The phone call came in the middle of the night – my brother passed away. He had been in a nursing home for a very long time – close to two years I think – with deteriorating health leading to congestive heart failure at the end.
He was eighty years old, so this is not a tragic loss, but he is my only brother. I can say that I’m ready to deal with this, that it’s been a long road for him, and us, through this illness, but in all honesty I’m not sure that anyone is ever really ready.
Memories rush forward in my mind, in a slide show of sorts, playing out the years. Funny things, sad things, crazy things, all in a jumble. Perhaps I’ll be able to make sense of it as I go through the next few days. Iggy (I have no idea where that nickname came from) was a lot older than me; he had already graduated from high school when I was born, so we weren’t growing-up-together-siblings in the traditional sense of the word, but he did live with us off and on over the years, and when he wasn’t living with us he was still close by.
I have no regrets, and that’s one of the best things. In July 2010, he had to have part of one leg amputated and I drove often to see him in the hospital. A day or two after the surgery he asked me not to leave him, and I was able to stay all night. The hospital staff was great – they brought me one of those recliners that all hospitals have, and I dozed off and on while the Three Stooges Marathon roared in the background. He also dozed, and we talked off and on. He told me secrets and talked about his dreams and regrets about his life; that night was the closest we had ever been. Our conversation was what I imagine siblings sometimes share, however rare it might be, and I will ever be thankful for that. The funniest postscript is that afterwards he didn’t remember that I was there! I’m OK with it, though – I remember.
I wrote this poem last January, after a visit with him. Somehow it says more than I can manage right now:
On Visiting My Brother
He had just graduated high school
when I was born –
starting out to have his own life,
as I was, too.
He belonged to an older generation,
not really brotherly
as I was growing up,
but I adored him, and
he did offer to beat up
any boys who bothered me.
As the eldest sibling, his job
was to look after me,
but he was the one always in trouble.
He had a Harley, rode fast
with the Hell’s Angels —
I still can’t believe
our mother didn’t know.
So it seems only fitting, now
that he’s in hospice care
that I should look after him.
I, too, have a Harley.
Somehow, though, it’s not the same.