The Healing Trip (Part 11)

The panic attacks usually came at about three in the morning. Mine; not his. My brother's stress over dying came in short spurts during daylight hours. I had taught him how to breathe so as not to hyperventilate and often had to remind myself when they came in the middle of the night, when sleep had finally come as an old friend to rock me in hours with nothing to do. Nothing to clean up. No death to watch eat away my baby brother. No trips to Savannah to make. No calls to return. No visiting medical staff to welcome inside his home, the home we had grown up in. When panic woke me from my slumber, it came in nightly whispers: What are you going to do with all this when he is gone? How are yo

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