my arms, was more than I could muster, so I just stood there.  A little discomfort seemed fair.

I cried.  Not just a few tears, but gasping, gulping-for-air crying.  I was glad I was alone, and as I cried, I gradually began to feel cleansed.  It felt right that he was burning in a hot, clean fire, instead of a dark, dirty one.  I had been advised that the entire process would take about two and a half hours, and that most people left as soon as the process started.  It did not feel right to leave yet, as the temperature continued to climb.  I felt I owed it to him to stay until the fire was as hot as it was going to be.  It was not lost on me that he had already experienced this kind of heat, not once, but twice.  Through tears, and contacts that were quickly gumming up, I struggled to watch the gauges.  I moved a little closer, so I could see better.  There were two gauges, and one had reached 1,800 degrees, and seemed to be holding steady, and the other one was still climbing, at around 1,200 degrees.  Two timers counted off the diminishing time.  After a while, my crying subsided, and as I waited, I studied the rest of the room.  Three tall refrigerator units. A standing desk, with a few papers, and a video monitor with four screens.  Dome security cameras around the room.  The area was being recorded, then, and my actions were being monitored from elsewhere.  It made sense, because the equipment is expensive, and potentially dangerous.  And they had seen all kinds of people in their business, and I was one of those kinds.

It had been gently suggested that the “normal” time to leave was at the beginning, and because it was well past that point, no explanations had been provided for what was happening next.  I walked back around the curtain, to where the directors were standing patiently in the lobby.  I told them I had a few questions.  They were not surprised.   We all walked back into the crematory area, and they explained the gauges, the lights, the different buttons, the collection doors below.  They told me the main compartment would continue to heat up to about 1,600 degrees, then stay there for the duration. I nodded my understanding, and when I made no move to leave, they left me alone again, one of them returning only once to make adjustments to the controls.

Once the temperature had leveled out, which was when I had decided I would leave, I found that I was still not ready, that I was missing some part that would have made it feel like a ritual.  It was all so clinical, and sterile.  In the door of the furnace, I had noticed a small circular metal plate, with what looked like a lever.  As I was under surveillance, I thought it would not be a good idea to walk up to the door, and give the lever a test push.  I once again poked my head out, and requested a consult.  I will give those two men credit.  Their patience, at least in my presence, did not waiver.  I asked if the plate covered a window, and they confirmed that yes, it was a small window, through which they could monitor the progress.  I explained my need to see the flames, and requested that I be allowed to look.  With the heavy sighs of experts who are about tell me what is best for me, they explain that in the early part, all I would see is flames, as the container burned, but in the later stages, his shape may be recognizable, and probably something I would not want to see.  They continued to strongly discourage me, and I made it clear that I would not be swayed.  We negotiate a compromise:  one of them will take a look first, and assess the progress, then tell me what they see, so I can then decide for myself.  It is confirmed that it is at the high burn stage, and all I will see is flames.  So they show me how to move the lever, and retreat again.  I moved the plate out of the way, and it exposed a small spy-hole, two to three inches in diameter.   Bending down to look in,  I can see that the flames are right up to the glass, burning hot and high.  With the plate out of the way, the heat coming through the thick glass is intense.   Satisfied now, I head out to the lobby, where the funeral director is preparing to hand over Eddie’s personal effects.  I thank him, telling him I know I have taken more of his time than he had expected.  I sign for the packet, and ask if it is okay if I open it there, on the meeting table, and look through it.  He gives his blessing, and tells me he needs to get back to the funeral home.

I sit down at the table, and spread out his belongings, which amount to the jewelry he had been wearing.  Two metal cuff bracelets.  On a zip tie with a tag, three rings, and two more bracelets, one metal, one leather.  In a small packet, a long necklace of wood beads, with a tiny peace sign.  Another necklace, a leather thong, with an intricate knotted design that reminds me of a fishing net, below which hangs a replica of a large shark tooth.  So Eddie.  Remarkably, though everything has that unmistakable smell of smoke, they are all unharmed.  I slide everything back into the manila envelope, and knowing from experience that if I do not seal it better, my trunk will be left smelling like smoke.  I get up to go look for the director, the one who I have only met for the first time that day, to ask if they might keep plastic bags on hand, and if I can wash my hands.  He locates a plastic bag and some packing tape, and seals it all up for me.  I ask if I can go back in and take one last look, and say goodbye, and with the resigned air of a man who was unable to dissuade me when it was two against one, makes the universal gesture of “be my guest”, and allows me to go back inside.  He goes about his business elsewhere, and this time, he does not look through the spyhole first.

