30 minutes.
30 minutes was all it took to change everything. I saw you get lifted off the floor from your almost comatose state. I watched as they lifted you into the vehicle to take you to the hospital. I watched as the car drove off into the night – out of my vision, and most likely out of my life. I looked at the floor around where your body was – a phone that when dropped on the ground made a loud enough noise to alert someone that something was wrong; pills scattered about the floor, but far too few than there should have been. I lifted my eyes up and stared at the note that was left on your desk.
I read the note. I can’t remember what it says, but I read it.
I sat on the kitchen floor for hours. I waited for hours. I waited until our parents walked back in through the door – but you weren’t there. For a single moment my heart sank as deep as it possibly could into my chest; before I learned that you were okay. That you were in the hospital, in critical condition, but you were okay. The doctor’s told our parents that there was about 30 minutes between your life and your death.
I’ve never understood how you made it to that point. I wish you would have told me something. I’m sorry I didn’t go and visit you in the hospital – but I could never look at you the same way again. The night replayed in my mind every single time I closed my eyes. The simple fact that you tried to end your life ended up changing mine forever. I won’t ever forget those 30 minutes.
30 minutes.
Although, sometimes change takes a lot longer than 30 minutes. Sometimes you can be best friends with someone for 10 years, and the next 10 years you talk less frequently, but are still close. 10 years pass again and you’re just faint memories of one another now.
The memory I have of that night is as clear as day, but you seem to have forgotten it long ago, or maybe that you never remembered it in the first place. You seem happier these days. Sorry, you seem happy these days. I wonder what changed in your life for you to realize all the brilliant things you could give to the world. I’m curious as to what you and our parents said to one another in the days and weeks after that night. I have no intention of guessing the pleasantries or expletives that were shared between the three of you because that’s part of your story, and not mine to tell.
The days following that night weren’t easy for me. I was scolded for reading your letter. Isn’t that a shame? I don’t remember the words that you wrote down in your time of need, but I remember being torn apart for wanting to be a part of my family. I was told over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over how hard this time was on our parents. I was told again and again and again and again all of the things they would change for you when you got out of the hospital.
It’s been years since those 30 minutes.
You moved to Newfoundland, our dad moved to Prince George, and our mom was gone half the time visiting him. That was my senior year. There were countless home-cooked meals, life lessons, family trips, that my friends would invite me to. I would spend more time out with my friends and less time at home alone. You eventually came home and I didn’t know how to feel. Mom started to spend more time at home and less in Prince George, but all I would ever hear is that I didn’t spend enough time at home. Long distance is super tough. Why don’t your friends ever come over to OUR house? I miss your father so much. I’m disappointed in you because you didn’t do the dishes. You didn’t get A honours? It’s like you don’t even love me.
If you’re looking for a happy ending, this story doesn’t have one yet. Life always decides to test your fortitude at the worst times. Someone very special to me passed recently, a family friend. We attended the funeral service as a family, and there was an opportunity for anyone who wasn’t scheduled to speak to say a few words.
I shared my piece, I cried, and I vented out my feelings. I sat back down and my father told me that he was proud of me. You just smiled.
One would expect to make life-altering revelations in a moment of crisis or critical thought. That’s bullshit. You can never predict when your life will change. My father told me that he was proud of me and in that moment my only thought was ‘I didn’t fucking do it for you.’
There are literally A BILLION other things that I’ve done for him. That wasn’t one of them.
I don’t think I can look up to either of them for inspiration anymore, but luckily I’ve found someone who I can. If you can come back from being 30 minutes away from the grave and be the happiest version of yourself that I’ve ever seen, then I can think I can make myself happy too.
30 minutes.
We haven’t been close for years. I don’t think any of us have tried that hard either. I can’t count on our parents to make that connection with me anymore, I’ve given them both more than enough time.
There’s a term in theatre called denouement. It’s when everything finally comes together in the end, or when a final decision is made. This is my denouement.
I’ll be the bigger, better, and best version of myself that you’ve ever seen.
Brother, Mother, Father. I’m sorry I’ve been so distant.
It’s time we talk again.
ORIGINAL COPY
30 minutes.
30 minutes was all it took to change everything. I saw you get lifted off the floor from your almost comatose state. I watched as they lifted you into the vehicle to take you to the hospital. I watched as the car drove off into the night – out of my vision, and most likely out of my life. I looked at the floor around where your body was – a phone that when dropped on the ground made a loud enough noise to alert someone that something was wrong; pills scattered about the floor, but far too few than there should have been. I lifted my eyes up and stared at the note that was left on your desk.
I read the note. I can’t remember what it says, but I read it.
I sat on the kitchen floor for hours. I waited for hours. I waited until our parents walked back in through the door – but you weren’t there. For a single moment my heart sank as deep as it possibly could into my chest; before I learned that you were okay. That you were in the hospital, in critical condition, but you were okay. The doctor’s told our parents that there was about 30 minutes between your life and your death.
I’ve never understood how you made it to that point. I wish you would have told me something. I’m sorry I didn’t go and visit you in the hospital – but I could never look at you the same way again. The night replayed in my mind every single time I closed my eyes. The simple fact that you tried to end your life ended up changing mine forever. I won’t ever forget those 30 minutes.
30 minutes.
Brother, I’ll love you much longer than that from now on.
