It has been a year. 365 days. 52 weeks. You get the picture. It's been that long since I flew to Arizona to be with my brother who had been taken to the hospital. I didn't know what was wrong with him. I only knew I had to be with him.
At age 34, my brother lived a complex life. He made his own choices and his own way. He lived life on his terms. He was born Brock Reid-Barron Jacks. He died Wolfgang Mason Chavez Nibori. He wrote horror fiction. He was an artist. He lived in Phoenix because he LOVED the palm trees and sunshine. He made a living as a writer and also sold his art. He was born with skeletal dysplasia and diagnosed with drarfism. He was wheelchair bound. He refused to live on the government dole and therefore lived a meager life; but he was happy.
When I arrived at the hospital, I was taken to the ICU where Brock (I will refer to him as Brock because he said I could.) was. I started to enter the room but was held back. They were about to do a procedure but also, in order to enter I would need to gown, glove and mask up. I did not understand. I told him I loved him from the doorway...told him I was there. He was lying with his back to the door but raised his arms, so reminiscent of how he did when he was little and wanted me to pick him up, and rolled a little bit toward the door. This was the first response he had given since being rushed to the hospital the night before.
I went to wait in the ICU waiting room with his fiance and soon a general surgeon and a plastic surgeon came in to talk with us. They were angry. It was obvious they were trying very hard to be professional. I was at a loss. They said they would be taking him to the OR to try to debride the wounds. I listened as they began to explain his wounds. I was horrified. HORRIFIED.
As I said earlier, my brother was confined to a wheelchair. Because his fiance worked long hours, he was alone for 14 + hours at a time. He had a dog to keep him company. He had fallen out of his wheelchair a few days before and laid on the floor until she arrived home from work. He never got out of bed after that and was taken to the hospital on the following Monday evening.
Due to the many hours spent in his wheelchair, Brock developed pressure wounds. Since those develop from the inside out, it often has done a lot of damage before showing up on the skin surface. I finally learned what the doctors were so angry about. Brock's wounds were so extensive...so horrific. He had necrotizing faciaitis that has destroyed the majority of his flanks, buttocks, hip bones and heels. The physicians saw this as abuse. The fiance said it had only been happening for a month or so and they had been putting medicine, etc. in the wound. I was stunned. I was sick. How could my little brother be in this dire situation? How could I not know? How can a HUMAN be allowed to get to this point of deterioriation?
During the 10 days I was there in Phoenix, Brock had a total of 3 surgeries. The surgeons who worked with him, as well as the hospitalist, infectious disease specialist, social workers, and so many others were wonderful. When Brock woke up and could interract, they got to know him and allowed him the dignity of calling the shots. He fought to the end. He knew a third surgey was almost futile but asked the general surgeon, the plastic surgeon and the orthopedic surgeon to try one more time. They did. There was no way to save him. There was simply not enough tissue, nor any place to get tissue to graft. They could not debride enough to even get to healthy tissue. But they went in there to the O.R., they played AC/DC's Highway to Hell as requested by Brock and they gave it their best shot.
I will share more in the next 10 days of those final 10 days last year. We all know how the story ends. My goal is to preserve some memories. Unfortunately, not all the memories are happy or clear-cut. Many are devistating...messy...uncomfortable. But so is life, right?
At age 34, my brother lived a complex life. He made his own choices and his own way. He lived life on his terms. He was born Brock Reid-Barron Jacks. He died Wolfgang Mason Chavez Nibori. He wrote horror fiction. He was an artist. He lived in Phoenix because he LOVED the palm trees and sunshine. He made a living as a writer and also sold his art. He was born with skeletal dysplasia and diagnosed with drarfism. He was wheelchair bound. He refused to live on the government dole and therefore lived a meager life; but he was happy.
When I arrived at the hospital, I was taken to the ICU where Brock (I will refer to him as Brock because he said I could.) was. I started to enter the room but was held back. They were about to do a procedure but also, in order to enter I would need to gown, glove and mask up. I did not understand. I told him I loved him from the doorway...told him I was there. He was lying with his back to the door but raised his arms, so reminiscent of how he did when he was little and wanted me to pick him up, and rolled a little bit toward the door. This was the first response he had given since being rushed to the hospital the night before.
I went to wait in the ICU waiting room with his fiance and soon a general surgeon and a plastic surgeon came in to talk with us. They were angry. It was obvious they were trying very hard to be professional. I was at a loss. They said they would be taking him to the OR to try to debride the wounds. I listened as they began to explain his wounds. I was horrified. HORRIFIED.
As I said earlier, my brother was confined to a wheelchair. Because his fiance worked long hours, he was alone for 14 + hours at a time. He had a dog to keep him company. He had fallen out of his wheelchair a few days before and laid on the floor until she arrived home from work. He never got out of bed after that and was taken to the hospital on the following Monday evening.
Due to the many hours spent in his wheelchair, Brock developed pressure wounds. Since those develop from the inside out, it often has done a lot of damage before showing up on the skin surface. I finally learned what the doctors were so angry about. Brock's wounds were so extensive...so horrific. He had necrotizing faciaitis that has destroyed the majority of his flanks, buttocks, hip bones and heels. The physicians saw this as abuse. The fiance said it had only been happening for a month or so and they had been putting medicine, etc. in the wound. I was stunned. I was sick. How could my little brother be in this dire situation? How could I not know? How can a HUMAN be allowed to get to this point of deterioriation?
During the 10 days I was there in Phoenix, Brock had a total of 3 surgeries. The surgeons who worked with him, as well as the hospitalist, infectious disease specialist, social workers, and so many others were wonderful. When Brock woke up and could interract, they got to know him and allowed him the dignity of calling the shots. He fought to the end. He knew a third surgey was almost futile but asked the general surgeon, the plastic surgeon and the orthopedic surgeon to try one more time. They did. There was no way to save him. There was simply not enough tissue, nor any place to get tissue to graft. They could not debride enough to even get to healthy tissue. But they went in there to the O.R., they played AC/DC's Highway to Hell as requested by Brock and they gave it their best shot.
I will share more in the next 10 days of those final 10 days last year. We all know how the story ends. My goal is to preserve some memories. Unfortunately, not all the memories are happy or clear-cut. Many are devistating...messy...uncomfortable. But so is life, right?
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