It's Not Just Any Date

How many people can recall every moment of one particular day?  It is said that when there is a great catastrophic event -- JFK's assassination, Pearl Harbor, 9-11 -- it is possible for people to remember exactly where they were, what they were wearing, and how they felt.

January 27, 2009 was my great catastrophic event.  I am willing to bet my house that there are about a dozen other people on this earth that can also recall the date with a stunning clarity.

I awoke at 5:00am.  While attempting to control a twitch over my right eye by rubbing the nerve ending with my thumb, and waiting for my coffee to brew, I pulled up i-tunes and downloaded the Working on a Dream cd by Bruce Springsteen.  It was on my i-pod in four seconds, and playing on the stereo in ten.  I spent the entire morning dancing with the kids, getting them ready for school (Paige in Kindergarten, Tony in pre-school) and getting ready for my job at Verizon Wireless.

It was my cousin's birthday, so when Surprise, Surprise came on (Today is your birthday, we've traveled so far, we two, so let's blow out the candles on your cake and we'll raise a glass or two. . .), I gave her a call and told her I had a song, special for her birthday.

I rolled into work sometime after nine, set up my computer, and with the i-pod buds in my ear, and the left twitch in my eye, I began working.  My boss stopped over around noon and let me know that we were taking my cousin out to lunch for a birthday celebration.  Cool.

At lunch, we talked and laughed.  The eye twitch had gotten worse, and I was holding my fingers to my right eye in order to control the visible twitching.  "You must be tired."  "You're probably stressed out."

I don't know.  I didn't feel tired or stressed out.  In fact, I was hopping because the Springsteen cd was even better than I knew it would be.

I got back from lunch, turned my computer back on and got a phone call from my sister-in-law, Kathy.  "Not sure what happened, but Jeff might have had a stroke.  They're taking him to Mercy now."  I hung up the phone, my eye twitched interminably, and the smile was gone.

I got to my boss, told him something, got home, called my ex-husband, told him something about the kids and the dog, and was on a plane within two hours, flying straight into a snowstorm, and into the city of Buffalo, where my brother lay in ICU.

My brother-in-law had picked me up from the airport, but we didn't have a conversation, just sat in fogged out silence as he drove through the two feet of snow that had fallen on the city streets over that last hour or so. 

My eye twitch had gone away.

I visited his room, where he lay with tubes on his head, arms, and chest; and one down his throat.  My strong, beautiful brother - the life of every event - was unable to move.

"Please give me strength and courage to get through this with my family. . . Please, please, please, give us strength. . . please, please, please don't let him die."

We all met in one room - my parents, my siblings, Jeff's friends, cousins, uncles - - 30+ people, together in a room, silent and crying.  The doctor came in, we all stood.  "He's in rough shape."  We all cried.  "He needs this. . ." and he looked around the room at all our faces.  We joined hands, we prayed the Our Father.  We cried and hoped; barely believing it was happening.  We hoped, and hoped, and hoped and it became our rallying gift on that night, and on the many, many nights to follow.

I refused to leave the hospital that night.  My brother, Cliff, refused to leave as well.  The rest of the family, after 12-15 hours reluctantly left to take care of children and dogs, jobs and commitments.

"Let's check on Jeff, and then get some rest."  Cliff said, and we went in.  I don't know what Cliff was thinking on that trip, but my heart and head was heavy - ladened - with prayer.  "Please, please, please. . ."

I pressed two waiting room chairs together, covered myself with my winter coat and put the i-pod buds in my ears, first listening to Outlaw Pete (He was born a little baby on the Appalachian trails.  At six months old, he'd done three months in jail.  Robbed a bank in his diaper and his little bare baby feet. . .) and attempted sleep.

After waking several times, and reflecting upon the first stanza from Tomorrow Never Knows (Where the cold wind blows, tomorrow never knows. Where your sweet smile goes, tomorrow never knows. You and me, we been standing here my dear; waiting for our time to come. Where the green grass grows, tomorrow never knows. . .), I looked over at Cliff, whose eyes were wide open.

"Ah, I got about eleven minutes of rest,"  I said, stretching.  He replied, "I got about eight.  Let's go check on Jeff and get a coffee."

We did.  We spent the remainder of the night, drinking coffee, worrying, sharing laughter, and checking on our brother. 

It wasn't daybreak before somebody else joined the circle; and then somebody else; and then somebody else.  All of us there, united in hope, that our brother would overcome the devastation of his stroke.

Three years ago today - - our lives were assassinated, bombed, and terrorized.  And life has never been the same.

Yet, I still hope.