I remember a calm sort of bravery in the way that she was.
Not the kind that you find advertised
on billboards and television,
or in mothers and soldiers, no.
It was a kind that you could see in her eyes
(the only animate part of her body,
besides her leg, which shook without her approval,
like a dog fresh out of a river, annoying and unpleasant.)

It was there in her eyes even as she'd lie her bed in the nursing home
at the ripe old age of 20.
It was there as she stared down from the headrest on her wheelchair
at her disabled body,
trying to forgive it for betraying her.

And I remember sometimes when I looked at her,
I could've sworn I saw her thoughts floating around in her head,
like fish in a tank too small for comfort.
I could almost hear them bouncing off the walls of her skull
and echoing, echoing, echoing too, too loud.
I could see her trying to make sense of them,
and I wanted to, too.

And every now and then a look of concentration crossed her face:
her eyebrows furrowed,
her jaw tightened just a bit,
and that was the full extent of the control she had over her
own
*******
muscles.

It was times when that look appeared on her face that I wanted,
more than ever,
for her to be able to just say what she was thinking.

After two years of various types of therapy,
learning to eat through her mouth again instead of a stomach tube,
and the expectation of a long and happy life,
a second brain aneurysm came and did what the first couldn't quite do:

it killed her.

It's been about six or so years since then,
and I still remember how cold her hands always felt,
and wish that I had taken a better look at her the last time I had the chance.
I wish I had told her that I loved her more often and really meant it--
not those absent "I love you's" that only exist as fillers before goodbyes.
I wish I had gotten to say goodbye to her,
but the doctors wouldn't let me in the room where she was,
attached to the life support machine,
because I was too young.

It wasn't fair--she was too young, too.
Too young to be dying,
too young for freaking working lungs to be cause for hope that 'she
just might pull through!'
instead of being a given.

But she was braindead.
That was that.
And our parents held her hand and let her die,
like no parent should have to.

I can picture my mom in the room with a dead daughter and a silent husband,
sobbing as her daughter's heart stops and her world collapses.
And I don't know if that's the only corpse my mom has seen or not,
but it was one that no mother should witness.

And because of all of this I can't **** myself.
It's not a lack of resources or desire to do it.
It's the fact that I've experienced the loss of a sister,
just like all of my siblings (except for one.)

It's the fact that I've seen my mom on mornings when she wakes up
and, like a ball and a paddle in slow motion,
it hits her over and over again throughout the rest of her life.
I can't do that to her again, no matter how badly I might want to die.

I saw my other sister fall on the gravel, screaming, "No! No!"
I heard her say through tears, "You know, I don't think God is a very nice guy,"
and I can't have her think that it's even slightly her fault now that we both know God isn't involved here.
She would miss me too much. It would hurt her too much.

And those are the real reasons I'm not going to **** myself, Doc.