Does the shit ever end?

I know that my last post said I would be absent for a while due to not having access to my laptop or internet other than thru my handheld. But, my nerves are shot and writing has ever been one of the best tonics for soothing them.

A lot of bad shit has transpired in my life over the course of the last month or so. One of those things has been the illness of my oldest brother, who I wrote about in the post about the VA giving me PTSD.

On Thursday of this week my brother was released from the VA hospital in Tuscaloosa. I went and picked him up and brought him to my moms where he lives. He has a lot of appointments he needed me to carry him to next week and then he was going back to the VA and go through the PTSD program.

For the 30 plus days he was in the psych ward he had been weaned off methadone and valium. Everything at my moms had been destroyed...or so we thought. Late Thursday evening my brother told me that he had left some important records in Tuscaloosa and needed me to take him back on Friday to get them. I said I would.

So we set out yesterday morning around 8 am. He was fine until about half way there and then I noticed his speech beginning to slur. I asked him what he had taken and he said 1 1/2 methadone.

"I thought you didn't have anymore" I said..

"I had some hid", he said.

I was pissed....but kept driving and he went on the nod.

Around the time we got to the Cottondale exit I noticed his breathing was funny. Like someone who has sleep apnea. But he was breathing. When we got to the McFarland exit I decided to wake him up. I reached over and shook his leg and called his name..."John...wake up man we are almost there." His leg was cold and odd feeling. I got absolutely no response. I shook his leg again....nothing. I slapped his face and his whole head fell backwards like it was boneless. His face was turning blue and I couldn't get a pulse.

I was scared absolutely shitless. My oldest brother had just died in the seat next to me.

I pulled the car into the Parade service station at 31st East and called 911.

The 911 operator said I had to get him out of the car and lay him flat on the pavement. Now, my brother is a big man...well over 200 pounds and I wasn't sure I could move that much dead weight. However those stories you hear about inhuman strength under extreme stress are absolutely true. I snatched his big ass out of that car like he was nothing more than a bag of feathers.

The operator told me to clear his airway, which unfortunately, was chocked full of tomato biscuit that mom had sent with us for breakfast. So, for at least two minutes all I was able to do was dig tomato biscuit out of his mouth and throat.

When that was done the operator said to begin CPR. "I don't know CPR", I said. So he gave me instructions.

"Put your hand under his neck and tilt his head back." As soon as I did that he took a huge gulp of air ..but only one. "Now pinch his nose closed and breathe into his mouth three times." I did. "Now administer 25 chest compressions and if he hasn't started to breathe on his own give him 3 more breaths."

Luckily Fire and Rescue showed up as I was doing the chest compressions and took over. It took them about 20 minutes to get him going on his own and then they took him to the hospital. I followed.

When I got to his ER cubicle he was awake..thanks to Narcan. He said, "What happened?" I am not sure I have ever wanted to slap him so bad in my life.

"Oh nothing really..you just overdosed on methadone, choked on your tomato biscuit and died in the fucking car seat next to me. I had to drag you out in the parking lot of a gas station and administer CPR in front of a gathering crowd and wait for the ambulance to get there. How much of that shit did you take?"

"I only took 2 and a 10 mg valium."

"You LIAR!!!! You just wait til I get you back to the fucking house..then I'll put you in the hospital with the worst ass kicking you have ever had."

That made the ER staff giggle.

I stopped then before I lost my remaining sanity. I knew if I didn't stop I'd jump in his ass with both feet and that was neither the time nor place for it.

"I'm going to smoke and make some phone calls", I said.

"Don't call Mama", he said.

"What...you think I didn't call her when your ass was laying dead on the asphalt of the Parade gas station having your heart shocked and tomato biscuit dug out of your throat? Oh yeah, the doctor found your pill stash and gave them to me. Take a good long look at this methadone, because, when I walk out of here I am flushing it and you will never get another one." And that is exactly what I did.

I know I sound like a harsh, hypocritical, asshole, since I smoke pot, but what has happened to my brother was not pot related and, in my 21 years of smoking pot, I have never died on anyone driving down the road.

Later on my brother was moved into an MICU room. I went in to tell him bye and he said, "You did CPR on me today?"

"Yes", I said.

He started crying and said "You saved my life and I am so happy because I am not ready to die."

"What else could I have done" I asked him..."You're my brother."

Many thanks to the owners/workers at the Parade on McFarland and 31st. East for the use of their asphalt, the free paper towels they provided so I could clean the tomato biscuit off my hands and for their genuine concern about how John was doing. If you live in Tuscaloosa stop by there get some gas and show them some love.

Many thanks also to the 911 operator who helped me keep my brother alive until the ambulance got there. And many thanks to Tuscaloosa Fire and Rescue for getting there quickly and taking over for my amature ass.

I was talking to a friend about this last night and they said for xmas they are getting me a defibrillator that plugs into my cigarette lighter.

Moral of this story....If you are gonna take enough methadone to kill a fucking elephant please skip the 'mater biscuits....they're hell on an airway. And go take a CPR class