Thursday, June 19th, 2003. 10:11 a.m.
Marlene, my half-brother?s mom, called our office in hysterics. Her son was in the hospital. That?s nothing new; he had been floating in and out of clinics and hospitals for the last few years because of his drug habit.
I opened my mouth to tell her that yes, the hospital had called me at 4:45 Tuesday afternoon to say he was readmitted, and that they needed me to sign a treatment authorization form, but when I got to the hospital early Wednesday, he had already been discharged.
?He?s DEAD!? she screamed into the receiver, her voice trembling. ?They discharged him to a skilled nursing facility and he died Tuesday night!? Despite her being a few hundred miles away I could see her tear-streaked face, her eyes bloodshot from crying those tears that only a mother could create after hearing that her only son is dead. I could see her quavering lips pressing against the handset as she waited to hear something ? anything ? to the contrary even though she knew the truth.
?Are you sure?? I replied, quite unsure of how to react. I had never been old enough to be impacted by the death of a family member. ?I went there yesterday and they said he was discharged.?
?Yes! I just called them. He died Tuesday evening. They brought him to the skilled nursing center and there was nothing more they could do for him. His body is still over there. Oh God.? She started again with a fresh outburst of wretched sobbing. The hurt and the agony in her voice was something I know would haunt me for years and was something I wished I would never hear again.
I transferred the call to my Dad. There was nothing more I could say. No words of comfort would cross my mind. My lips were dry, my stomach had cramped up and cold blue ice shot through my veins instead of blood. I felt dead.
I stood in my father?s office doorway as he talked to his distraught ex-wife. As I listened to the conversation, the eternal optimist within me devised a theory. She said they told her he was deceased. They told me he was released. Could it have been possible that they patched him up quick and let him go, and his mother misheard the outcome? I volunteered to call the nursing center with a tiny glimmer of hope in my voice. We?d told Marlene that we would call her back after we checked with the hospital.
?Pavilions, can I help you?? A young female voice answered the phone.
?Yes, I understand my brother, Gregg Griswold, was admitted there on Tuesday??
?Yes, and our records show he was discharged that same day. Hold on.? With that, hope blossomed in my heart. Discharged. Released. A few moments later she came back on the phone. ?Our records show that he was discharged the same day.?
?A?.are you sure?? I stammered. I wasn?t quite believing the fact that they?d just let my brother go the same day they admitted him. I had a vision of my lanky, malnourished sibling stumbling around the streets of San Pedro looking for his next fix. ?Where was he released to??
?I can?t tell you that sir. You?ll have to talk with the family.?
?I am family. I?m his brother. His mom?.his mom just called. She said he was dead.?
?Yes, that is correct.? She replied with a twinge of concern in her voice. ?I?m not supposed to release that information but he is deceased.? The hope and optimism flooded out of my body again. It was cold all of a sudden.
On June 17th, 2003, at 6:30 p.m., my brother, Gregg Patrick Griswold, had passed away.
I relayed the news to my dad who had to break poor Marlene?s heart all over again. I sat back down at my desk, numb except for the throbbing sickness in my stomach. Then the regret began to sink in.
Before he fell, Gregg was a pretty decent guy, and a caring husband, son, and brother. The next thing I knew, he abandoned the family business after a fight with my dad, and that was the last I heard from him for a couple years. He?d call occasionally to ask for money and I?d have to turn him down because I didn?t have much to give to charity. All I knew about his whereabouts were what my parents told me, which was that he was pretty much a worthless drug addict.
Not until earlier this year did I finally get a chance to talk with Gregg. I visited him at USC County hospital where he had undergone emergency heart valve replacement surgery. To say he looked unwell would be a gross understatement. His hair was long and unkempt, he hadn?t shaven for days, and all of his facial features were sunk inward like the life had just been drained out of him.
We talked for hours, catching up on things, and I finally got to hear the story of his downfall. After being plagued with horrible migraine headaches for months on end, he attempted heroin usage as a last resort. It fixed his headaches but ruined his life. He lost his job, his car, his wife, his house, and his reality. All that mattered was the heroin. He attempted to get ?clean,? and was rewarded by getting run over by a drunk driver as he walked across the street from the halfway house where he was staying.
Months of painful recovery followed that accident, and his leg never fully healed due to his continuous interaction with opiates. Finally, a blood infection caused by his injuries traveled to his heart, infecting a valve, landing him in the hospital where I found him.
The more we talked the more I realized that some people never change. Gregg was always one to find the easy way out; he was the master of the ?Get Rich Quick? scheme. I told him of my recent accomplishments and my plans for the future, expecting to get some words of congratulations and support from my big brother, but was instead met with criticism about how I?m wasting time when easier money could be had.
As much as I wanted to be there for my brother, he came off as an ingrate during my visits, simultaneously thanking me but criticizing the items I had brought him to make his stay at the hospital a little bit easier. I did the best I could to help him but apparently that wasn?t enough. I figured if I couldn?t help him materially, then I could help him emotionally. I offered assistance getting him into rehab or Narcotics Anonymous. He declined, saying he?d tried them all and failed.
I figured there was nothing more I could do for him and left, with one phrase from our conversation sticking with me the entire time:
?The doctor said if I use just one more time, I will die.?
Rest in Peace, big brother.
In Memoriam:
Gregg Patrick Griswold, 1962-2003
cliff's notes: My brother died. I feel bad.
