Choices

This post is about the beginning and the end.

It's about birthdays, his and mine.

It's about choices we made, and things we didn't get to decide.

1991

When Alan was born, I was anxiously awaiting his arrival. I remember getting woken up early to go to the hospital. Mom and Dad hadn't yet picked a name for the baby. All morning, we waited for things to kick in and get going. It was as if this baby wasn't sure if it wanted to come. In fact, when he did, it was a struggle, having to be induced at nearly 10 pounds, a difficult delivery.

As a 9 year old kid, I was not allowed in the delivery room. I was initially sat down in a seating area down the hall, but I couldn't wait. I went up to the door, and listened to everything until they let me in.

Alan's life didn't start with a soundtrack, at least not music. Like the majority of people who enter the world in a labor and delivery unit, there was the sound of beeping machines, printing rolls of paper, the hustle and bustle of nursing staff, and the OB pronouncing orders -- to my parents to push or pull or hold or breathe, to the nurses to get this or that.

I waited outside that door, and as soon as they let me in, I saw his face, not yet cute like a baby, but the wrinkly red little monkey face cute of a newborn. I knew my life had changed forever.

2000

In the spring, I tried contact lenses. I started to notice increasing problems with the vision in my left eye, which I thought was related to the contacts, but it wouldn't go away. In the summer, I finally saw my ophthalmologist, Dr Vogel. She immediately knew something was wrong, and ordered visual fields and an MRI. At 17, sitting alone at the front desk of Sage Hall working as a desk clerk, I got a call from Dad that I should call Dr Vogel on her home phone and talk to her about the scan.

I had a tumor pushing on my optic chiasm. This was the cause of the visual loss. And I would probably need surgery.

My eighteenth birthday -- it fell right in the middle of the workup leading to surgery. I invited my friends from college who were in town over the summer. Lynne stopped by with a cookie cake pointing out that I still didn't have a driver's license.

For Alan and me, there was music. It seems goofy now, not what I would pick if given another chance. Alan and I would both talk for Kirby, the stuffed doll Mom made for him (twice). I decided he should be able to sing a song, and for whatever reason, chose Absolutely by Nine Days.

(In a high pitched Kirby voice) "This is the story of a girl..."

Preparing for surgery, I remember being afraid -- not for me -- I figured if I died I just wouldn't wake up from surgery and wouldn't know any different. I was afraid for Alan. What if I did die? What would Alan's life be like, losing a brother at the age of 8? I didn't want him to suffer like that.

2013

I had moved back to Iowa City from Chicago to work at the University the year before. Isabelle and I had been dating since September, and we were talking about next steps. The condo I was renting downtown was too expensive for the space you got, and I was considering buying a house. Isabelle had shown me houses she thought I would like all winter when I reluctantly went to an open house for a place close to work. Despite the Scandinavian elderly "charm" imparted by the owners at the time, there was a breathtaking mid-century modern mystique to the place. Immediately, I knew at some level this was the house.

Alan was deciding on where to go back to school. Comparing film programs in Minneapolis, Madison and Iowa City, he chose Iowa City. I guess you could say he chose me. I bought the house, knowing that if I stayed in my condo there would be no room for him. I did this, and agreed to let Alan live with me indefinitely despite my plans with Isabelle to move forward in our relationship. Alan was wary of this, and even promised to find a place of his own eventually, but I told him he could stay as long as he needed. And so, I chose Alan.

The soundtrack -- this was the summer of Lorde.

I thought this was too pop for Alan when I showed it to him, but then I heard him listening to it. A lot.

2014 (part one)

House renovations were nothing short of catastrophic -- hidden expenses, an incompetent contractor, frozen pipes, a leaking roof, tensions all around, a mountain of debt, lawsuits, and Alan living on friends' couches between nights in his squalid dust pit of a basement room in my house. Alan's legal problems started in early June. We had been trying to make sure he would see a mental health professional, and were busy setting things up, when suddenly the OWI happened, changing everything.

As Alan needed more support, Mom moved into my house, and I moved out to make room. In Mom, Alan had the most intense support that anyone could ever have. She was there for him in ways nobody else could be. She would cook for him, keep track of appointments for him, and see him through any trouble. She hunkered down for the long haul, but it was tough losing so much control in the house. Tensions ran high.

Alan must have known what Mom could do for him that I couldn't, but in the end, he still begged Mom to go back to Wisconsin. I guess you could say he chose me again.

Our parents left right before my thirty-second birthday. That weekend, Isabelle and I took Alan to Solon Beef Days. The soundtrack to that weekend was provided by that event, definitely not what we would have chosen.

We stood outside an old stone building that had been converted to event space, waiting for Isabelle, listening to the speakers blare this song, and Alan looked at me incredulously. Was this song for real?

Late that night, in the daze of recovering from the fighting, Alan couldn't find a bike rack, and left my bike unlocked outside of a Walgreen's. It was promptly stolen. Against my advice to let it go, find the serial number at the bike store, and report it to the police, Isabelle and Alan spent hours that night driving and walking around the not-so-nice areas of town with flashlights looking to see if they could find it.

Monday was my birthday, and Isabelle and I invited Alan with us for my birthday dinner. He almost bailed at the last minute, but she convinced him it was important to me. The restaurant we were going to go to was closed, so we ended up eating at the buffet in the casino. Afterwards, Isabelle would play the 2 cent slots and Alan electronic blackjack. It was a quiet birthday, and only Isabelle and Alan made it not feel lonely.

2014 (part two)

That last day started like any other. I woke up that Sunday morning, not knowing if Alan had made his way back to the house or if he had stayed downtown. I prepared for the Alzheimer's walk where I was giving a little talk to kick off the event. Alan and I saw each other in passing as he came home to start working on editing footage for class. The shoot was "shitty" according to him. He complained about the finicky internet. I told him it only seemed to be finicky when he was on it.

After the walk, I drove to Isabelle's. We decided to go to Cedar Rapids to look at a chair she wanted to buy for me. As we were shopping, I got a text from Alan about dinner.

Piecing things together, it would have been in a flurry of activity for him that afternoon. He had called and texted friends, asking if they could be with him. He had snapchatted a picture of himself with a tear drawn on his contorted face complaining about the footage he was editing.

I called him, and we talked about Isabelle and me bringing food to the house, if he could wait an hour for us to drive back down.

I guess we'll never know what he was listening to at the time, but in the very end, there was no soundtrack. His computer wasn't on. The radio wasn't playing. The only sounds would have been the hum of cars on the street down the hill, the chirping of birds, and the rustling of leaves. He would leave the world in that near-silence. Unlike his hesitant entrance, he must have been resolute, ready to go. There were no signs otherwise.

When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was his face. It would take me a while to process, step-wise, what I was seeing, what had happened, and that life had changed again, forever.