April 11, 2017
April 11, 2017
Early last year, I lost my younger brother Goddard Lubisia-Wafula to a rare and aggressive form of hemorrhagic stroke know as intracerebral.
After a long battle of fighting through round after round of hypertension, and not knowing he had been given only hours to live, he requested his colleagues who accompaned him to the Coptic hospital to call me. I made a quick rush to the hospital and managed to spent a few minutes with her before he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). Before l was asked to give consent for his admission, the only words he could muster with his voice fading were: “You have come.” That was more than enough to bring on tears, but not wanting to upset him, I waited to cry until I was out of the hospital.
The next few days would be more difficult than I could ever imagine. My brother was on hospice, and breathing with the help of oxygen – as the blood pressure got higher and condition deteriorated and swelling and pressure increased.
While sitting in a recliner in his hospital room, l watched as he took his final breath. His eyes were open as he defiantly faced death, and then he quietly drifted away as l stood confused and helplessly.
To say that it was heart-breaking to be by his side when my brother passed is an understatement. But it was also an uncommon privilege I shared with his friends, my siblings and my father. As his pastor said at his memorial, hypertension may have claimed his body, but it never took his soul. Of that, we are certain.
In the time since my brother passed, I’ve replayed those final moments over and over in my mind. I’ve had several people tell me, “He waited for you.” That’s not easy to hear. Would he have lived longer if I’d waited to rush to the hospital? But then I think back to his final words to me before hanging up on phone a few weeks earlier, “Can we start having more lunches together.”
I remember the immense feeling of grief immediately hitting me like a tidal wave. Denial quickly followed, as did anger. In a blur of hours, close friends and family came to pay their final respects. When evening fell, it was impossible to deny the finality of his death when the doctor ascertained his death.
Attending funerals and memorials was a fact of life for me growing up. The hardest before my brother’s was without a doubt the passing of my mother, Ruth Kabuchanga, my brother, Kennedy Masika and my sister Alice Maero. Coincidentally, Alice and Goddard passed on at Coptic Hospital.
But the feeling of loss after my brother’s death was like no other I’ve ever experienced. We grew up together and held each other whenever things got tough. He was my best friend and my inspiration.
It is, however, of some small comfort knowing that my brother didn’t want his friends and family to mourn him for too long; he wished that we celebrate his life as much.
Since his passing, the immense grief I at first felt has slowly subsided. Occasionally, it will return briefly, and then I’ll find myself quietly weeping, confused, or lost in my thoughts. It can set in anywhere: In the car while traveling alone, in an elevator while at work, or even while just sleeping or writing.
My solace comes in the form of sharing his memory. The first and immediate task was a sad one: when l was told to write his obituary, the second task was writing his life’s story, and reading it at his memorial.
Perhaps what puzzled many is the message that my brother left on his Facebook page the very day he was taken ill :
“I decided that since the sun was taking longer to come out and shine, let me come out shine and make a change in someone's life . Thanks for the opportunity”.
It’s comforting to know that my brother impacted so many lives, and that people are giving generously in his memory. But it’s an even greater task to ensure my niece and nephew will truly continue to feel their father’s love.
Sent from Samsung tablet.
After a long battle of fighting through round after round of hypertension, and not knowing he had been given only hours to live, he requested his colleagues who accompaned him to the Coptic hospital to call me. I made a quick rush to the hospital and managed to spent a few minutes with her before he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). Before l was asked to give consent for his admission, the only words he could muster with his voice fading were: “You have come.” That was more than enough to bring on tears, but not wanting to upset him, I waited to cry until I was out of the hospital.
The next few days would be more difficult than I could ever imagine. My brother was on hospice, and breathing with the help of oxygen – as the blood pressure got higher and condition deteriorated and swelling and pressure increased.
While sitting in a recliner in his hospital room, l watched as he took his final breath. His eyes were open as he defiantly faced death, and then he quietly drifted away as l stood confused and helplessly.
To say that it was heart-breaking to be by his side when my brother passed is an understatement. But it was also an uncommon privilege I shared with his friends, my siblings and my father. As his pastor said at his memorial, hypertension may have claimed his body, but it never took his soul. Of that, we are certain.
In the time since my brother passed, I’ve replayed those final moments over and over in my mind. I’ve had several people tell me, “He waited for you.” That’s not easy to hear. Would he have lived longer if I’d waited to rush to the hospital? But then I think back to his final words to me before hanging up on phone a few weeks earlier, “Can we start having more lunches together.”
I remember the immense feeling of grief immediately hitting me like a tidal wave. Denial quickly followed, as did anger. In a blur of hours, close friends and family came to pay their final respects. When evening fell, it was impossible to deny the finality of his death when the doctor ascertained his death.
Attending funerals and memorials was a fact of life for me growing up. The hardest before my brother’s was without a doubt the passing of my mother, Ruth Kabuchanga, my brother, Kennedy Masika and my sister Alice Maero. Coincidentally, Alice and Goddard passed on at Coptic Hospital.
But the feeling of loss after my brother’s death was like no other I’ve ever experienced. We grew up together and held each other whenever things got tough. He was my best friend and my inspiration.
It is, however, of some small comfort knowing that my brother didn’t want his friends and family to mourn him for too long; he wished that we celebrate his life as much.
Since his passing, the immense grief I at first felt has slowly subsided. Occasionally, it will return briefly, and then I’ll find myself quietly weeping, confused, or lost in my thoughts. It can set in anywhere: In the car while traveling alone, in an elevator while at work, or even while just sleeping or writing.
My solace comes in the form of sharing his memory. The first and immediate task was a sad one: when l was told to write his obituary, the second task was writing his life’s story, and reading it at his memorial.
Perhaps what puzzled many is the message that my brother left on his Facebook page the very day he was taken ill :
“I decided that since the sun was taking longer to come out and shine, let me come out shine and make a change in someone's life . Thanks for the opportunity”.
It’s comforting to know that my brother impacted so many lives, and that people are giving generously in his memory. But it’s an even greater task to ensure my niece and nephew will truly continue to feel their father’s love.
Sent from Samsung tablet.