Marlene, my half-brother?s mom, called our office in hysterics. Her son was in the hospital. That?s nothing new; he had been floating in and out of clinics and hospitals for the last few years because of his drug habit.
I opened my mouth to tell her that yes, the hospital had called me at 4:45 Tuesday afternoon to say he was readmitted, and that they needed me to sign a treatment authorization form, but when I got to the hospital early Wednesday, he had already been discharged.
?He?s DEAD!? she screamed into the receiver, her voice trembling. ?They discharged him to a skilled nursing facility and he died Tuesday night!? Despite her being a few hundred miles away I could see her tear-streaked face, her eyes bloodshot from crying those tears that only a mother could create after hearing that her only son is dead. I could see her quavering lips pressing against the handset as she waited to hear something ? anything ? to the contrary even though she knew the truth.
?Are you sure?? I replied, quite unsure of how to react. I had never been old enough to be impacted by the death of a family member. ?I went there yesterday and they said he was discharged.?
?Yes! I just called them. He died Tuesday evening. They brought him to the skilled nursing center and there was nothing more they could do for him. His body is still over there. Oh God.? She started again with a fresh outburst of wretched sobbing. The hurt and the agony in her voice was something I know would haunt me for years and was something I wished I would never hear again.
I transferred the call to my Dad. There was nothing more I could say. No words of comfort would cross my mind. My lips were dry, my stomach had cramped up and cold blue ice shot through my veins instead of blood. I felt dead.
I stood in my father?s office doorway as he talked to his distraught ex-wife. As I listened to the conversation, the eternal optimist within me devised a theory. She said they told her he was deceased. They told me he was released. Could it have been possible that they patched him up quick and let him go, and his mother misheard the outcome? I volunteered to call the nursing center with a tiny glimmer of hope in my voice. We?d told Marlene that we would call her back after we checked with the hospital.
?Pavilions, can I help you?? A young female voice answered the phone.
?Yes, I understand my brother, Gregg Griswold, was admitted there on Tuesday??
?Yes, and our records show he was discharged that same day. Hold on.? With that, hope blossomed in my heart. Discharged. Released. A few moments later she came back on the phone. ?Our records show that he was discharged the same day.?
?A?.are you sure?? I stammered. I wasn?t quite believing the fact that they?d just let my brother go the same day they admitted him. I had a vision of my lanky, malnourished sibling stumbling around the streets of San Pedro looking for his next fix. ?Where was he released to??
?I can?t tell you that sir. You?ll have to talk with the family.?
?I am family. I?m his brother. His mom?.his mom just called. She said he was dead.?
?Yes, that is correct.? She replied with a twinge of concern in her voice. ?I?m not supposed to release that information but he is deceased.? The hope and optimism flooded out of my body again. It was cold all of a sudden.
On June 17th, 2003, at 6:30 p.m., my brother, Gregg Patrick Griswold, had passed away.
I relayed the news to my dad who had to break poor Marlene?s heart all over again. I sat back down at my desk, numb except for the throbbing sickness in my stomach. Then the regret began to sink in.
Before he fell, Gregg was a pretty decent guy, and a caring husband, son, and brother. The next thing I knew, he abandoned the family business after a fight with my dad, and that was the last I heard from him for a couple years. He?d call occasionally to ask for money and I?d have to turn him down because I didn?t have much to give to charity. All I knew about his whereabouts were what my parents told me, which was that he was pretty much a worthless drug addict.
Not until earlier this year did I finally get a chance to talk with Gregg. I visited him at USC County hospital where he had undergone emergency heart valve replacement surgery. To say he looked unwell would be a gross understatement. His hair was long and unkempt, he hadn?t shaven for days, and all of his facial features were sunk inward like the life had just been drained out of him.
We talked for hours, catching up on things, and I finally got to hear the story of his downfall. After being plagued with horrible migraine headaches for months on end, he attempted heroin usage as a last resort. It fixed his headaches but ruined his life. He lost his job, his car, his wife, his house, and his reality. All that mattered was the heroin. He attempted to get ?clean,? and was rewarded by getting run over by a drunk driver as he walked across the street from the halfway house where he was staying.
Months of painful recovery followed that accident, and his leg never fully healed due to his continuous interaction with opiates. Finally, a blood infection caused by his injuries traveled to his heart, infecting a valve, landing him in the hospital where I found him.
The more we talked the more I realized that some people never change. Gregg was always one to find the easy way out; he was the master of the ?Get Rich Quick? scheme. I told him of my recent accomplishments and my plans for the future, expecting to get some words of congratulations and support from my big brother, but was instead met with criticism about how I?m wasting time when easier money could be had.
As much as I wanted to be there for my brother, he came off as an ingrate during my visits, simultaneously thanking me but criticizing the items I had brought him to make his stay at the hospital a little bit easier. I did the best I could to help him but apparently that wasn?t enough. I figured if I couldn?t help him materially, then I could help him emotionally. I offered assistance getting him into rehab or Narcotics Anonymous. He declined, saying he?d tried them all and failed.
I figured there was nothing more I could do for him and left, with one phrase from our conversation sticking with me the entire time:
?The doctor said if I use just one more time, I will die.?
Rest in Peace, big brother.
In Memoriam:
Gregg Patrick Griswold, 1962-2003
cliff's notes: My brother died. I feel bad.
