Hero

The hardest man to find sometimes is the man you are meant to be.

-JGF

I have known paralyzing fear only once as a grown up. Years and years of dangerous situations behind the fence or inside the walls have never frightened me. Gunfire and thunderous car bombs that rattle your rib cage never shook me. I'm not a fool who is oblivious to danger or a junkie looking for an adrenaline rush. I have just never thought of my life, or the circle I function in, as something worth getting riled about. It came to me once though, fear, but wasn't anything that I could see. It wasn't in the sights and sounds of war, or the bloody slashing of convict living. It waited for me in the sterile white embrace of my father’s deathbed and it gripped and shook me like I've never known.

On the day I walked into his ICU hospital room I knew true fear for the first time as a grown man. I was ushered into the room by my step-mother. My grandma and aunt were there too, (his mother and sister.) It's been 10 years and I can still feel death's embrace on that room. As soon as I walked in I felt my bones begin to compact. I felt as if I was being crushed not just from the outside in, but from the inside in too...as if my imploding skeleton would be pulverized, leaving my hollow skin to fall and drape across his bed. My eyes were seared by his image and the ghostly reflection burnt onto the walls of my mind has never faded. He is living death. A zombie who's olive skin is brushed in a dull yellow hue. The body of a man that once existed in my child's memory, strong and handsome, now wanes. He is grotesquely swollen from the poison filling his abdomen. And yet his stature is frail and lithe, reminding me of a vulnerable, dying child. And his eyes are a glossy jet-black reminder of the septic coma in which he now resides. His once piercing, aqua blue lenses are now lifeless and void of color. My view into his consciousness is guarded by two black shiny marbles, the site of which I have never seen before. Their very existence has haunted me every day since.

"Speak to him," she said to me. My step-mother then spoke to him as if he would sit up and speak back. "Jimmy is here," she pleaded to him. And then to me she implored, "Talk to him, say something." But I could not. The more silent I was the more she insisted I speak. I have this memory of me looking back and forth between them with some words, any words, jammed in my throat but refusing to break free. It was so odd, so surreal, so unlike me to not have words to say. But for once in my life I couldn't speak. I was paralyzed with fear. My every thought a reflection of some far away child trying to be the man he was expected to be. But the only real man in the room was lying in front of me inert and disappearing from my reality. I was not only mute, but nonexistent as far as he was concerned. At that moment I was just the little boy of his dreams, forgotten and unimportant. I have never felt as inadequate and ashamed as I did on that day.

Twenty four hours later my brothers arrived and joined me. I tried to warn them before going into the hospital room that what waited was grim. (I have always wondered if my description then would match the way my memory recalls it now.) I think I expected them to be as choked up as I was upon seeing our dying father. My brothers; John, the lost one...left behind as the youngest son. And Joe, estranged and saddled with the weight of being the eldest. My universal assumptions have never served me well, and that day was no different…they were not afraid. It was me who needed the warning.  My grim reality was a reminder that I don’t always know what’s best. When the door opened Joe instantly separated himself from the son I always thought he was; angry at our father and defiant, forever the contradiction to expectations. Right before my eyes he morphed into the strong first born son of my dreams. Our father was dying and in need of comfort and my brother was all at once there to give it to him. A lifetime of conflict and pain was instantly washed away and my brother was simply his father’s son again. Joe confidently, and without hesitation, went to the bed side and took a dying man’s face into his hands with a love and compassion that I couldn’t remember ever seeing him posses before. And then he spoke to our father. Where my voice was frozen inside my chest, Joe's flowed out in a calm, tender, quiet stream of soothing and encouraging words. Joe took our father’s face into his hands and placed his mouth close to dad’s ear to ensure comprehension. Whether death could hear and understand I will never know. But at least Joe tried. He did what I could not muster the courage to even approach. As long as I live I won't ever forget that moment. The mix of joy, shame, pride, agony, and love that I felt ensures this moment lives forever in my heart and mind as a poignant and reoccurring nightmare.

But a hero arose from the ashes of that lurid dream. As a child I idolized my big brother. I admired and wanted to be him. I imagine now that he somehow had replaced our absent father when my immature mind was searching for role models. But as we grew older my esteem slowly turned to loathing. I could never reconcile the differences in our choices to be the men we grew into. I am so judgmental, and sometimes I believe I am as ignorant as a spoiled child. So, on this day my hero was reborn. A Phoenix championing our cause; three lost sons, scattered to the winds but coming together at their father’s deathbed. I was all at once proud of Joe again, and ashamed of myself for ever letting that adoration falter. I so admired his strength, and I wasn't afraid to be in the room anymore. His actions gave me courage. And although they weren't meant for me, I found solace in his whispered words to our dying father. I don't know if Joe realizes what he did for me that day. I have never spoken to him about it or told him how I felt. I guess I have a responsibility to him that I have shunned for all these years. He certainly deserves more from the brother he saved.

Years later I was in Iraq and feeling as alone and unsure as anytime I'd ever known. Joe sent me a letter, the words of which I have carried as a part of me every day since. As I read these words I felt his mouth close to my ear, his soothing voice comforting me from a world away...

"The hardest man to find sometimes is the man you are meant to be."

-Joseph Glenn Franks

-Jim Franks