I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry…
Words I will never forget.
Those are the words you uttered as I witnessed Chicago police officers handcuffing and escorting you from the apartment. The alleged attack left our mother with a golf ball-sized bruise on the top right of her forehead approximately around the first quarter of 2018. Mom, once fiercely independent, who never fully recovered from her injury, attempted to avoid all contact with you, but was moved to tears after every occasional phone calls she received from you. Since that day, you lived in an intermediate care facility for the chronically mentally ill for a little over two years.
On Christmas day of that year, I openly suggested to mom that we visit you, and surprisingly without a slight hesitation or protest, she agreed. I was relieved that we both were on our way to see you for the first time since the offense, yet I was riddled with guilt and was terrified of how you would react upon seeing my face. As soon as I saw you, my eyes automatically turned on the waterworks and greeted you with a hug while I uttered those words.
On our last known visit, you voiced your concerns about not wanting to continue living at the facility, and requested to come home with us. Our mom, who wasn’t fluent in English, didn’t understand a word you were trying to convey, but I, on the other hand, sat in silence while my eyes slowly shifted to the floor. You were completely unaware that this was your permanent residence, and from the way you looked at us, it broke my heart, because your silence told us everything that you could not express.
In the last couple of decades, shame and embarrassment shrouded my thoughts when your name came up in conversations in the past. It wasn’t my proudest moment to lie to mutual friends about this uncomfortable topic. Schizophrenia took away a little more than a half of your life. It not only stripped away the normalcy you could have had, but the devastating disease also took away your mind, your freedom, and your independence.
The very first Monday evening in May 2020 brought disturbing news of your high temperature and low oxygen levels that were suspected symptoms of COVID-19. You were given a test after being admitted into the hospital on that very same night. I still hadn’t told a soul to mom about your whereabouts or your condition, especially when she was temporarily bedridden from a mysterious illness that lasted for four of the five days until her health improved on the evening of Mother’s Day.
Every day I wish the voicemail I received from an unrecognized number on Monday, May 4, 2020, and all of the subsequent updates after updates of your deteriorating health in the days ahead never happened. I gave consent to a convalescent plasma transfusion, and a resuscitation should your heart goes into arrest. I never wanted to hand out your death sentence, nor did I ever want to have your blood on my hands. It was always the responsibility of Father Time to tell you of your fate, for my answer would always be to prolong your life as much as possible.
I don’t expect you to understand how difficult it would be to look at mom straight in the eyes and tell her what happened to you. I’ve already lost you once a long time ago to schizophrenia that drove our sibling dynamics apart, and now, May 13th at 11:45 pm will forever be the day I lost you to COVID-19 at a hospital where mom birthed the both of us on the very same day. How do I explain to her that you were one of the victims that succumbed to this horrific pandemic? How do I explain that hospital personnel followed every standard protocol they could to revive you, but your pulse never returned?
Both mom and I did our very best to take care of you. I know our visits these past two years were not enough to make up for lost times, but I hope you knew that we loved you. What was your last thought before your eternal sleep? Was it of our family? Or did you think of something else? While I’ll be hauntingly reminded of your passing when I see posts related to COVID-19, I hope you always know that you’ll not only have a special place in my heart, but that heartache is never going to go away. I will forever continue to live to say those words you uttered that day for the remainder of my life.
