My phone call came on a Wednesday afternoon. It wasn't unexpected; my older brother, Bob, was diagnosed with lung cancer last fall, the doctors stating it was terminal. The only question now was how much time he had left; they thought they could buy him time with radiation, but decided they couldn't.
His wife, Cathy, called to say he was in the hands of the hospice folks, those dear people who manage pain, and ease ones exit from this world. Within 90 minutes, I had a flight to San Diego, and hotel and rental car reservations.
My decision to fly down to see him was, in part, selfish. My wife and I talked about my going down, even before the phone call. I wanted to see him, and talk to him before he slipped into the drug-induced fog that would free him from his pain, possibly rendering him unable to recognize me. Like I say, it was a selfish decision.
Bob is the consummate story and joke teller. He can hold an audience, spellbound, and sometimes somniferous, for hours.
Had I been his older brother, rather than he mine, I would have steered him toward a career as a stand-up comedian; he is that good, and that gregarious.
I flew down the next day. After getting a car and checking into the hotel, I called Cathy, and we drove to the VA nursing home in Chula Vista that evening. The woman is carrying an emotional load that would crush most people.
Once in the room, Bob looked at Cathy, but hadn't spotted me yet. He turned his head, his eyes popped open, and he said something like, "Oh, my God." He wasn't expecting me.
He had just been given a major dose of painkillers, and struggled, mostly unsuccessfully, to stay alert. The real Bob struggled to the surface, battling to speak a cohesive sentence, and then sank back into the narcotic haze like a drowning man.
I was grateful for the time with him that night, but disappointed that I may have waited too long to visit. Back at my hotel that night, I was saddened by the notion that I wasn't able to properly say goodbye to my brother.
To my surprise, the next day my brother was back, so to speak. He was more alert, cracking jokes, teasing the nurses and holding court with anyone willing to listen.
To say I was pleased would be an understatement. My concern was how long this could last.
It lasted through my visit on Friday, and for my last visit on Saturday. That last visit was both wonderful and terrible. The brother I knew was there, yet as I looked into his eyes I knew he was dying; it was surreal.
We knew we were saying goodbye, almost certainly for the last time.
On the phone a week or so earlier we agreed there would be no crying fest when the time came, so while eyes brimmed with tears at times, we maintained our composure.
We reminisced, hugged and kissed, joked and reminisced some more. Bob said that he and Cathy had returned to God at some point in the past, and that he was at peace with his fate. I was glad his faith made his quietus easier to accept.
We hugged and kissed one more time, and blew each other a kiss as I left his room. The hall lights in the building glistened more than usual as I left.
Death holds no mystery for me. My personal beliefs free me of either expectations or fear. I often describe life using the analogy of the "proper" English sentence - it starts with a capital letter at the beginning, and ends with a full stop, or period.
Likewise, life starts with birth, and ends with death. Without both, there can be no life.
My brother, like all our family, tends toward optimism and humor, finding as much joy in life as we can. I like to think that due to our Irish heritage, as we reach the end of our lives, we look back with more pleasure than pain on the path we've trod.
As of this writing, Bob is still with us, and to the extent I can, I'll talk to him on the phone with help from Cathy, but my lasting memory will be of the big brother who is full of life, happiness, stories and a litany of jokes.[[In-content Ad]]