Twenty six years and 110 days ago, yesterday, I walked into Scott’s Seafood Grill on Lombard and Scott,in San Francisco to have a few drinks with my best friend, Patti. I can’t remember now, if Patti told me the restaurant (Lefty O’Douls) called and wanted me to call in… or if some instinct told me to call for messages, but when I did, I was told that my brother had been in a horrible motorcycle accident and that he probably wouldn’t make it.

Patti drove me to Santa Rosa in record time. Forcing her little VW to perform beyond it’s capabilities. I remember her asking me if I wanted to drive. “No, I don’t think I can.”

When we got to the hospital ICU we learned he had been flown via helicopter from the accident location in Willits. They repeated that he might not make it. My feet froze, and I couldn’t walk in that room where my brothers broken body was lying. Patti walked in for me then came out and told me what to expect. Still my knees buckled when I walked in.

His hands were black and twice the normal size from holding on to the sissy bar (he was a passenger)and bending it parallel to the bike before he flew off. His head was wrapped, but they said they had created a flap to remove the pressure. One eye had been detached and was blind. He looked so broken, so frail. I remember thinking his soul had left his body. He was twenty seven years old.

My sisters and their husbands came, and my mom. My poor mom. Then I called my Dad in Los Angeles. We all gathered in the ICU waiting room, waiting for what, I don’t know. Friends brought food.

John’s girlfriend Kathie showed up. She was three months pregnant and a mess. She was filthy from horsebackriding  and I remember we didn’t want her germs near Johns open wounds, like that would have been what would have killed him. John had been split from his wife, but I called her and she came.

We were all a mess, unequipped to deal with a catastrophe of this magnitude. My mom, who had suffered mental illness all her life was hanging by a thread. The hospital sedated her.

My father showed up the next day I think. He took charge the way I expected him to. He stayed away from my mother who was inconsolable. My dad pulled out his trusty notepad and started getting details and putting together a “report.” His years of police training and investigator skills kicking in without thought. He took the names of doctors and nurses, and friends and started putting together the story of what had happened to land his only son in the hospital most likely on his death bed.

My dad must have said the rosary 100 times in the next couple of days.

We left the hospital in stages. Going home to change and then come back. I had no car at the time but I must have borrowed Patti’s because I was up there a lot.

The doctors told us that John had minimal brain activity. His brain stem was okay, so he could breathe on his own, and his heart was strong. But his brain, the thing that made him who he was, could no longer function. He was in a coma, but even if he woke, he would not appear to be any different.

The drama grew. My mother went into denial and said she would take him home and take care of him. My father prayed more. My sisters and I cried. I drank. I tried to tell my mom she couldn’t take him home. She was so angry, so distraught and of course I didn’t understand then, as I do now… that losing your child will make you lose your mind.

The nurses, as nice as they were made a fatal flaw with my mother. They gave her hope.
They told her that if we played the radio with favorite songs and hung up pictures and talked to him everyday that he might come out of his coma. My mom brushed his teeth, shaved him and combed his hair. They would strap him into a chair with something holding his up and she would take care of him. I hated seeing him like that. All I could think was he would hate not being able to use his hands and fix things. He would just hate it.

Eventually people stopped coming to see him. My Dad had to go back to Los Angeles. He was so sad, so distraught. I thought it was best if he left. My dad had left his rosary beads on Johnny’s bed. I filed and was awarded guardianship of John. I looked into a lawsuit for him, but there was no money anywhere.

I was told we had to move him to a long care facility. I found one in Vallejo. I hated the place. I knew he would die there. And 110 days after his accident he did. Four days before his 28th birthday.

Johnny officially died of pneumonia. The hospital called me and told me he had it and asked me what I wanted them to do. I didn’t really understand the question. Then the Doctor explained. He would never wake up. Never. I asked them would he be in pain if they didn’t treat the pneumonia.. no they said we will not let him be in pain. Okay I said. Let him go.

A few days later the mortuary called me to ask what to do with the remains. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a a little?” I asked. Silence.
Then “I am so sorry, hasn’t the hospital contacted you yet?”
Then the line clicked and it was the hospital.

I had to call my mother. I should have been there for her and I wasn’t. I was too selfish to realize this was her child. Her boy.

The day before yesterday I received a long email from my sister Debbie, and yesterday both my sisters called within minutes of each other. None of us spoke of John. But I think we were all remembering him. I sure was.

I try to not think of how he looked when I last saw him. I try to remember the last time I saw him whole. He came for a visit and brought me flowers about a month before the accident.

I hope I did right by him. I hope he is in a better place.

I owe it to him to remember.