An Account of December 2011
By John Cooney - College Roommate of Dustin

In the field of psychology, there’s something called flashbulb memory. These types of memories can be traced back to a single moment of influence or trauma in an individual’s life. During these moments, the brain takes a snapshot of that instance, just like a picture. Typical memories have a tendency to blur and fade over time. But flashbulb memories are captured in high-definition, capturing every element in the clearest, most vibrant form and color. These memories can act as road signs in one’s life, unconsciously beginning a new chapter in life’s book. This is my flashbulb.

December 2011 I was a sophomore in college. Life was good, filled with friends and laughter. My biggest concerns were grades, girls, popularity, and success. I lived with four of my best friends: Austin, Andrew, Braden, and Dustin. Masters of our own futures in a place full of opportunity and promise, we felt invincible. The fall semester was wrapping up and the time had come to return home to enjoy our holiday breaks with family, friends, and home cooked goodness.

It was December 15th. I had only been home for a few days when I received a call from a friend at Baylor. She sounded worried on the phone. “Have you heard anything about Dustin?” she asked. I had exchanged text messages with Dustin the day before and nothing seemed odd. I told her I had heard nothing. She then told me reports were beginning to surface about a Dustin in Arkansas being murdered. Apparently this Dustin had been the victim of a home invasion murder-suicide. My mind raced: Dustin is from Arkansas. Surely there are thousands of people there sharing his name. The conversation ended with a promise to keep one another updated.

Immediately I called each of my roommates. I distinctly remember what each of them was doing when they picked up the phone. Braden was shopping for Christmas presents, Austin was exercising at his local gym, and Andrew was enjoying time with his family in California. I spoke with all of my roommates, but not Dustin. His phone went straight to voicemail. I logged onto my computer and looked at Facebook. On the central newsfeed I saw a post somebody had written on a friend’s wall. “RIP.” I didn’t yet see who the exchange had taken place between. I didn’t want to, but I think I already knew. It was a message posted on my roommate Dustin’s Facebook page.

Rest in peace. The reality of those words did not even begin to register in my mind until three days later. At the time, I simply felt numb, foggy minded, and heavy with something I would later know to be grief, I remember receiving calls with words of comfort and sorrow throughout that first day. To me it didn’t seem real. Complete shock and inability to process the situation in my brain clouded everything with a deep, heavy cloak. Emotions were nonexistent for me. I didn’t know what to feel, and even if I did, how to feel it.

The third day was different. The reality of my friend’s death was beginning to invade my numbness. I remember packing for his funeral, preparing the words I planned to say. All of the roommates were asked to speak. Living with him during his final days felt like a sacred gift I had been given. I wanted to portray him as the man he was, the Dustin we knew: always loving, driven, and never failing to make others feel special. He was the type of person you wanted to become.

As I packed, I suddenly felt the harsh but numb pain of his death transform to a sharp, desperate pain. I dropped to the floor. I gasped for air, clutching my chest in desperation. For the first time, my mind turned from Dustin’s death. My entire mind and body was focused on simply breathing. I was taken to the closest hospital, Sugar Land Methodist. I remember refusing an IV in the ambulance. I hate needles. The paramedics told me that with what was most likely a panic attack, I would be in and out of the hospital within a few hours. Upon arriving at the hospital, I spoke to a nurse while in the hospital bed. I must have been medicated because at this point I was a bit sleepy, but finally calmly breathing. The world around me became nonexistent and finally, I rested.

I awoke to cloudy thoughts. It is blurry, but I remember speaking to the X-ray technician before falling asleep again. When a patient complains of chest pain, standard medical procedure calls for X-ray examination and a CT Scan.

I woke up in another room. This time a bit more awake and alert. A little later, the doctor walked in. He introduced himself and explained that I had experienced a panic attack triggered by the trauma of losing my friend and roommate. I asked if I would be able to go to Arkansas the next day for the funeral. The doctor said it was most likely I would be out of the hospital’s care in about one hour. Abruptly a nurse and medical technician walked into the examining room. They asked the doctor to step out and talk. When they returned, their faces grave, they told me the scans had actually revealed a large mass near my heart. I would need to be admitted into the hospital’s intensive care unit (ICU) for immediate treatment.

The rest of that day could be told by explaining one medical examination after another. The mass was obstructing my superior vena cava, a vital organ carrying blood to my heart. My liver and kidney soon shut down as a result. I was moved to St. Luke’s Hospital after spending two nights at Sugar Land Methodist. On Tuesday the 21st, a biopsy was done on the mass, which we learned was a teratoma tumor. It would take five days for pathology to determine whether or not it as malignant. In the meantime, I was not stable so I spent the night in the hospital’s cardiovascular ICU.

The next morning, the surgeon performed a sternotomy, opening up my chest and removing the tumor from my body. I vaguely remember the night before surgery knowing I was going to undergo an operation the next day. Due to medication, I was extremely calm about the entire situation. To me it was just another medical procedure. My days were measured by another needle, another scan, or another unsmiling conversation with hospital staff. By this time, I was used to it. It was not until I woke up, post-surgery, that I realized by sternum had been cracked open. The feeling is not something you forget. One word describes it better than any other: fragile. On Christmas Eve, the news arrived that the tumor was not malignant. I have never received a better Christmas present.

I don’t know if I would be alive today if not for that panic attack. The doctors said it was inconclusive as to how long I had to live, but with that tumor pressed up to my heart, my life would have been taken swiftly and quietly. They said I was lucky to be admitted to the hospital when I was. The two events are so intertwined I cannot separate them. This encounter with death will forever shape me. Dustin died, and somehow I live. The conclusions I have tried to come to frustrate me. I can’t make sense of it. Something, though, is painstakingly clear.

Three days after Dustin’s death marked the first time I was able to think about anything else. The prospect of my own demise is what it took to make me think of anything else. It was a moment of desperation and pain, but at the same time complete clarity. Suddenly life was simple. My entire mind was devoted and focused on attaining oxygen. I was completely engulfed in a single thought: just one more breath. The past and future carried no significance. The only thing holding any weight was that moment. The only thing I wanted was air.

For me, this translated into a direct message from Dustin himself. Though at the time I didn’t realize it. It was a message so sweet, so personal, and yet universally applicable. It is a message I want to live out for the rest of my life. It makes me want to live fuller, run faster, shout louder, breath deeper, and love stronger. I wish I had received this message through different means, but the past can only shape who we are today. It can only make us better and stronger if we let it. I will end my account of these events with Dustin’s message:

Fight for that next breath. Focus on it. Find peace in it. Constantly be in the now. Never take tomorrow for granted, allow the past to shape you, and continuously live for today. When you fall down, stand up. When you wake in the morning, give thanks. And in everything, love the ones around you.