Let's start from the end...or is it the beginning?
I was excited one of my favourite TV shows, "Grey's Anatomy" was back after the Christmas hiatus. The show had left me hanging in December because Meredith and Alex had found themselves in an accident while inside an ambulance. So with anticipation I settled into bed and started streaming the show on my laptop.
I found out that Meredith and Alex were fine after all but instead an entire family had succumbed to very bad injuries from having hit the ambulance. Grandma was dead. The mother, father, a sister and a brother were badly injured. Only Lily, the teenage daughter, had come out relatively ok.
As the scene took me back to Seattle Grace Hospital, I find out that Lily had to witness her own mother's death and later on saw her father code several times. She then had a dialogue with Meredith that hit hard home for me.
Lily had just turned 18 while at the hospital that night. She was now at a legal age to make decisions as the eldest of the family left alive. After asking all the relative health questions from Meredith, Lily expressed her desire to pull life support from her dad so that they may let him go in peace. The scene sequence ends with Lily signing the papers, and Meredith pulling life support from Lily's dad as we all witness with Lily his passing.
Grey's Anatomy "Suddenly" clip - Lily talks with Meredith about ending life support at around minumte 4:20
Grey's Anatomy "Suddenly" clip - Lily saying goodbye around minute 2:48
Why am I sharing this? Because Lily reminded me of me. The day was Saturday, June 4, 1994. I was a 19 year old university student sitting in the Intensive Care Unit's waiting room at the Tom Baker Cancer Centre at Foothills Hospital in Calgary. I was there because my brother Andy was there.
Sitting in waiting rooms, smelling that distinct smell hospitals have, visiting Andy and monitoring the machines that were helping him stay alive, talking with the doctors and nurses caring for him....all had become part of my life in the last few months. It was all part of what 'normal' meant to me now.
I had gone into the ICU so many times. I had spoken to Andy, begged him to keep fighting, asked him to wake up, sang songs to him, cleaned him, sat beside him. But this time things were different.
It was time to say good bye.
My parents had to make the awfully hard decision to end life support after so many attempts to save Andy. Like the father on Grey's Anatomy, Andy's body had gone through so much. The body and organs were shutting down. There is only so much one can endure. Not only was Andy fighting leukaemia (99% of his body cells were cancerous), but he had endured sessions of full body chemotherapy and radiation, he had tried new experimental drugs that were on trial, he had a bone marrow transplant, he had coded a couple of times, and in the final days had fought different types of pneumonia. They had lost him twice already and had to resuscitate him. He had seen death just before they put him in the ICU. Now he was no longer awake...he had been on life support for a while now. Morphine was given to him constantly so that it would ease his pain as much as possible.
I can't remember if it was mom, dad or someone else who actually told me to call all of Andy's closest friends as soon as possible. I was given the difficult task to call and tell all these people to come to the hospital to say 'good-bye': "If you want to say good bye to Andy, you need to come now..." He always said he would want his closest friends by him when it was time to go.
As people came, we let them have some quiet alone time with Andy. I suppose I was so busy I had no time to think...to feel...to come to the realization that I was living the last few minutes of being able to see Andy there. I never had any alone time with Andy. I wished I did.
Then the time came. Everything felt almost natural. I was standing on the left corner of the ICU room, and could still see the blue clear sky through the large windows. Life was going on as usual out there - it felt so weird, strange, surreal, detached.
Next thing I know the nurses came and started unplugging things off Andy. These things had become part of who he was in the last 6 months: tubes, machines, bags of medicine and blood, respirators...one after another Andy was becoming free of these things. Finally Andy was free.
Beep...Beep...Beep....The sounds of the life support machines started slowing down. Less and less rhythmic sounds. And the less there were, the more sobs and sounds of tears I could hear. I think I heard dad say "Good bye Son". I am not sure. Some of the friends could not watch and left the room. Some were looking out the window, unable to face the reality.
What was I doing? I could not get my eyes off the machines and Andy's body. A body that had become so unlike what I knew to be my brother. In the last 6 months he had gone from being a healthy, muscular and good looking 16 year old to a frail, weak, skinny young man. He had lost all trace of hair. He had even lost his ability to smile. And in the end, he could not even move, blink his eyes, talk or even breathe on his own.
