The Story

Asking questions can be scary. It can lead to answers you aren’t sure you want to hear. Or, in my case, I waited so long to ask it felt awkward, wrong even – like I should already know the answers. So, I didn’t. I didn’t ask, and I let everyone assume that I know, and I convinced myself that the questions weren’t important to begin with. Where did you come from?

Mikael is my brother. My half-brother. He has been in my life for as long as I can remember. My first memories of him are going to visit the restaurant where he worked. I must have been about 4 years old. My parents would bring my sister and I there for lunch. I’d greet him with a warm hug, and he would greet me with a chocolate milkshake in a clear, tall glass topped with whipped cream. I was a shy kid, but he always felt like home. He was a 20 something from South Dakota that came to California to find my Dad at 17 after his mom died, and he never left. Our dad. He never lived with us. I didn’t even know he was my brother at the time. Nevertheless, we would get to the restaurant, and I would immediately climb into his lap to enjoy my milkshake. I’ve loved him my whole life.  

The day I found out Mikael was my brother was a joyous one. It was the day he asked my sister and I to be flower girls in his wedding. Actually, he asked my parents. My mom and dad sat my sister and I down to tell us about the wedding. We squealed in excitement at the thought of white dresses and tossing flowers. They then stated quite plainly that Mikael is our brother, specifically, my dad’s son. Even better! We thought. No questions asked. We celebrated by practicing walking down the hallway as though it was a church aisle. I’m sure my parent’s sighed in relief at that. I think back at that moment and remember feeling like I just received the best Christmas present ever. I have a Brother! And that Brother is Mikael – my favorite person.

I don’t blame my 5-year-old self for not asking questions. But what about now? Where did you come from? Who are you?

Mikael is like the sun. I don’t know how else to describe it. He has a gravitational pull, and once you are in it, you are hooked. People just naturally revolve around him. He is not a saint, by any means. He is not a gentle soul. He does not always say the right thing. He is a grand gesture person. He is as good as listening as he is at telling stories. He once told me that when he walks in a room he feels as though it his responsibility to bring the group together to have the most fun and connect. He is all about connection. Just don’t make him your emergency contact, because he is horrible with his phone. He claims it’s because he is so present in what he is doing.

Anyways, I will start this story in my favorite way to read a story – at the end.

~

It’s my sister’s birthday, and she just had her third baby a week ago. Literally, 7 days exactly. She is our family manager, planning majority of the get togethers and always creating the vacation itineraries. She’s the fun captain. We laughed when she sent us the invite to her birthday dinner. A week post-partum and two toddlers at home? But here we are! She never ceases to amaze me.

Mikael and his wife Karen beat us to the restaurant. They welcome us with drinks at a table overlooking the bay when we arrive. We hug and chat while we wait for our table. Pre-dinner drinks are always a must. Mikael starts to tell us about his trip to South Dakota; they just got back a few days ago.

“Megan and her husband just bought a little rental right by Mt. Rushmore. Such a good investment, it is getting really popular now for tourism,” he explains.

“Megan…?” I interject. 

“My stepsister,” he continues. “It was perfect weather while we were there. Just gorgeous! I was showing Karen around, and I realized just how beautiful it really is there. I never really noticed that growing up. Sometimes you don’t realize how proud you are of where you came from until you see it from someone else’s point of view.” He’s glowing. When he tells a story, you can’t help but become utterly absorbed. I melt when he talks.

His stepsister, I think as the conversation moves to football. I know he grew up in South Dakota. I know his mom died when he was 17, and I know that he lived with a friend’s family while in South Dakota. But… stepsister? Was it a term of endearment? I don’t think he was ever officially adopted. Was he? I should know this. I’ll ask another time.

Our table is ready. All 8 of us, plus one tiny baby, shuffle to our table and find a seat. Mikael is the last one to sit. The only empty chair is right in the middle. He happily takes it.

“Well look at you! Shocking... Found yourself at the center of the party yet again,” my Dad chuckles. Everyone laughs.

“It’s not my fault!” Mikael pretends to be defensive. He’s right, of course. He was the last person to sit down. But, time and time again, Mikael naturally finds himself at the center of our universe.

Dinner is lovely. My sister and I left our toddlers at home. Any dinner without them can be described as pleasant. “You really aren’t going to have another one!” my Brother teases. “Then you can each have three! I always wished we had one more.”

I laugh. This is not the first time I have heard this, nor will it be it be the last. “I am happy with my two! And so are you!” I point out. “You always claimed you wanted another, but you got two that are pretty perfect. What if they third came out… weird?” He laughs.

We talk about the kids. In the rare evenings that we get to leave the kids behind and have adult conversations, we usually wind up reminiscing about the funny things they did in the days before.

I didn’t even tell my girls that Uncle Mike and Auntie Karen were going to be at this dinner, they would have been too disappointed. They love Uncle Mike. They’ve never met anyone like him. The amount of effort he puts into making those girls laugh truly exhausts me. My girls have a tough exterior. They quite often scare away visitors with their unamused glares. But he can always get them to crack. No stone-faced toddler will intimidate Uncle Mike.

As the evening progresses, so does the flow of alcohol. My Brother and I share a passion for craft cocktails. “You see this,” he says swirling his glass. “A good cocktail has to have one large, solid ice cube. Now this,” he takes a sip, “is a perfect cocktail.” We cheers, and he puts his arm around me in a half hug. I am not a touchy-feely person, but with him, I embrace every moment. He is like a giant teddy bear.