I walk back into the furnace room, and approach the door.  I slide the lever down, and the plate slides up.  I bend down again, to take one last look, and for the second time in a week, my brain stalls, and I am unable to immediately process what I am seeing.  The flames have died down, and are no longer blocking my view into the chamber.  What I see looks like a pile of foamy bubbles, or a pile of down feathers from a comforter, with no discernable shape, stark white against the bright orange of the chamber.  The pile seems to quiver, moving with the rising heat.  Just inside the door, it looks like some supports in the cardboard box are sticking up, remnants left behind after the cardboard has burned away.  At the far end of the chamber, more things sticking up.  My brain convinces me, for the moment, that it is more structural remnants.  I stand up, letting the plate close, and retreat a few steps, turning to leave.  I stop.  I need to look again.  Maybe I should take a picture, I think, so I can analyze it later, but decide against it, afraid the heat will damage the lens on my camera phone.  The director is nowhere to be seen, so I walk back for another look.  This time, I look for a long, long time.  I study the things sticking up.  I count the pieces.  I run possibilities through my head, but none seem right.  I try to memorize what I am seeing, so that I can work on the puzzle later.  When I think I have locked it in, I release the lever, and walk back out to the lobby, where the director is again waiting patiently.  We make small talk for a minute, then as I turn to leave, I tell him I have one more question.  I ask if the box goes in head first, or feet first.  “Head first”, he replies, without hesitation.  The look on his face tells me he knows exactly why I am asking.  It also tells me he is hoping I am done with the questions.  We stand in silence for moment, looking at each other.  Somehow, my mind knows that I already have the answers to the next question, so there is no need to ask.  The answer will reveal itself when I am ready.  I nod, we say goodbye, and I head out to my car.

I sat at the exit to the road for a long while.  It is a quiet road, and there is no traffic, but for some reason, I cannot pull out for several minutes, and just sit, looking at the sidewalk below my window.  Finally, I realize that I am famished, having left the house in a hurry, and now it is 3:30, and I have not yet eaten.  I begin to drive, autopilot taking me due west.  I am a creature of water, and I have just experienced fire.  I know where I am headed, to the sea.  Due west takes me right through the parking lot of the hospital where my grandmother died, and where my brother and sister were born.  I cut through, thankful that the hospital has been remodeled, and it does not resemble the hospital entrance I last remember.  I drive straight to downtown Edmonds, and find a place to eat lunch, near the ferry terminal.  Thankfully, it is long past the lunch hour, and I am the only customer.  I pick at my food, no longer hungry.  The day, which had started out sunny, has become overcast and windy, and the rain begins.  On my first trip of the week, after making the cremation arrangements, I had driven to the neighborhood where we grew up, to look at our childhood home, my grandparents home up the street, the small brick apartment where my parents had lived when I was born, the rotting remains of the small house that my dad had rented when he got his first teaching job in Edmonds.  From that hilltop vista, apparently now deemed unstable and unbuildable, he could look down at the lot he would eventually buy, where he would build our home.  Beyond that, the view stretches out over Puget Sound, and includes Haines Wharf, the fishing dock where Eddie spent so many hours of his youth, now an abandoned shell, fenced off and left to disintegrate slowly.  I had stopped that day to take a picture, and thought I might go there again, but found that I now did not have the energy.  I had thought I would wait out the traffic, but decided I had had enough of Edmonds for one week.  As I headed North, working my way back to the freeway, I approached the turnoff to the cemetery.  I had also stopped there on Monday, to locate the plot that my mother had purchased a couple of years back, where Eddie would soon be laid to rest, and someday, my parents.  My grandparents are laid to rest just a few feet away.  I had not thought to bring flowers earlier in the week, but this time, I thought I should drop some by.  I stopped and bought a small container of miniature daffodils, and made a quick stop.  Feeling cold and chilled again, and with dark approaching, I headed to the freeway, and home.

As predicted, I had not waited long enough, and the traffic was still backed up.   As I sat, stopped in gridlock, and going nowhere fast, my mind went back to what I had seen. I was feeling unsettled, and out of nowhere, the memory of my grandmother swinging me around by one leg came back, and I recognized the feeling of utter disorientation, trying to find my balance, arms outstretched.  And now, for the first time, another piece of that memory clicked into place, like a lost puzzle piece:  my hands, at the ends of my outstretched arms, the fingers splayed in an involuntary attempt to find equilibrium.

And there it was.

I had a conversation with Google, asking what happens to a body during cremation.  The very first result tells me what I already know, but had not been able to organize into logical thought.  The extreme heat causes the arm muscles to contract, and the arms rise up in what is called the “boxer pose”.  The sticks that were at the far end of the chamber?  His arms, with five fingers outstretched on each one.  I had counted them, and cataloged the number.  My mind had just kept the information stored, until I was ready.  The “supports” at the front end of the chamber?  The small bones of his feet.

Now, finally, I felt the closure I had needed.  The ritual had been performed, I had borne witness.  Eddie, like me, had attended church all the years we lived at home, but we usually wished we were doing something else on a Sunday.  After he had gotten sick, he and my mom had joined a church not far from her house, and he had come to see it as a safe refuge, and would often show up there after wandering away from home. He was always welcomed, and the congregation and staff were kind and accepting.  Perhaps God, knowing that Eddie was not able to make his own choices anymore, had stepped in, and prepared the way to Heaven for him.  And in the last moments of his body being on Earth, Eddie had lifted up his arms, to receive the grace of God.

I felt released, and at peace.  As the traffic opened up, I looked West, where a narrow band of blue sky was visible below the low cloud deck, and the clouds were glowing orange, like flames raining down from heaven.  The sunset only lasted for a minute, and then the sky returned to grey.  A small gift from God, a sign that He was with me, and now Eddie was with Him.  A sign that now, it was time to get on with things.