"self-aware"
Last year, the 22nd of July was planned to be an ordinary Sunday. Visiting my older brother at his Waikiki apartment, where we'd spend a few minutes catching up, was something my mother and I did nearly every Sunday. July 22nd, however, was different. My brother's roommate called to inform us that he was heading to the hospital that frosty morning. At first, I had no idea what to make of our journey to the hospital. My mind was filled with anxiety, despite my best efforts to reassure myself that he was fine.
Tyson, one of my older brothers, came to the United States from Vietnam in 1990 with hopes of starting a new life in a new country. At the time of his high school enrollment, he had little to no English proficiency. Academically, even though he had to manage a part-time work at McDonald's, he excelled and was ranked first in his class in calculus.
At 34, he was in peak physical condition. He ran a marathon every year, ate well, and never smoked or drank alcohol. He was the picture of health. As soon as I arrived at the hospital, he looked exactly like the Tyson I remembered. Nothing was amiss. He appeared to be exhausted and unable to communicate.
My brother, on the other hand, appeared to be different after he returned from his MRI scan. His vision was blurred and hazy, as if he wasn't aware of the space around him. My body trembled with fear and anxiety. Soon after, I yelled for aid, as my brother's body began to jerk. I was overcome by a powerful emotion I'd never felt before: a gut-wrenching fear spiked with horrible adrenaline. He began to foam at the mouth as the seizure took over his body. I remained locked in place while his body stiffened up. In my confusion, I couldn't figure out what to do. I was afraid and helpless.
When I was a kid, Tyson advised me to avoid working during my senior year of high school. My age didn't stop me from wanting to make money like him, though. He worked a part-time job after school during his high school years, despite the fact that it meant he had to return home late each night. It wasn't uncommon for him to stay up all night in order to do his assignments. While it was physically taxing on him, he kept the work to support my mother and help pay the bills so she could enroll in English classes at the local community college. That's what Tyson said me, that he would always be there for me.
Before dawn till late at night, my mother and I would drive to the hospital to visit my brother whenever the streets were empty. The seizure had caused Tyson's brain to inflame severely. He underwent a slew of diagnostic procedures, including X-rays, MRIs, blood tests, spinal taps, bronchoscopies, and even a brain biopsy, among others. An intricate network of IV tubes, wires, and cables were attached to his body to monitor and administer a variety of substances and solutions. He was continually drugged by doctors. Inflammation in his brain was so severe that it threatened his life, and he also had acute pneumonia. He was put on life support by physicians. Despite being in the finest form of his life and looking like Superman just three weeks prior, my brother was now on his deathbed.
A crybaby as a child, I've come a long way. As soon as I realized I wasn't going to get the toy I wanted, I burst into tears. When I didn't receive what I wanted, I cried. Around the age of six, I, on the other hand, stopped crying. I never shed a tear, no matter how rough things got. I didn't cry, not even when people made fun of my appearance or my ethnicity.
I cried for the first time since I was a youngster on August 11, 2013. When my brother went away, this was the day. I had never seen my mother weep before, and it was an emotional experience for me as well. The event was traumatic, and I was saddened for a time that such a catastrophe could strike someone like my brother, who was healthy and fit and adhered to a strict moral code, never compromising his principles for money gain. My initial reaction was that the circumstances of his death were a denial of his convictions, rather than a reminder of their significance. Despite the fact that we have no control over life's ups and downs, we must make the best of it. Despite his limited command of the English language, my brother enrolled in school and eventually achieved academic success. He also took on a part-time job so that he could help our mother with her schooling on the side. He probably wished he hadn't had to deal with those difficulties, but he didn't voice his displeasure. He chose to address his problems head-on, and he was successful as a result. Even though Tyson's death was a tragic reflection of nature's cold randomness, I realized it wasn't a verdict on his philosophy; rather, it served as a reminder to me that even the best can suffer the worst, and that a person's strength lies in his ability to maintain his values in the face of these challenging circumstances. Through his actions and words, my brother taught me that it's always better for a family to put their needs first, to endure in the face of hardship and to never compromise your beliefs for the sake of short-term gain. To abandon these principles because of Tyson's death would be a grave disservice to his legacy.