As the machines signalled the end of Andy's bodily life, I kept on praying silently, "Lord, give me a sign. A confirmation that I will indeed see Andy again in heaven. That he is in good terms with you. Give me hope"....I looked and looked. I prayed. There was an eerie silence in the room now that was waltzing with the ever increasingly silent machines and the ever increasingly loud sounds of grieve.
And then the sound I had heard so many times in movies...that monotonous and seemingly unending sound that marks the end of one's heart's beating. The end of a life as we know it. That was it. This was the end of Andy's earthly life. Sixteen years here on earth.
Amidst all this I found myself asking God if He could make a miracle. It was my last pitch to 'save' Andy's life. Perhaps, just perhaps, Andy would suddenly wake up. No, please don't bag him yet. Give us some time with him. Perhaps. Perhaps.
God can heal Andy. God could bring him back. But God thought it was best for Andy and all of us that he go to his eternal home on a Saturday night on June 4, 1994.
Strangely, like Lily in Grey's Anatomy last night...I knew this was the right thing to do - to let Andy go so that he could live.
And then I found myself back watching Grey's Anatomy. I get it Lily. I can feel your pain. But I can also identify with your relief, knowing your loved one no longer has to suffer. The guilt and the anger will come later. The grieving. The sense of loss. The tears. Wrestling with God and oh so many "why's". But also the hope and the sense of purpose to go on living. The clarity of God's undeniable presence through it all. There will be a time to process all of this later. But for now, Lily and I were just living that moment in time with all its raw emotions.
Andy, I have regained a new focus. Lily has reminded me that I want the world to know about you. To know your story. To know what God did in you and through you. To celebrate God through you. This was the end of your story...or I suppose, it was the beginning too...it all depends on how you look at it. I choose to think it is both.
I miss you brother...I am scared I am forgetting too much about you. I want to never forget. This journey back in time to celebrate you will be hard for me and those I have asked to journey with me. But I know it will also bless us and remind us of things that really matter to God. Remembering what God did through you will heal us and propel us forward. Hope will carry us forward.
I hope I am able to give you a voice so that people who meet you through these lines may know that there is an all loving and all powerful God that is constantly calling us to be nearer to Him. May we be able to transform lives as we look back and taste and see how God was good, is good and will be good to all of us.
I found out that Meredith and Alex were fine after all but instead an entire family had succumbed to very bad injuries from having hit the ambulance. Grandma was dead. The mother, father, a sister and a brother were badly injured. Only Lily, the teenage daughter, had come out relatively ok.
As the scene took me back to Seattle Grace Hospital, I find out that Lily had to witness her own mother's death and later on saw her father code several times. She then had a dialogue with Meredith that hit hard home for me.
Lily had just turned 18 while at the hospital that night. She was now at a legal age to make decisions as the eldest of the family left alive. After asking all the relative health questions from Meredith, Lily expressed her desire to pull life support from her dad so that they may let him go in peace. The scene sequence ends with Lily signing the papers, and Meredith pulling life support from Lily's dad as we all witness with Lily his passing.
Grey's Anatomy "Suddenly" clip - Lily talks with Meredith about ending life support at around minumte 4:20
Grey's Anatomy "Suddenly" clip - Lily saying goodbye around minute 2:48
Why am I sharing this? Because Lily reminded me of me. The day was Saturday, June 4, 1994. I was a 19 year old university student sitting in the Intensive Care Unit's waiting room at the Tom Baker Cancer Centre at Foothills Hospital in Calgary. I was there because my brother Andy was there.
Sitting in waiting rooms, smelling that distinct smell hospitals have, visiting Andy and monitoring the machines that were helping him stay alive, talking with the doctors and nurses caring for him....all had become part of my life in the last few months. It was all part of what 'normal' meant to me now.
I had gone into the ICU so many times. I had spoken to Andy, begged him to keep fighting, asked him to wake up, sang songs to him, cleaned him, sat beside him. But this time things were different.
It was time to say good bye.
My parents had to make the awfully hard decision to end life support after so many attempts to save Andy. Like the father on Grey's Anatomy, Andy's body had gone through so much. The body and organs were shutting down. There is only so much one can endure. Not only was Andy fighting leukaemia (99% of his body cells were cancerous), but he had endured sessions of full body chemotherapy and radiation, he had tried new experimental drugs that were on trial, he had a bone marrow transplant, he had coded a couple of times, and in the final days had fought different types of pneumonia. They had lost him twice already and had to resuscitate him. He had seen death just before they put him in the ICU. Now he was no longer awake...he had been on life support for a while now. Morphine was given to him constantly so that it would ease his pain as much as possible.
