No One Should Die Alone

Death should allow the last goodbye

I lost my brother to drugs ten years ago. He was a heroin-addicted. During his adulthood, he did go through detox programs. Several times, he got clean with the help of these programs and also by himself. Locked in my parent’s house, sweating, crying in pain, despairing us (we had no idea how to help him), he did “dry cleanings”, he beat the addiction by himself. But only for a couple of few weeks, if much.

Heroin was always stronger than his will and our love for him. He always went back to her.

I loved my brother deeply. He was six years my senior. He was my protector, a true big brother.

He started using drugs very early in life, but he was always clean when he was with me, at least until I was a teenager. Maybe for me, or maybe the addiction wasn’t severe back then. Either way, I’m glad I have memories of my “real” brother.

Until heroin stole him for good, my brother was my hero. I was more attached to him than to anybody else, even my parents. I have another brother, three years my senior, but we were never close.

My big brother knew firsthand the dangers of drugs; for that, he wanted to protect me from that world.

I was about 14 years old when he made read Christiane F. and Flash (both autobiographic books about drugs). He didn’t offer me the books for me to read whenever I was in the mood. No: he made me read them. At night, we’d talk about the parts I read; he’d ask me questions and answer mine.

Everybody in our neighbourhood knew I was Louis’s sister. And when I say everybody, I’m referring to drug-users and sellers. We lived in a nice and safe town, but they marked their presence there, like in any other town, I guess.

My brother had spread the word that no one would ever offer me any kind of drugs. If someone dared, they would regret it. His threats worked; I was never approached; unlike my friends that were offered “a very nice thing”, outside school.

My brother’s rule was if I got curious about weed — the only thing I was allowed to be curious about — to go to him. Which I did, when I was 16.

I smoke my first joint with my brother and others after that. But I was forbidden to think about trying anything else. If I smoked joints without him, he had to know with whom I smoked them and where I got it.

In his way, he protected me the best he could.

I grew older; I moved out of my parent’s house; I went living with (a terrible choice of) a man and I had a son.

While my life was moving forward, my brother’s was stagnated. Years went by and the only constant in his life was heroin. He never got divorced from her.

Throughout the years, my brother had periods of going out of our radar. Our family would go months without news from him. Then, one day, he would call, sometimes asking to stay at my parent’s house for a couple of weeks, which always ended badly. Living with an addict is an experience I hope I never have to repeat.

On the 20th of June 2009, I received a phone call from my heartbroken mother saying my brother had died. My big brother was gone.

We haven’t spoken for over a year and I can’t remember the last time we talked like brothers. The memories I have from him, of his last years alive, are from a sick-looking man; thin and toothless. He had the junkie’s look.

But he was still my beloved brother. He was my only blood relative I felt truly close.

I loved him, despite every shitty thing he did to me and my parents. The drugs made him do it, but the acts came from him. I forgave him, a long time ago.

During the fateful phone call, my mother informed me where my brother was. The address was close to where I worked.

I called my partner; he came to pick me up, and we went to the address — an abandoned building.

When we got there, I didn’t have the courage to go inside. I was afraid of what I was going to find; I wasn’t strong enough to face my brother’s dead body.

My partner went inside the building with the paramedics who arrived shortly after us.

My brother died alone.

My partner described to me how he found him. He was lying on a mattress on the floor, sat with his back against the wall, his head falling forward. In his hands, he had an open book.

My brother’s facial expression was peaceful. Death seemed to have been merciful to him.

But he died alone.

His death didn’t come as a surprise. He was 42 years old, drug addict for over 25, HIV positive for 15 and living on the streets for over 5 years now. We were expecting this phone call for a long time.

The hardest part of grieving my brother is the fact he died alone.

Even if it was a peaceful death, he had no one to give him a hand. I don’t know when he last heard “I love you.” Was he hugged recently? Was his life entirely about drugs?

I find comfort in knowing he was reading. It’s the most vivid memory I have of him — when he was still him. In the morning, he would spend hours at the kitchen table, eating bread and cookies, while the newspaper or a book. When he was home, he was always reading.

My brother died doing something he loved.

But he died alone. And for that, I’m very sad.

No one should die without a last goodbye, without having a meaningful person close.

I’m not referring to the act of dying itself. For being so unpredictable, it’s hard to guarantee we won’t die alone.

I’m talking about dying alone, having no one by your side in your last phase.

My brother died apart from me, from my father and my mother. My brother didn’t see his daughter grow up, nor had a loving wife by his side.

My brother lived for heroin, and he died for her. He died alone, and that breaks my heart.

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