Life happens

It's been a couple weeks.  Life happens. Upon returning from a whirlwind roadtrip from MN-TX, I had couple days rest...then off to Rochester to the Mayo. My cousin wasn't doing well, and family had been called in to visit while we could.  It's hard losing a family member.  My family is larger and very close knit compared to most. I didn't pack an overnight bag, I didn't bring any solution for contacts, I just got in my car and away I went.

As Native women, we were taught to be there for each other, for our family. I realized, sitting with my cousins in the family waiting room off the wing of the ICU, we were doing exactly what our mothers did when we were little. We didn't understand why at some odd hour the phone rang, hushed voices spoke, the click of the receiver being placed back on the cradle. My mom would talk with my dad in Ojibwe, he'd acknowledge and either they'd leave together or she would go alone. My sisters would stay with me if they both left. Now, we sat silently, not speaking, not on our phones, not anything, just. Quiet. Realizing we are now the generation our children see us doing what our moms did. My kids are growing up, seeing me going out the door, explaining to them that mom has to go be with family.

The entire time wasn't quiet and morose.  We sat, visited, caught up with each other, spent time w/him in his room as he was conscious for most of the evening. Each person had a moment with him, to talk quietly, to laugh, to reminisce. Once his blood pressure medicine was gone, he became quiet, drifting in and out of sleep, talking less, yet still aware. I knew at this point, it was a matter of time. An hour, several hours, a day, couple days, one never knows. The matriarch of our family arrived sometime around 2am, he woke up to smile once more, acknowledge her. He drifted off to sleep, I sat with them, quiet, peaceful.  His spouse was never far away, she is a brave soul. So strong, so young to lose her love. He was young, 53 years.

At 8:37am the next morning, he began his journey. He left quietly, no one else in the room but he and his wife. I walked in, to check on him, check on her....the doctor was there, stethoscope out, looking at his watch and saying "8:37" his wife telling me, he's gone. I walked back to the family waiting room, woke up his siblings that had JUST settled in to sleep for a short time...to rest if only a few minutes. I said "He's gone." I was composed until I was alone in that room, realizing what I had just told them. Their little brother was no longer here.  I called my sister, who was unable to be there but texted me all night long, checking on all of us.  Once I told her, I broke down. We weren't close, but he was my cousin, my brother(in the traditional Ojibwe way). I cried for his wife, because she was now alone. I cried because I had become closer to him in recent months, we'd visited and had time together. I cried because even though he was no longer in pain, no longer sick, no longer suffering, he wasn't here anymore.

When someone dies, it always reminds us that life is short. It can change in a split second.  I try and live my life the good way, the way we are taught. The way our parents and their parents were taught. Life happens. It goes on. We go on.