May 13, 2018. Only one thought consumed me as I groggily walked the 30 steps it took from the waiting room to Steven's room: is Steven awake? He's got to be awake by now. He wasn't. I wasn't groggy any more, rather I was alert and ready for answers. I was in fight mode: flight mode was for people who aren't Steven's sister. I've got this. I wanted to know everything. Some questions I asked in that monotone voice and others I asked myself in my head. I was cut and dry and to the point. I remember telling the nurse that she could, "tell me things she normally wouldn't say to family members in this situation".
I wanted to see the toxicology report. What time did the ambulance get to him? Who called for the ambulance? I wanted to know every detail. I wanted to know where the fuck his Vans were. Was someone so deplorable that they would take his shoes while he was laying there dying on the floor (the answer to that is yes. But I got those Vans back... oh yes, I did)? Where was his wallet? Was he being given enough cc's of morphine so that he wouldn't feel the excruciating discomfort of withdrawal? Can he feel? Can he hear me? Pfft, of course he can hear me... I'm his sis. When can I wash his hair? He likes Bumble and Bumble hair products, so can I wash his hair with that (and to that the answer was no because of scent. Well, I did it anyway, but with Lush... I got in trouble)?
I would learn that Steven was found in the hallway, outside the door of "a friends" apartment on the Downtown Eastside. I learned he was admitted to the ICU on May 11th, but he came to the hospital with no wallet, thus it took the hospital nearly 24 hours before they discovered what his name was. I would learn that he was without oxygen for a minimum of 12 minutes and that when they took him off the Propofol (the drug used to induce coma) waking up without brain damage would be unlikely. The nurse wrote down the drugs found in Steven's system on this piece of paper:
It reads: + opiates, Benzos, cocaine, amphetmine and fentanyl. My eyes were wide as I read the list. Oh my god, Steven! What the hell were you thinking?! All of this information was crushing. Every. Single. Word.
Now it was time they would attempt to wake Steven up from the coma so they could assess brain functionality. I had falsely anticipated MyBruv waking up, being "out of it" and sick, feeling like a bag of shit because he would be in withdrawal and that we would cry, hug it out and I'd be there to help him get back on his feet. But none of that happened. Propofol drip stopped. After about 30 mins or so, his right eye opened a sliver. I was stroking his arm and playing music from my phone that I knew he loved, after all, Steven was one hell of a drummer: a creator of music. I was optimistic that the music might trigger something and he'd be alert. I was talking to him, opening his eye wider with my thumb and forefinger while saying, "Steven, I see you, do you see me? Can you hear me, Bruv? It's Krispy.... OPEN YOUR EYES, STEVEN!", but to no avail.
We had the same "Selby-Brown eyes"... and I remember looking into his one eye and thinking to myself, his eye doesn't look like mine anymore... something is missing. My grim reality set in because I realized life was what was missing. Life was gone from MyBruv. In that moment, I was no longer a rock. Rather a sister who knew she would be sibling-less. There was two things I didn't know: 1) being sibling-less would prove to be one of my most lonely and life-altering truths, I've ever had to live with and 2) it would take Steven another two and a half weeks for his body to let go.
His Vans sit at my front door
I wanted to see the toxicology report. What time did the ambulance get to him? Who called for the ambulance? I wanted to know every detail. I wanted to know where the fuck his Vans were. Was someone so deplorable that they would take his shoes while he was laying there dying on the floor (the answer to that is yes. But I got those Vans back... oh yes, I did)? Where was his wallet? Was he being given enough cc's of morphine so that he wouldn't feel the excruciating discomfort of withdrawal? Can he feel? Can he hear me? Pfft, of course he can hear me... I'm his sis. When can I wash his hair? He likes Bumble and Bumble hair products, so can I wash his hair with that (and to that the answer was no because of scent. Well, I did it anyway, but with Lush... I got in trouble)?
I would learn that Steven was found in the hallway, outside the door of "a friends" apartment on the Downtown Eastside. I learned he was admitted to the ICU on May 11th, but he came to the hospital with no wallet, thus it took the hospital nearly 24 hours before they discovered what his name was. I would learn that he was without oxygen for a minimum of 12 minutes and that when they took him off the Propofol (the drug used to induce coma) waking up without brain damage would be unlikely. The nurse wrote down the drugs found in Steven's system on this piece of paper:
Now it was time they would attempt to wake Steven up from the coma so they could assess brain functionality. I had falsely anticipated MyBruv waking up, being "out of it" and sick, feeling like a bag of shit because he would be in withdrawal and that we would cry, hug it out and I'd be there to help him get back on his feet. But none of that happened. Propofol drip stopped. After about 30 mins or so, his right eye opened a sliver. I was stroking his arm and playing music from my phone that I knew he loved, after all, Steven was one hell of a drummer: a creator of music. I was optimistic that the music might trigger something and he'd be alert. I was talking to him, opening his eye wider with my thumb and forefinger while saying, "Steven, I see you, do you see me? Can you hear me, Bruv? It's Krispy.... OPEN YOUR EYES, STEVEN!", but to no avail.
We had the same "Selby-Brown eyes"... and I remember looking into his one eye and thinking to myself, his eye doesn't look like mine anymore... something is missing. My grim reality set in because I realized life was what was missing. Life was gone from MyBruv. In that moment, I was no longer a rock. Rather a sister who knew she would be sibling-less. There was two things I didn't know: 1) being sibling-less would prove to be one of my most lonely and life-altering truths, I've ever had to live with and 2) it would take Steven another two and a half weeks for his body to let go.
His Vans sit at my front door
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