Aneurysm Part II — How do you spell aneurysm?

My sister-in-law dropped me off at my parents’ house late that night — my brother’s car was in the driveway.

As we pulled into the large, circular drive, the house sparkled with white lights – I smiled softly at the three large wooden, cutout angels gracing the yard, who in recent years, had become a fixture of mom’s Christmas wonderland. In flight, their large wings seemed to invite passers-by into the family home — fitting as this time of year, it seemed as if their door was always open.

I knew the whole house would be decorated like a Macy’s holiday display. I always looked forward to Christmas at my parents’ house – to many, it was overkill – but to me, this house represented everything Christmas was meant to be.

As I opened the front door, I braced myself for the painful familiarity that would greet me. Immediately I was met with smells of mom and dad, mixed with Christmas – cinnamon sticks and sugar cookies. I inhaled the aroma to the point where I could decipher – and taste – my mother’s favorite pear lotion. It was like a warm hug – it was like she was there.

The house was covered in Christmas – and I knew both Santa and the baby Jesus would be incredibly proud – mom always did properly represent. “Where are they now?” I thought bitterly.

Fighting back tears, I looked for my brother and dad — my original family sans one. It was quiet — too quiet for this house, I thought.

I took inventory. Two large trees – one in the dining room (her “formal” tree, mom calls it), and one in the family room (the “babe’s in toyland” tree – affectionately named for all of our childhood ornaments collected over the years) – stood tall and decorated, but dark.

“No,” I thought to myself. “No, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.” I immediately turned the trees lights on, trying to establish some sort of normalcy – or maybe hopelessly clinging to the possibility that if the lights were on, mom would magically appear out of the kitchen. She didn’t.

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

I found dad — he was on the phone, sharing the unexpected news with family and friends. I walked through the hallway leading to the back rooms – the “gun room” was dad’s domain (and the ONLY room in the house that remained Christmas-less), however, mom had, in pure mom form, bogied a part of his precious room, deciding this room would be a good place for their humble technological hub.

Guns – mostly collectibles and special editions – hung proudly throughout the room. The irony hit me two-fold – first, a room that so strongly represented safety and protection – yet when we needed it the most, they merely became just chunks of worthless wood and metal on a wall. Guns were no match to what mom was up against.

Second, mom’s bursting aneurysm was, in fact, like a bullet tearing flesh – hot, piercing and unforgiving.

The dichotomy seemed to callously laugh in my face.

The irony seemed to escaped my brother who sat quietly in front of the computer. Staring intently into the monitor, the glow from the screen illuminated his pale skin making him look like he was made of wax – soft and fragile – he looked as if he could melt at any second.

“How do you spell aneurysm?” he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Honestly, I have no idea, James – I’ve never had to spell it before,” I replied. “What are you doing – what are you looking for?”

He was looking for information on brain aneurysms. A Google search came back with thousands of hits. Descriptions like “trauma,” “lack of oxygen,” “suffocate,” and “death” appeared.

My brother ran his hands through his hair – a trait he’s had since he’s been a child – it meant he was either nervous or angry. I think at that point, he was both.

I immediately intervened and said very matter-of-fact, “James, mom is not a typical case – don’t treat her as such.”

James continued to look. Concerned, I lightly touched his shoulder and said in a much softer voice, “You’re going to drive yourself insane looking at this, turn it off.”

Heeding my advice (or humoring me), he turned off the computer. He walked into the hallway where mom’s memories were immortalized – photo after photo of family and friends – some dead, some living, all remembered.

I believe for the first time, James took a hard look at the montage gracing the walls. He studied each photo carefully until his eyes stopped at a family portrait.

I was about 15-years-old and wearing entirely too much blue eyeliner, James was a skinny little 14-year-old with a head full of platinum hair – dad sat proudly in a large wicker chair and mom, mom looked beautiful – radiant. I realized at that moment she was James’ age when the photo was taken.

What my brother did next both shocked and touched me simultaneously. Always serious and a master at the proverbial “poker face,” he reached out his hand and extended his long index finger. Very lightly, he touched the photo – more precisely, gently touched mom’s face in the photo. I saw tears in his eyes, but pretended not to notice.

He went back that night to the hospital – stayed with her all night long. I’m pretty sure he climbed into that hospital bed and held her as long as he could. What I am certain of is that night as we anxiously waited what morning would bring, he lightly touched her soft cheek.