My late brother‘s wife, Jala, had a meltdown last night. She said she had problems breathing and her aide called 911. Jala put on a coat and boots and hit in the woods.
You can run but you cannot hide. They found her, strapped her on a gurney and away they went.
Several hours later, she was released and home by bedtime.
My brother died July 10, 2020. Jala is terrified of doctors and has been ill for two years. We thought last night’s hospitalization would be the moment when a diagnosis was made and help would put her on the road to a quality life.
Doctors and nurses are here to serve and they are also angels of mercy. They felt sorry for Jala because she lost her husband. Not to mention, she refused medical care.
My sister and I surmised our brother would find the situation terribly funny. His sense of comedy was such that he found dark humor in everything, especially matters pertaining to death and bowel movements.
His life the last two years, as he thought his wife was dying, was wrought with hand ringing and remorse, also spiritual insight and a preoccupation with his own death and dying.
He died. She did not.
Last night, just to cope with this, I watched a Dolly Parton documentary on Netflix. What a creative genius she is! She has written over 3000 songs! Her creative spirit gave me hope.
Today I dance to the Rolling Stones. That’s the way my brother and I communicate. He loved that band.
What is my brothers message?
All experience is storytelling. Tell the story without reflecting the drama. Let people go. Let the story go.
Keep on dancing. Om
**My brother and Jala in better days.**