Epiphany. One word, four syllables. Epiphany is a noun that can be described as a point of realization that can change a person’s perspective on life. Epiphanies don’t happen often, and the last time an epiphany hit me it was July 23, 2023. The heart monitor was yelling at us in a quiet beep. His chest raising and falling with every forced breath the mechanical ventilator shot down his throat. The lingering stench of defecation and death lingered within the four walls of room 208. His skin was cold to the touch, it could have been mistaken for an ice cube. His hair disheveled from the countless EEG’s and brain scans the doctors and nurses performed. This wasn’t him. I know this wasn’t him, but I wanted to believe it was.

“He’s gone. Both you and I know that” Kimberly, my mom would say. I looked up at her, my eyes filled with tears, I could only see a blur. The corners of her frame were smudged with sorrow and denial. He wasn’t gone. He can’t be. He’s supposed to be in Oregon. He is in Oregon, he has to be. 

“He’ll wake up, I know he will, he has to…” my lie to myself was interrupted by my own broken sobs. I knew he would wake up, he wouldn't want this. He’s just sleeping, he’ll wake up. I’ve never seen my Dad cry before. I never have seen him so upset, I didn’t think he could cry. 

July 24, 2023 at 1:00pm. Uncle Tim, the supposed survivor, was wearing his infamous Cardinals baseball cap, the ventilator still down his throat, his eyes still eerily closed. He was supposed to wake up. Where did my Uncle Monkey go? This isn’t him. When the nurse wheeled out his stretcher and began the Walk of Life down the never-ending halls of the hospital. When I heard the sound of other heart monitors beeping and when the same mundane, eggshell white walls closed in on me. It hit me. All of the tears, all of his family crowding in the halls, his body lying coldly in the same stretcher he was put in 2 days earlier. I realized that it was true. He was gone. I knew he fought hard to stay alive, but it wasn’t enough. The grim reaper sealed his inevitable fate. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. What I wanted to believe wasn’t true. I won’t hear his laugh. I won’t hear his jokes. I won’t see his smile, and I won’t see him. 

That was the first time I saw my Dad cry. He was saying goodbye to his buddy, his companion, his brother. He wanted Uncle Tim to wake up just as much as I did, but we both knew at that moment; our dreams will not come true. He will never see another baseball game. He will never tell another joke, and he will never see another year, but knowing the fact that he is no longer in pain and that he is now with his best girl, Terra, one of my Aunt’s boxers (as in the dog) who passed just a few months before he did, and it brings peace within my Dad and I. 

It’s now December, and he saved 2 people in the hospital he was in with his organs. He saved 3 other people with his other organs. I don’t know who they are, but my Uncle saved their lives for the cost of his own life. He was rewarded with a medal for being a hero. He is a hero, he is my hero. He was always busy. He never sat still. That is a trait I have picked up from him. I’m always doing something. I also picked up my joke telling. I am now always cracking the jokes he told me hundreds of times. I know Uncle Tim is gone and it’s hard to come to terms with it, but I know he saved lives. He was honored at a Cardinals game and was honored with the first pitch. There is one lingering question that hovers in my mind and I know it hovers in my Aunt’s mind too. What are we going to do with all the Cardinals stuff in the basement?