Life after death

I will never know exactly why my brother Craig died. I don’t mean that existentially, as in the perpetual question asked by philosophers, theologians and anyone who’s experienced loss—why does anyone have to die?—but in a very literal sense. He was recovering from a mild chest cold, but otherwise mostly healthy, and there were certainly no indicators foretelling the terrible sequence of events—respiratory failure, heart failure, a severe seizure—that caused him to fall unconscious on March 15.

My partner, Kate, and I were awoken by an EMT knocking on our door early that morning, before the sun had fully risen, asking if we could identify the man lying on the sidewalk, surrounded by first responders attempting to resuscitate him. I was overwhelmed when I saw it was him, and fell to my knees as my worst fear unfolded just steps from our front door. As Craig’s caretaker—he suffered from acute schizoaffective disorder and required full-time help—my primary concern for my entire adult life had been his well-being (see the story I wrote about our relationship, “Bond of brothers,” Jan. 12, 2012).

The emergency workers succeeded in resuscitating him en route to Enloe Medical Center, where he survived six days in a comatose state, during which doctors determined how his body had failed, but not why. Nor did we know how long he’d been deprived of oxygen until the fourth day, when tests showed his brain was damaged so significantly he’d never recover. Awful decisions had to be made, and friends and family gathered to say goodbye.

I’d experienced grief before, most profoundly with the death of my mother when I was 19, the event that led me to be Craig’s caregiver. That loss shook my life so considerably I still feel shockwaves today, 19 years later. Craig’s loss is no less tragic to me—more than my brother and my ward, he was my life’s guiding light—but rather than crumble during his hospitalization, I found myself possessed of an incredible strength and clarity, and the determination to maintain that fortitude moving forward. I recalled a quote from Albert Camus I’d read in a pamphlet on grief a nurse had given me when my mom died, which I’d tried but failed to relate to then: “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” I know better now that wallowing in darkness is no way to honor the dead—living is—and I resolved not to ignore my grief, but to focus it toward constructive ends.

Grief, like any force of nature, ebbs and flows, spirals and shifts, and arguably never ends. The first month is especially turbulent, a tempest of emotions and painful realizations as the whole of one’s reality is smashed apart and repatched together into the foundation of some strange, new normal. In the case of Craig’s passing, that tumultuous time was book-ended by the start of spring and the Easter holiday, and is made up of some of my life’s most intense moments thus far, some of which I shudder to remember, others I swear to never forget.

Craig took his last breath early in the morning on March 21, as Elton John sang “Rocket Man.” Craig loved music, and the staff at Enloe kindly allowed us to bring a music player stocked with his favorite songs after they’d removed him from life support the previous morning.

Kate and I, along with several members of my family—my brother Chris, sister Kim, father Don, and nephew Brian—sat with him through that last long day, but the three of us present at the end drifted to sleep minutes before he actually passed. The nurse told us this was common, for the dying to choose their precise moment of departure, often sparing loved ones from witnessing their final, haunting breath. Skeptics might shrug such notions off, but many who’ve dealt with death firsthand believe the surrounding circumstances are something far greater than mere coincidence or blind chance—at least mysterious, if not mystical. This was again the case shortly after, when our friend Jose walked through the door within 10 minutes of Craig’s passing, having driven all night from San Diego to lay a picture of our mother beside his bed. The message wasn’t lost on me and my siblings—he was with her now.

When we returned home, friends and family began gathering on our front porch as news of Craig’s death spread, some bringing flowers, beer and food. Well before noon, my friend Rogelio solemnly set a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey in front of me, which I decided not to open until the time was right. I had phone calls to field, including questions from the hospital, the coroner, and a particularly detailed and difficult conversation with a body donor program representative. There were also children there, experiencing the death of a loved one for the first time, and I didn’t want to add to their confusion by reducing myself to a blathering puddle of snot and tears.

Not yet, anyway. By afternoon, I’d fulfilled all of my obligations, the kids were gone and I’d held myself together as long as I humanly could. We gathered at one end of the porch and my friend John picked up his guitar and started playing the opening chords of Alice Cooper’s “I Never Cry,” another of Craig’s favorites. I cracked the whiskey and the tears came, and we all sang and cried and drank together long into the night.

The upside of tragedy, if there is one, is that it brings people together. My father, brother and sister—my dad coming all the way from Utah, and siblings from Southern California—made it to Chico within 24 hours of Craig falling ill. Visits between us are infrequent and usually rushed, but when something so hard hits so close, the rest of the world can be put on hold. With our hearts and heads in the same unique place, we spent more quality time together than we have in years.

Alas, life continues, and within days of his death, everyone needed to get back to their respective real worlds. Kate and I were worried about being left alone in a house devoid of Craig’s STOMP-slide-STOMP footsteps across the wooden floor, the staticky classic rock coming from his always just-out-of-tune radio, and his near constant laugh. He was such a huge presence even the cats took notice of his absence, holding their own days-long vigil on his empty bed.

