A year ago today, I landed in Dublin, Ireland, for the first time in my life. From the time my sister-in-love received her employment authorization, I knew a trip to Ireland was in the cards for me. We made plans, my brother and I, to visit each other at least once a year. It was my turn to get some adult time with him.
Having left home for Canada at 17, my relationship with my brother had become relegated to phone conversations. The advent of video chatting meant I got to see each other more frequently than every few years. But you can’t sing together on a Skype or WhatsApp video call, and we used to sing together as we did dishes in my Mom’s kitchen growing up.
After his family moved to Ireland, we spoke more frequently. There was much to discuss as he adjusted to life in the West. He opined about the weather. He was cold all the time. Having been to Ireland once myself, in what they called the peak of summer, I fully comprehend why he always seemed to have the sniffles—it was cold. And not enough sunshine!
His kids would come spend the summer with us in the States, we dreamt out loud. Eight kids under one roof?! It would be epic. And though we never reached a consensus on this one, we’d drop our kids off in Ireland as well. Our children would finally get to know each other. I would get to know his children and no longer be that absentee aunt in America.
When our kids first met at the airport in Addis Ababa, the connection was almost instantaneous. Within minutes they were running around and chatting non-stop. Our flights had worked out so we took the final leg of the trip to Zimbabwe together last year. That meet-up in Addis was, without comparison, the most bitter-sweet moment of my life. My kids and my brother’s kids got along swimmingly! But we were on our way to his burial.
It was my Mom who broke the news to me—well, what news she had. The morning of July 27, as I was about to have worship with the children, my phone rang. It was my eldest sister asking if I’d checked my WhatsApp messages. I hadn’t because I’d made a commitment, a few months prior, not to look at my phone before spending unrushed time with Jesus.
That morning I’d found a new spot in the house where I could have my personal devotions looking out on nature. It was the sweetest time with the Lord I’d had in years. It felt like Jesus came near and enveloped me with His love. By the time the kids got up and we were preparing for family worship, I was already spiritually charged, so to speak.
After seeing her message I knew I needed to leave right away. I flew out that night.
My sister handed her phone to my Mom. She said I needed to hear “this” from Mom. Your brother has collapsed and is in the hospital, came the shocking report from the other end of the line. What was wrong? How serious was it? Had he regained consciousness? She didn’t know. The family would be praying together on the hour, every hour, as we awaited a report on his condition. We were just minutes from a prayer time. I joined in.
Disoriented and distraught, I drove to work that morning but couldn’t concentrate. I zoned out on a zoom meeting as my mind raced. I shot a quick message to my sister-in-love to let her know that I was praying for her. Somehow her response told me what I needed to know. She wrote, “I can’t believe this Sikhu.”
I’d been debating whether or not I should travel to Ireland. Should I be planning for a long stay there? Should I wait for a cheaper ticket to fly out there? After seeing her message I knew I needed to leave right away. I flew out that night.
Arriving in Dublin on the morning of the 28th, a year ago today, felt surreal. Events were unfolding so fast I felt out of kilter. Too exhausted to drive, my sister-in-love met me at the airport with a cab. We embraced in silence. Then we rode straight to the hospital in silence. The kids were with a neighbor. We’d spend the whole day at the hospital.
I broke down when I saw my brother lying in that hospital bed. He was gone. His body was puffed up with fluids, it didn’t look like him. He was on a breathing machine. They were waiting to see if his brain stem would show any sign of life. He was in the best hospital Ireland could offer specializing in neurology. As the day unfolded I realized my sister-in-love knew she had lost her husband, but she needed support as she accepted the unimaginable.
That evening, I met my youngest niece for the first time in person. Within five minutes the children had warmed up to me. They knew me. Despite me living far away and seeing them every 4 or 5 years, they knew me.
After worship that evening, my sister-in-love got the ball rolling on an update about their dad. When will he be back from the hospital? What is wrong with him? Before we left the hospital, they’d informed us that my brother had failed the test for brain stem activity. An aneurysm on his carotid had ruptured flooding his brain with blood. He’d died a quick and relatively painless death, they assured us. My sister-in-love, a critical care physician, had successfully conducted CPR, but they kept having to revive him on the ambulance ride. They’d kept him on life support to be doubly sure that there was no chance of brain activity. Now we had to tell the children their father would not be coming home again.
I feel feelings that are too big to articulate.
It was the hardest thing I have ever had to communicate. I’m so thankful for the resurrection hope. And that my brother and his wife had already taught the children about death and our blessed hope. They understood. But the questions persisted. Why can’t they just keep him on the breathing machine forever? We’d take the children to the hospital the next day so they could see him one last time before he was removed from life support.
I’ve made it through this past year by not thinking about it too much. There’s my brother’s children and his widow to consider. So my energies have been directed at prayers and thoughts for them. But on the anniversary of the event that shaped the second half of last year I’ve been forced to face the reality that my brother is dead. And once again, reality doesn’t make sense—I don’t mean it doesn’t make logical sense, but that reality feels disorienting, emotionaly dissonant, and painfully so.
I’m disappointed because I thought I was finally going to spend some time with my brother. His children are here for the summer. It is wonderful. It is painful. I can’t help but feel robbed. I still feel angry. And I feel feelings that are too big to articulate.
Yet I know that this is somehow the best case scenario in this sinful world. Somehow my brother dying so suddenly is the best avenue for his and our salvation after all things have been considered. Somehow God will take this tragedy and use it for good.
I heard someone say that the pain doesn’t go away, it doesn’t diminish. But we get stronger to bear it. I hope they’re right. Because the pain is still very real.