Last month, my family lost Tommy, my 32-year-old nephew and godson.
Tommy chose not to be vaccinated for COVID-19, and he died in 15 days of the cyclone of it ravaging his body.
He was the son of my sister Laureen, who raised both her kids alone. We have five siblings in our family, and decided long ago who in the five is a rule follower and who is a rule breaker. Laureen is the quiet sister, a rule follower. In a crisis, we find it easier to have a rule breaker come along, just in case we need someone to challenge authority.
With the crisis of Tommy being in the small New Jersey hospital’s intensive care unit, all of us came.
One sister, MB (an attorney and a rule maker), spent the last two years terrified of COVID. She has an older mother-in-law, a son with health complications and a daughter who is a resident MD in New York City. MB came to Tommy’s hospital wearing double gloves and masks, and big plastic goggles. She brought enough gloves, masks and goggles for all of us.
The rule breakers among us only singly-masked up. MB sat in the corner, praying on her rosary, leaving us every so often to go to the parking lot and breathe fresh clean air. When she returned, she rubbed her hands still-in-their-gloves with sanitizer. We teased her for it – we’re family – even while we knew it made sense.
Diane, our youngest sister, sat closest to both Laureen and Melissa, Tommy’s sister. Diane was crying, holding their hands and trying to hold – and hold back – all the angst and pain. She had her own deep pain too, as her kids and Laureen’s grew up together. Tommy was like a son to her.
Wally, our sweet baby brother, sat quietly and patiently. Never ever, really, getting a word in edgewise with his four sisters. But he sat, knowingly in the pain of grief, having lost his wife to sudden death five years ago.
I am the oldest of this loving sibling group of five. I am never ever the wisest. It took me a while to realize how terribly uncomfortable I was with all the pain and grief. I wanted to leave, tried to think of any excuse at all. I said stupid things to try to make Laureen feel better: “It will be ok.” She responded angrily: “No! It will never be ok.” She was right.
I worked hard – really hard – to not stifle their grief. I failed. I practiced sitting with it. I tried to stop trying to make things better. Many of my childhood insecurities reared their ugly heads; so many memories of me as a youth trying to stop any family dynamics that included pain.
I realized that escape is my go-to coping strategy; action of any kind seems safer than sitting in and feeling pain. The tragedy of Tommy’s illness and passing forced an unexpected and unwelcome glimpse into the core of my being. I view it now as a gift from him, to finally see what has plagued me for years.
We held onto every possible sign of Tommy’s improvement. We had hope when his oxygen levels moved to a normal level, and fear when they dropped an hour later to a toxic level. It was a shocking, virtual rollercoaster of life and sickness and death.
We talked about our big, kind, funny, story-telling, beer-loving Tommy. He had a dog, a great mastiff – Hank – who weighs over 200 pounds. Hank waited at Laureen’s house for his guy to come home. Tommy worked his way to being a manager at his company, making more money than his cousins who had college degrees. He had just fallen in love with Liz, who owned a deli. We saw them at Thanksgiving last year; anyone could see that Liz made Tommy light up with joy.
The air in the ICU waiting room was stale, the soda machine loud. I read a brass plaque hanging on the wall, from a family inscribing how grateful they were to have this space as they watched their mother slowly die.
Now, in the ICU, our greatly-loved Tom was dying. The wait was forever, the time left was just hours.
I witnessed and felt Laureen fold over onto her grief for her beloved son, being ripped from her. She was allowed to sit with Tommy on the COVID ICU ward because he was breathing with the help of a respirator and so many other machines; there was little risk of her catching COVID through air or fluids. Laureen sat next to Tommy for 14 hours that last day, patting his head and rubbing his swollen hand. She told him to fight to get better. She told him how much she loved him.
At 11:00 pm Tommy’s heart stopped. The last organ failed, and he was gone.
I was desperate for advice about how to help my sister who had lost her son. I called a friend who had lost her daughter: “What do I say? How can I help my sister?” She told me: “Make sure she drinks fluids. Make sure she doesn’t fall. Make sure she gets up in the morning. You are allowed to grieve, but do not do it in front of her, do it with others. Do not burden her to help you feel ok.”
I waited at Laureen’s with Hank. We both stood at the window waiting – Hank for his guy, and me for my sister. We heard the car pull in. Wally slowly walked Laureen to her front door, arms wrapped around her, holding her tight. Making sure she didn’t fall. The grass had frost on it and there was a fog in the air. I watched my two siblings, holding each other up, and felt the earth slip away. The door opened to the unknown, to the without.
Hank is still without his guy, but Wally is working on becoming his new guy. They are adjusting to each other (and beginning to somehow look alike). I’m back in New Haven, still trying not to run from the grief and heartbreak. I’m determined to honor Tommy. To hold Laureen’s and Melissa’s hands like my sister instinctively knows how to do.
Tommy was one of the millions who we’ve lost in this pandemic. But he was our one.
Blessings to us all.
To reach Alice directly: aforrester@cliffordbeers.org
Dearest Alice. Oh the details can be so different from family-to-family but the spirit you captured and comfort you gave by sharing your very particular loss is much appreciated. Thank you for being so true.
Thanks Laura!