The first thing thing that comes to mind when Daddy tells me she’s brain dead is Emily King’s “Every Part.” I don’t summon it, it just plays, gently like background music to my next thought:
“She’s always been brain dead.” It’s a reflex. I want to say it. Then I want to laugh. Because that’s what cousins do. And that’s what I would do if this were a normal day and everything was okay. But this was not a normal day and things were not…are not okay.
“Coma”, Daddy’s text said. “Brain dead…permission…pull the plug…today.” I turn off my phone after that. I don’t want any chirp or buzz to signal the exact hour that ended Tyree’s 28 years of life.
I slip into my safe mode and welcome the music.
All you ever do, make me smile. All of the time, all the time.
When Daddy tells me that Tyree will die, I think of all the inappropriate times she’s died before. The girl was always dying of laughter and it was always contagious, at least to me. Whenever we’d get in trouble Daddy would yell, we would cry, and Tyree would cackle like a jackal. Her laugh was iconic. She had a hyena’s howl with a hint of Woody Woodpecker and I can’t believe I’ll never hear it again.
I play “Every Part” 42 times between 9:59 am and the minute I set foot in my apartment. I don’t bother to dam my tears at all as I let the memories roll. I think of monkey in the middle in the days when I was the runt and thus automatically the monkey. I see us bouncing up and down Blake Avenue in search of the biggest fifty cent Freezie pops and playing handball behind her project building.I feel our own Camel Joe in my arms, all concrete and warm from the summer sun. I hear her gasping and shouting “run!” after gunshots ring out from the other side of Unity Park. I see her leaning up against the wall, out of breath with laughter once we were all safe. “You were so scared,” she howled.
I don’t know when they’ll pull the plug or if the deed is already done. I haven’t checked in since I got the news. That’s when I flatlined. I wasn’t overly grateful for our last real heart-to-heart. I wasn’t incredibly remorseful that we didn’t talk more often like we promised before we hung up. I’m just a steady stream of shock and sadness.
Today I had one of those moments where you think you’re crying because the food’s cold. Or because work was tougher than you expected. Or because you got home late and everyone was on your nerves and traffic was a blip and you’re too tired to stand, and you ache from your head to your ankles. But really I knew I was crying because the rug was snatched from under me again this morning and I’m finally feeling the fall.
I knew I was crying because she is– or was– or will be gone so suddenly. I was crying because this loss is both acute and dense and I can’t get over or under or around it and I will have to go through it. I cried because I’m already leaving for a funeral tomorrow and no matter how you cut it, a lot is a lot and this is a hell of a lot to deal with. I will always remember that cackle. I will always drool with laughter when I tell the “Fixed Her Braid” story. I will always think of Tyree when I see Mariah Carey on the swing in “Always be My Baby.”
At the end of the day, after I stuffed my sorrow with fried rice and washed away the work week with a tall glass of wine, when all had left me was the sadness and the song, I sank into the hottest of baths and let the music play.
“Ohhhh, you will always be in my heart, every part. Every Part.”
Keeping you in my prayers.