To maintain my sanity, I threw myself—arguably to an obsessive degree—into planning a celebration of Craig’s life. Plenty of people advised me such affairs are best held some distance off, but I’d hear none of it. I needed some sort of closure and didn’t want his memory, or any strength of emotion, to fade.

From dealing with funeral planners for my mom’s memorial, I’d seen the less sympathetic side of the death industry—with its upsold caskets, financing options and impersonal results—and wanted to avoid it altogether, instead taking a do-it-yourself approach and using only essential services. We booked the CARD Community Center for Sunday, April 6, a good venue for a short, organized service and longer, informal reception. Pictures needed to be gathered, an officiant needed to be found, music was essential, and there were tons of other details to look after.

We received an outpouring of support from local friends, who brought us meals, lent shoulders to cry on, and helped bring the memorial together—kindnesses for which I can never adequately express my gratitude.

I felt particularly empowered by the DIY course of action. Sure, I’d never planned a funeral before, but as I quartered and cut programs at Kinko’s one day, I realized it wasn’t much different from planning a punk show, something I’ve done lots more times.

Some days I almost felt like my normal self, and others I couldn’t pull myself out of bed, especially after nights spent lying awake in fear of what dreams and memories might come. Other days, I’d think I was just fine until I realized I’d been driving around aimlessly for an hour, afraid to go home and not find Craig waiting for me on our porch.

Craig rarely spoke of his own death, except in the past tense. “I’ve died on crosses,” he’d sometimes proclaim. “Crosses, Craig?” I’d ask, emphasizing the plurality. “Yup. Lots of them.”

I recall twice in the last year when Craig did mention his own mortality. The first was passing the Chico Cemetery, en route to grabbing some McDonald’s for lunch on his way to One-Mile, his favorite place in town, when he spotted a funeral taking place beneath a white canopy.

“They’re having a funeral today,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh. “There’s a body under that tent. That’s gross.”

“It’s not gross, Craig, just a part of life,” I offered.

“Nah. It’s just gross,” he said.

Around the same time, while driving through orchards outside of town, I pointed to a crumbling farmhouse with boarded-up windows, and said I thought it would be neat to fix up.

“I don’t like it much … looks like a spook house,” he said, again with an odd laugh. “Full of spirits. I hate ghosts.”

As I laughed, he surprised me by adding, “I’m gonna be a ghost someday, and I’m gonna come back to haunt you.”

A bit shocked but still laughing, I asked, “Why the hell would you even say something like that?”

“Oh what?” he said, feigning insult. “You don’t want me to come back and say ‘Hi’?”

Even today, I keep expecting him to jump out from behind a door and say “Boo!” I have an irrational fear of this happening, but simultaneously wish it would.

Just as Craig’s mental condition caused him to live between realities, my own daydreams and delusions have become more lucid and tangible since he’s passed. Thoughts I’d normally acknowledge with passing recognition become full-blown fantasies I’m prone to falling into, eventually escaping with details so fine-focused they’re difficult to discern from real memories.

This happened one afternoon as I was leaving the CARD Center on some pre-memorial business. Suddenly, I wasn’t sitting in the car alone in an empty parking lot under drizzling rain, but the sun was shining, the lot was full and Craig was beside me, dressed in the slightly too-small sport coat he’d gotten last Christmas and loved to show off at any opportunity.

“What are we doing here?” he asked somewhat nervously, the way he would when I’d surprise him by taking him to lunch or someplace unexpected.

“You’ll see, Craigy.”

“What are we doing here? Why are we stopping?” He asked a few more times as we walked through the main doors of the center’s event room, him even more confused to see it filled with family and friends.

“Look Craig, there’s Grandpa Tiger. There are your brothers, Corey and Chris, your sister Kim. There’s Dad, all your nephews and nieces, friends from Redding and Chico and San Diego … it’s a party, Craigy—a surprise party for you.”

He would have liked that a lot. Chris and I had talked about throwing him a huge, belated 50th birthday party. Missed opportunities, trips never taken and promises unfulfilled are the basis of many of these fantasies. If only I had one more year, one more month, one more week, even just one more day.

I was shaken from my daydream by a thought that made me laugh through my tears. All funerals are surprise parties. The guest of honor never knows when they’re coming.

One morning, a gas station attendant asked me how my day was going, and I was so lost in my own dark thoughts I almost blurted out an honest answer: “Pretty shitty. I just watched my brother’s body be burned to cinders.”

