Between Breaths
I sit next to my brother.
I hold his hand.
Warm… but different.
Not the same grip I’ve known my whole life.
Watching his chest rise.
Then fall.
Slow.
Heavy.
Like each breath has weight to it.
Sometimes his breath catches.
Like the body forgets for a second…
then tries again.
I don’t look away.
I can’t.
Because there’s always that space in between.
That pause.
And in that pause, a question shows up every time.
Is there another breath coming?
I find myself counting.
One… two…
waiting to see if his body chooses another breath.
The oxygen machine hums beside him.
A steady sound.
In. Out.
It fills the room.
At some point it stops sounding like a machine
and starts feeling like a heartbeat.
Not his.
The room’s.
Counting something I can’t measure.
His eyes are open.
And he’s not gone altogether.
He is aware…
And then he is not.
He comes in.
He drifts out.
Somewhere between both.
He can hear us.
I know he can.
But he can’t respond.
And that silence says more than words ever could.
We talk to him.
Say his name.
Tell him we’re here.
Not knowing what reaches him…
but saying it anyway.
He’s still here.
And he’s afraid of leaving.
I know that because he told us.
He’s not ready.
And no matter how much we reassure him,
no matter how calm we try to be,
no matter how much we tell him it’s okay…
He doesn’t want to go yet.
Is he somewhere else?
He is here.
And in between.
Is he already crossing?
Yes.
And yet… he remains himself.
Dying.
There are no words for that.
No clean way to understand it.
Just something you feel sitting right in front of it.
Everything tightens around this moment.
Nothing else matters.
Just his breath.
Just his body.
Just him.
There’s nothing to fix.
Nothing to control.
Nothing to hold on to.
This is the first time in my life
where doing nothing
is the only thing I can do.
So I sit.
I breathe with him.
In.
Out.
Matching what I can.
Just to be there with him.
Death might be coming.
But he is not ready to knock on that door yet.
And I stay.
Right here.
With him.
As long as he’s still here.
And maybe I’m not ready either.
2 comentarios
Gracias, Merly ❤️
Tú sí sabes que fueron momentos duros. Siempre voy a agradecer tu presencia, tu apoyo y el cariño durante todo ese proceso.
Gracias también por tus palabras. Las recibo con humildad. Si algo he aprendido en estos años es que todos estamos navegando nuestras propias batallas y haciendo lo mejor que podemos con lo que tenemos.
Tus oraciones, tu apoyo y el hecho de que hayas estado presente durante esos momentos han significado mucho para mí. 🙏✨
Carlos, I feel you 😔. It must have been so painful to be unable to do anything because it was beyond your control, and knowing that all you can do is provide comfort by being present for him in his final moments while saving those last memories. There is such a heaviness in knowing that he wanted to stay, in thinking about the experiences he missed out on, like watching his son become a man and having those father-and-son conversations. My heart goes out to all of you, recovering from such a loss is a never ending journey, but know that we, the ones who are part of your and your family’s lives, are here to offer our presence and loving energy; know that we hear you and receive your pain with the upmost respect and compassion, and know that we honor your inner processes and will continue to offer our support.
I would also like to give you a special shout out. It’s Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month and I know of your work to create a safe space for men to help them navigate the difficulties that come from a society that has certain expectations but offers little to no emotional support.
I send you and your family a long, warm hug 🫂 and pray for your healing 🙏🏻.