I was two minutes into my Spanish class when I found out that my 30-year-old brother went into cardiac arrest that morning and was being rushed to the hospital. After calling my mom and other brother, I left class and drove the two hours to the hospital my brother was at.

On the drive up, I thought about the probable outcome: my brother, my best friend, wasn't going to make it. He had been in cardiac arrest for over 40 minutes and didn't have any oxygen in his brain for about 20. I didn't know anything that had happened or what the doctors were saying, but I had already accepted that I was going to lose my brother.

When I got to the hospital and saw almost my entire extended family on my mother's side, I learned that pretty much everyone had already accepted that we were going to lose him. We stayed in the hospital for hours on end until we were able to see him. On that day (November 14th, a month away from his birthday), the doctors weren't really hopeful. He hadn't much brain activity, but he was still (barely) responding to people holding his hand. He was on full life support but was slightly breathing over the ventilator.

I wasn't able to stay the night with him that night because it was his first night there. I left around 10:30 p.m. and came back at 5:30 a.m. the next morning. He still hadn't improved much, but he was stable. More family came by to see him, and so did his high school friends--some he hadn't seen in over ten years.

I didn't actually cry until Wednesday the 16th when the neurologist told us to prepare for brain death. He was deteriorating, but still slightly breathing on his own. I fell to the ground and sobbed for ten minutes with my mom and aunt in the room. Like I said: we had all accepted it; but actually hearing it was completely different. They sent us a social worker and the organ donor services to prepare us. It was official: I was going to lose the most important person in my life.

During the week that Andrew was in the hospital, I left for maybe six hours total. I slept in a recliner by his bed Tuesday night thru Friday night and watched Star Trek with him (for the first time--he had always been trying to get me to watch it with him) and I got to talk to him. While he never responded, the week that I spent with him in the hospital was great. I loved spending time with my brother in silence.

Then on Friday, November 18th at 1:22 p.m., the neurologist declared him brain dead. My heart broke. I didn't know what to feel. My eldest brother--my best friend--was dead. I wasn't ready to say that I only had one brother. I wasn't ready to be that girl who's brother died. But at the same time, my brother wasn't hurting anymore.

Andrew was bipolar and refused treatment because of the stigma against bipolar disorder and mental health in general. That was something we bonded over, as he moved back in during my first depressive episode when I was 14. We helped each other out. Unlike him, I wanted to be treated for it; that was where we differed. But we were always each other's best friends. While I was devastated, I was glad that he wasn't hating himself or his life anymore. He was at peace.

When my family and I left the hospital Saturday night before they took him to the OR for organ donation, I was a mess. It was the worst feeling I ever felt; knowing I would never see Andrew again. Even thinking about it now kills me. It's only been a few days, but I miss my brother so damn much. While I'm still in shock, I have no idea what I'm going to do without him. I never thought I'd have to be without him.

I may have lost my brother and best friend, but I gained another life goal: to help end the stigma against mental health. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to do it, but I've got time to figure it out. I don't want another sibling to go through what my brother and I are going through, or a mother or father to go through what my parents are going through because of the stigma against mental health.

Andrew, I am always going to love you and miss you. I'm sorry that this had to happen this way, but I'm glad you're okay now. I promise that I'm going to do everything that I can to help others. I know you'd want me to. I love you.