When it is time for cake, Mikael dramatically performs his rather loud rendition of the birthday song. He sings it far too quickly and cheerfully because, in his words, nothing is worse than a slow and boring happy birthday to you. His goofy face lights up as he looks at my sister with her baby. He looks so happy that tears might just burst right out of his eyes at any moment. His expressions make it hard to look at anyone else, even the birthday girl during cake time.

Dinner has come to an end. The Thursday night crowd is an early one, and we have nearly shut down the restaurant. The poor staff wants to go home. We go outside to start the goodbye process, which takes a minimum of 15 minutes in our family. “I’m parked on the street,” he explains, pointing in the opposite direction. “I didn’t want to get the Raptor dusty in the dirt parking lot!” We all buckle over with laughter. “Mikael, it’s a truck! God forbid it gets dirty!” My mom pokes him, tears forming on the corner of our eyes. What a great night.

Having said my goodbyes, I’m standing off to the side with my sister, yawning. It’s past my usual early bedtime. “You look so cute!” She says to me as she kicks my Brother in the butt. “Mike, take a picture together really quick!” He happily wraps an arm around me while we pose for our very last picture together.

~

It’s 7:33am the next morning. I wish I could say I was just waking up, but my youngest started crying just before 7am. My husband holds her now as we finally decide it’s time to accept defeat and give up trying to squeeze a few more minutes of sleep in. My phone rings. It’s Karen.

“It’s Karen?” I tell my husband confused. This is weird. “Hi Karen,” I say, slightly panicked. She sounds calm. I take a breath. About a hundred things run through my head in a split second. Maybe they got food poisoning? “Your brother had a heart attack late last night, and it’s not looking good.”

My whole body is tremoring. I repeat her words carefully, partially so my husband can hear them and partially for myself. My husband doesn’t react. “So he’s alive, right? Where is he? Where are you? Are you okay?”

She’s at the hospital. He’s in the ICU on life support. I don’t exactly know what I say next, but she interrupts with, “Your mom is calling on the other line, let me get this,” and hangs up.

My husband is still standing there with my youngest. Why has he not moved? Does he not see my life as I know it ending? “Take her downstairs,” I order him, and he leaves me as I fall to the floor, screaming.

~

We have two kids, babies. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart for long. They need diaper changes, clothes, breakfast. They need me. My husband does most of the morning routine, but I hear them calling for me.

I kiss my girls and my husband goodbye, as I make the hour and a half drive to the hospital. My parents are already on their way. My sister has a week old; she is staying home until we know more.

I haven’t talked to God in a while, but now I can’t stop. I’m a broken record. A literal, broken record of a human. Please God. He can’t die. He can’t die. Don’t let him die. Please God. Over and over again. I am conscious enough to think, what is wrong with me? Just stop talking! But, I can’t. I say those words out loud, by myself, over and over and over.

I don’t believe in signs, but sometimes they’re unavoidable in the end. Maybe it really is God or some higher power. Maybe it’s the brain protecting itself, searching for answers.

The trip to South Dakota, where he came from. The perfect family dinner last night, meeting the baby. It’s his last moments, tied up with a bow. I hate the perfectness of it all. And I hate the finality of it.

There’s hope. That’s what we all keep saying. If anyone can pull through Mikael can. We don’t know the extent of the damage.

Except, I do know. Deep down, I do know and so does everyone else.

~

7 days. 7 days of heartbreak and hope and despair and miscommunications and family meetings and specialists and EKGs and blood pressure and kidneys. Each day, the next worst day of our lives. Until, the inevitable.

We sat in silence in a hospital conference room. His wife, kids, my parents, myself, and a lady I met hours before. “Who is she?” I ask my mom, perturbed by her presence. “His sister,” she replies. I about choke. His sister? I’ve never seen her before. I’ve never heard her name before. Not stepsister? But like, his biological half-sister? Turns out, yes, they have the same mom. Different dads… definitely not my dad. I immediately hate her. She doesn’t belong. I’m not used to feeling territorial.

“I’m so sorry to give you this news. We wanted you to have all of the details and be able to ask any questions you may have.” Mikael’s lead physician was sitting across from us, alongside his cardiologist, his pharmacist, his internist, and his neurologist. Something tells me they don’t often bring in everyone for this type of conversation. But they knew from day one that this case would be different. Because it’s Mikael. And we would not stop fighting for him until the very last moment.

~

Live Like Mike. It became the slogan for the weeks to come. It became the theme for his celebration of life.

I sat and listened to strangers call him their brother. They seemed nice.

There are a lot of details about Mikael's past that I simply did not know. Does that mean that I didn’t know him? Or at least, didn’t know him quite as well as I thought? How could I love someone so deeply, spend so much time with them, celebrate every holiday and birthday together, and not know them?

I did know him. I’m sure of that. But Mikael is like the sun. And he had worlds other than our own.

Mikael once told my Dad that he didn’t like him telling his friends about him in the way that he does. “I don’t want to be ‘The Story’,” he would say. My dad told him, “But Mikael, it is a great story.”

I will one day find the answers to my questions. Or rather, I will one day find the courage to ask them. To admit my ignorance.

I will one day learn the full story, just not from the person I wanted to hear it from.