I was a bit taken aback the previous week when a funeral home director had asked if I wanted to be present when Craig was cremated, or as the director put it,“cared for.” He explained it was something of a trend for family members to attend. I said I’d like to be notified, and maybe watch from a distance, but was unsure if I wanted to endure that part of the process. I’d almost forgotten that conversation when the phone rang early the Monday morning before the memorial, the same director informing me Craig would be “cared for” at 10 a.m.

I was still torn, and waited until the last minute before deciding to head to the cemetery, where I parked about 50 yards from the crematorium building. I turned up the stereo—the Flying Burrito Brothers version of “Wild Horses” playing—and lit a cigarette, the last I’d share with Craig. I remember being surprised there was no smoke, only vapors rising into the gray sky against the falling rain. Even as his body was reduced to ashes, I felt his presence and apologized aloud for all the times I’d lost my patience or fell short in being the best I could to him. I thanked him for all he’d taught and given to me.

In my mind, the scene inside the building was playing out just like it does in movies—oven doors open revealing flames, a coffin slowly rolls inside, the doors clank shut, and then they’re gone. I sat there half an hour, thinking enough time had elapsed, then made the mistake of Googling how long it takes for a body to be cremated (I’d made the same mistake when he was in a coma). Apparently, it takes up to three hours for an adult male to be reduced to cremains. Part of me was scared to leave him alone, but a bigger part knew he was already gone. I lit another cigarette, pulled myself together, and drove away.

I am aware that my allusions to preternatural coincidences and spiritual mumbo-jumbo are typical of those experiencing great loss, and that some might write it off as a rationalization technique employed by the human brain to help make sense of life and death, which really make no damned sense at all. I might agree, in more clear-headed times, were it not for the most tremendous occurrence to happen in the wake of Craig’s passing.

On the weekend of the memorial, a number of out-of-town guests were scattered around downtown Chico when they began to notice the streets were filled with dozens of college students wearing red shirts emblazoned with a shocking message: “KEEP CALM AND CRAIG ON.” The same motto was written on fliers tucked beneath windshield wipers when they returned to their vehicles.

The swag was for a completely unrelated event at Chico State dormitory Craig Hall, and I realize the “Keep Calm” thing has been wildly over-appropriated … but it’s a coincidence of cosmic proportions, especially when you understand that Craig’s inner circle are likely the only people on the planet to regularly use the word “Craig” as a verb. He’d started it himself, substituting it in songs like “For Those About to Craig.” If we’d be getting ready to have a party, or go somewhere fun, he’d sometimes ask excitedly, “Are we gonna Craig tonight or what?” We also used the word to describe his various mood swings and levels of manic tension: a solemnly spoken, “Oh man, he’s Craig-ing out pretty hard,” might be cause for concern, while the same phrase spoken casually meant all was well.

A message perhaps, and one that shouldn’t have been surprising. Everyone who knew Craig well knew there was something otherworldly about him.

The memorial was everything I’d hoped for and more, a true celebration. All of the components served the purpose of paying tribute to the larger-than-life character Craig was, rather than depicting him as some sad mental-health tragedy shackled by his infirmity. At the end, we walked together to One-Mile, following the same route he took almost every day, and spread flower petals on the pool while our friends Kelly Brown and Lisa Marie played a song. The week’s rain had passed, and the sun shined as brightly as it did in my daydream.

Easter came just two weeks later, and it was tough. Craig loved holidays, though whether he really believed in the Easter Bunny or just liked chocolate and ham is debatable (his belief in Santa Claus, though, was quite real, a theme that figured prominently in his eulogy and in the memorial tattoo I intend to get—a Christmas tree, just like his). Kate and I exchanged candy, more in tribute to him than, well, Him, but without witnessing Craig’s child-like glee that morning, and with our families far away, it was mostly just another Sunday.

Two days later, I received a phone call from a woman with the donor agency, who said she knew the first month was hard and was calling to see if I wanted to talk. To my own surprise, I had plenty to say to a complete stranger.

She also informed me Craig’s corneas had been successfully implanted in a patient in Tunisia, giving sight to a blind person. I imagined Craig’s beautiful green eyes enabling someone—possibly and quite likely a child—to behold the Mediterranean Sea, or perhaps the Sahara Desert, for the first time, the thought of which I found not just comforting, but joyous.

I will never know the cause of Craig’s fall that morning, exactly how or why he died, and dwelling on details like that—and all the other “hows” and “whys” and “what ifs”—could drive me to dark places, if I allow them to. Instead, I think of how he lived a big life, was loved by many, and just by being himself taught those around him about tolerance, acceptance and unconditional love. I take comfort in knowing I helped provide him with a quality of life and close relationships rare for someone as acutely afflicted as he was, and my family’s efforts blessed him with a level of independence some doctors said he’d never be capable of achieving. I’m proud to have fulfilled the promise I made to my mother, and I’m grateful for every day I spent with Craig. And that’s all I need to know to keep on living.