I can't remember if it was mom, dad or someone else who actually told me to call all of Andy's closest friends as soon as possible. I was given the difficult task to call and tell all these people to come to the hospital to say 'good-bye': "If you want to say good bye to Andy, you need to come now..." He always said he would want his closest friends by him when it was time to go.
As people came, we let them have some quiet alone time with Andy. I suppose I was so busy I had no time to think...to feel...to come to the realization that I was living the last few minutes of being able to see Andy there. I never had any alone time with Andy. I wished I did.
Then the time came. Everything felt almost natural. I was standing on the left corner of the ICU room, and could still see the blue clear sky through the large windows. Life was going on as usual out there - it felt so weird, strange, surreal, detached.
Next thing I know the nurses came and started unplugging things off Andy. These things had become part of who he was in the last 6 months: tubes, machines, bags of medicine and blood, respirators...one after another Andy was becoming free of these things. Finally Andy was free.
Beep...Beep...Beep....The sounds of the life support machines started slowing down. Less and less rhythmic sounds. And the less there were, the more sobs and sounds of tears I could hear. I think I heard dad say "Good bye Son". I am not sure. Some of the friends could not watch and left the room. Some were looking out the window, unable to face the reality.
What was I doing? I could not get my eyes off the machines and Andy's body. A body that had become so unlike what I knew to be my brother. In the last 6 months he had gone from being a healthy, muscular and good looking 16 year old to a frail, weak, skinny young man. He had lost all trace of hair. He had even lost his ability to smile. And in the end, he could not even move, blink his eyes, talk or even breathe on his own.
As the machines signalled the end of Andy's bodily life, I kept on praying silently, "Lord, give me a sign. A confirmation that I will indeed see Andy again in heaven. That he is in good terms with you. Give me hope"....I looked and looked. I prayed. There was an eerie silence in the room now that was waltzing with the ever increasingly silent machines and the ever increasingly loud sounds of grieve.
And then the sound I had heard so many times in movies...that monotonous and seemingly unending sound that marks the end of one's heart's beating. The end of a life as we know it. That was it. This was the end of Andy's earthly life. Sixteen years here on earth.
Amidst all this I found myself asking God if He could make a miracle. It was my last pitch to 'save' Andy's life. Perhaps, just perhaps, Andy would suddenly wake up. No, please don't bag him yet. Give us some time with him. Perhaps. Perhaps.
God can heal Andy. God could bring him back. But God thought it was best for Andy and all of us that he go to his eternal home on a Saturday night on June 4, 1994.
Then God gave me a gift. It was God's way of reminding me of the hope we have, anchored in His salvation. He was comforting me as I entered the gates of grieving. I saw a vision of Andy raising from the bed. And though still hairless and frail, he was beaming with a smile like no other. He was smiling! He could smile! Oh, he was so happy. And he looked right straight into my eyes. He didn't say anything but I seemed to hear his message loud and clear: "Sister, I am free now. I am happy. I am going to see God. Don't be sad. Don't worry. See you later!"
Strangely, like Lily in Grey's Anatomy last night...I knew this was the right thing to do - to let Andy go so that he could live.
And then I found myself back watching Grey's Anatomy. I get it Lily. I can feel your pain. But I can also identify with your relief, knowing your loved one no longer has to suffer. The guilt and the anger will come later. The grieving. The sense of loss. The tears. Wrestling with God and oh so many "why's". But also the hope and the sense of purpose to go on living. The clarity of God's undeniable presence through it all. There will be a time to process all of this later. But for now, Lily and I were just living that moment in time with all its raw emotions.
Andy, I have regained a new focus. Lily has reminded me that I want the world to know about you. To know your story. To know what God did in you and through you. To celebrate God through you. This was the end of your story...or I suppose, it was the beginning too...it all depends on how you look at it. I choose to think it is both.
I miss you brother...I am scared I am forgetting too much about you. I want to never forget. This journey back in time to celebrate you will be hard for me and those I have asked to journey with me. But I know it will also bless us and remind us of things that really matter to God. Remembering what God did through you will heal us and propel us forward. Hope will carry us forward.
I hope I am able to give you a voice so that people who meet you through these lines may know that there is an all loving and all powerful God that is constantly calling us to be nearer to Him. May we be able to transform lives as we look back and taste and see how God was good, is good and will be good to all of us.
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