“He Was Closer To Death Than We Knew”

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Here's Stephen. I had this momentary flashback, and I remembered how I used to feel back in the day. Dispatched to a life-threatening emergency, lights and sirens, a code three response, and not knowing what I might find. I felt anxious, worried, and wondering what circumstances awaited my arrival, all the while aware that my life could be in danger. But still, I continued. It was my job. After all, I was a police officer. It was like that this time, too, except I was no longer on the force.

There were no lights and sirens, but still, I was probably driving too fast, and not knowing what I might find. I felt anxious, worried, and wondering what circumstances awaited my arrival, all the while aware that my life could be in danger. But still, I continued. It was my job.

After all, I was his brother. I can't begin to imagine how he must have felt, but if the comparison is accurate, then I kind of have an idea. I remember the fever and chills, the coughing and congestion, the runny nose and fatigue, and of just wanting to crawl under the covers, pass out, and not wake up again until my flu had finally subsided. It had been reported that many of the symptoms for COVID-19 were similar to the flu, and only a test could determine one's positivity. Now, this was early on, during the first few months into the pandemic. Pre-vaccine, when everything closed down and a fear of the unknown was prevalent. When masks and plastic gloves, hand sanitizers, disinfectants, paper towels could no longer be found in our stores.

And when we wiped down every piece of mail delivered to our homes, the groceries that we bought, and the shopping carts we used to gather our purchases, we sanitized everything as best we could. You see, much about this new virus was still unknown, and the numbers of those dying daily as a result, well, it was just staggering. Suddenly, it seemed as if the sum of all fears as described in the book Andromeda Strain was happening, except now it was happening for real. And so, I can't begin to imagine how it must have felt for so many who were suffering from such severe-like symptoms, who now had to leave their beds, get into their cars, and drive to a COVID testing location only to have to wait in line for hours, all the while feeling perhaps worse than they had ever felt before.

Waiting until someone in a sterile haz-mask suit could record all of the pertinent data before inserting the business end of a couple of cotton swab sticks up their congested noses. But, this is exactly what happened to hundreds of thousands of our friends, our neighbors, and our family members who believed that they might have contracted this new and absolutely frightening virus, including my brother Jimmy. He too had driven himself to a testing location at a local college parking lot, feeling as though he were dying, which, as it turned out, he was closer to doing at the time than any of us knew, waiting hours until finally administered his test. He was found to be positive for COVID-19, and I told him, whatever he needed, he could call on me for help.

And a few days later, he did just that. I didn't recognize the voice at first, but my caller ID pretty much told me all that I needed to know. Jimmy was in trouble. Understanding him was a challenge, but not so with the two words that stood out above all others, doctor and hospital. Jimmy was stubborn, like our mom and dad had been when they too were dealing with their own medical issues, and for him to admit that he needed hospitalization. Well, I have to tell you, that really scared me because aside from the sound of his voice, his admission revealed volumes regarding his failing health. His house was only 10 minutes from mine, but the ride and the distance between us seemed to be both too long, while at the same time, too short. But minutes mattered, and so speed was essential, while conversely, a quick arrival would inevitably expose me to potential contamination sooner than later.

And admittedly, oh, this frightened me a lot. But just then, as I neared his home, I remembered a story from long ago that gently reminded me of what really mattered. In 1918, a boy with polio was abandoned by his mother at Father Flanagan's home for boys. Walking was an almost impossible struggle, and so others living at the home would often carry him. Father Flanagan, upon seeing one boy doing just that, asked if it were difficult for him to do so.

And the boy replied, he ain't heavy, father. He's my brother. I got my brother to the hospital. And afterwards, back home, I immediately disrobed on our enclosed porch, eventually depositing my clothing directly into the washing machine. A shower followed, and so too did my uneasiness. Did my blue throwaway surgical mask do as I had intended?

How about my sanitizer? Had I exposed myself to the virus while helping Jimmy to and from my vehicle or during our ride to the hospital? Later that night, content for the moment that I was still healthy and that Jimmy was now receiving the best possible care, I began to realize that my possible exposure and contamination mattered far less than Jimmy's hospitalization and ultimate well-being.

While the virus was raging outside and around the world, my thoughts were neither global nor out of doors. Instead, they remained within the quiet comfort and safety found within my home and in the not-so-far-away hospital room where the doctors and nurses were doing all they could to keep Jimmy from dying. Before going to sleep that night, I offered a short prayer, the final words, so fitting and now so familiar.

He ain't heavy, Father. He's my brother. And a beautiful job on the production by Our Own Faith and a special thanks to Steve Rociniak for sharing that story about brotherly love and about sacrificial love and worrying about someone else's needs and cares more than your own.

Steven Rociniak, his story, his brother's story, here on Our American Stories. The following is a high five moment from Hi5Casino.com. Have you had your high five moment today?

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