Beautiful Things, Hunter Biden [good book recommendations .txt] 📗

he was transferred to Walter Reed, with the hope that some rehab might help him to improve.

When I walked into his room there, Beau was clearly suffering; he clutched his abdomen in utter noncommunicative agony. It seemed to take forever to get hospital personnel to respond. As he was going septic, almost dying right then, he underwent surgery for a perforated bowel. They soon moved him to the neurological ICU, where doctors eventually decided to intubate him.

A little more than a month had passed since our time together in Houston, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. I planted myself in the chair beside Beau’s bed. His wife, Hallie, camped out in the room that was cleared for her next door. She’d go to sleep there around midnight, be back up at 5 a.m.

Beau’s tracheostomy tube was removed after doctors told us they’d determined recovery was no longer possible, and we waited.

Time slid by. Beau didn’t stir. I kept talking. I told him it was okay to let go now. I told him that his children, Natalie, almost eleven, and Hunter, nine, would be fine, that they had the whole Biden clan there to look after them, just as we did when Mommy and Caspy left us when we were so young.

I told him Dad would be okay, too.

“He’s so strong, Beau,” I said. “He knows he has to be strong for all of us.”

I promised him I would stay strong as well; he’d gone with me to my first AA meetings, found my first sponsor, and escorted me to rehab enough times to know what a tall order that was. I promised him I would stay sober. I promised I would take care of the family as he always had. I promised I would be happy and live the beautiful life we imagined together.

I had no idea then how many dead-end detours I’d take before I could finally keep those promises.

The twenty-four Bidens still roamed the halls. Some had gone home to shower or change or catch a quick nap, then hustled right back. Others dropped into Beau’s room, said their own words to him, or conferred with the dozen or so doctors and nurses and staff who’d been so kind to us through it all.

Beau continued to breathe barely perceptible breaths. I kept holding his hand.

My aunt Val and uncle Jim, Dad’s sister and brother, who practically raised Beau and me after the fatal car crash, came in and told me to get some fresh air, take a break, go for a walk. I declined. I didn’t want to be anywhere but beside my brother.

Finally, almost a day and a half after doctors had given Beau hours to live, Dad insisted I go with my brother-in-law Howard to pick up some pizza. The Bidens were hungry. I feared what might happen but went anyway. Ten minutes later, as we stepped inside the restaurant, my phone buzzed. It was Dad.

“Come back, honey” was all he said.

The family was crowded inside the room along with friends and doctors and nurses. Dad stood over Beau, holding his oldest son’s left hand in both of his and pressing it against his chest. My mother was beside him, while Hallie and her children huddled tearfully nearby. The lights were off, but the early evening’s last rays of sun slipped through half-open shades.

The heart monitor fell still. Dr. Kevin O’Connor, Dad’s White House doctor, stepped forward and solemnly announced time of death:

“Seven thirty-four p.m.”

The sea of loved ones that surrounded Beau—his kids, my three daughters, our wives, in-laws, a small colony of aunts and uncles and cousins—parted to form a narrow lane for me. I stepped through the opening straight to Beau. I took his right hand, across the bed from my dad. I pressed my cheek against my brother’s forehead, then kissed it. I reached out for my dad’s hand as it still held Beau’s. I bent and rested my head on my brother’s chest and wept. Dad ran his fingers through my hair and wept with me. He then bent down to put his head close to mine and we cried together even more.

No words. Our sobs were the only sounds I heard.

Then, amid this unbearable despair, I felt my brother’s chest expand just slightly. Next, I felt a heartbeat. I looked up at Dad, his eyes raw and red, and whispered, “He’s still breathing.” I turned to the doctors to say the same thing. They looked back at me with a mixture of concern and pity. One responded gently, “No, Hunter, I’m sorry, but your brother is—”

The heart monitor interrupted him. It started back up. No one else in the room really reacted; I’m not sure most of them recognized what was happening, they were so lost in their grief.

Understand, I didn’t think Beau had miraculously recovered. I believed he’d come back for only a moment—as if he’d forgotten his wallet or his car keys—so that we both could move on. He’d returned long enough for me to tell him what he already knew, and what I’d already said, just once more.

That I loved him. That I would always be with him. That nothing could ever separate us, not even death.

Then he took a last shallow breath, and left for good.

Dr. O’Connor pronounced the time of death once more:

“Seven fifty-one p.m.”

CHAPTER TWO

REQUIEM

We buried Beau seven days later.

Mourners sat shoulder to shoulder inside St. Anthony of Padua Roman Catholic Church, in Wilmington’s Little Italy. The church was built by its parishioners, many of them recent immigrants and highly skilled artisans, and the main building’s last stone was set down in 1926. St. Joseph on the Brandywine, our home church, built a mile away by local powder-mill workers, wasn’t big enough to accommodate everyone. Yet even at St. Anthony’s, guests were herded into an overflow room.

Among those attending: President Barack Obama and his family; Bill and Hillary Clinton; former attorney general Eric Holder; and Senator