My brother died of cancer in December. My family, the last all-WASP conclave in the country, don't talk a lot about feelings.
He was the first-born only son. I was the fourth daughter (after a girl who died as an infant). I was the caboose.
He went away to college when I was four. I have just a handful of memories of him then.
Somehow both my sisters and parents were out one evening, which meant he was, for once, babysitting. So he sat on me--"I'm babysitting!" he said. He must have been 16 years old.
I remember the flavor of the white cake from when he was made an Eagle Scout.
I remember we had his graduation party with those very chic plastic japanese lanterns in our backyard.
He got up early and made pancakes for his breakfast before going on a paper route.
He had a backpack from a Boy Scout Jamboree he went to--he carried it for more than 20 years I think.
He was with this girl forever. He married her in 1969. I can't imagine either of them without the other. They were forever forever.
I was constantly falling down as a kid--so I always had band-aids on my knees. When he got married, the big pre-wedding fight in our family was whether I would be a flower-girl with band-aids on.
He and I didn't talk much over the years. I visited home and would see him a little. He'd ask some question about whereever I was living. He had hobbies.
He bought my first son a Duplo train set.
During one visit home he took my #2 son down to the basement and they played with the model trains and old firetruck toys for hours.
We stayed next door to them after Katrina. We entertained family during the five months we lived in a house loaned by a very generous aunt. One day, my husband was invited to come over and help my brother "clean out the garage." Guess who moved the most stuff out of the garage.
When I came back to the city, I just didn't want to talk to anyone. Certainly not anyone who's entire city had not been smashed to hell.
When he was dying, I didn't call. I figured he needed his strength. I sent books on trains.
I didn't visit him. We were hoping that he would out-live the cancer. Instead, he died of skin cancer--despite his perpetual pale lifestyle.
It came for him.
It came and spread. It was less than a year. I was spared any knowledge of the first six months, because everyone thought it was cured by an operation.
He had brain tumors that blinded him for a while. He had to be in a wheelchair. Pinpoint radiation on those tumors shrank them a bit, but in the end, he was out of time.
In March, I was browning hamburger for tacos and I remembered him showing me how to do it so that the meat was reduced to tiny dark brown bits.
The last time he was in my city, we made an appointment to go around one of the tourist neighborhoods and he had a guide-book he was reading and looking at the mansions. I was looking at the tourists traveling in little mobs with their guides.
Last week I got three pictures of him in the mail. I don't know why they all came at the same time.
I haven't gone home yet. He was cremated and we will have a memorial in June. I am hanging on. Guilty about it.
My family had been spared cancer since my grandmother died of breast cancer in the 1950s. I grew up with white-haired ancestors who were often very healthy and independent until a brief illness or a serene "died in his sleep."
I have relatives in their 80s and 90s who go wherever they want. My old, memory-impaired mother, who was never without Menthol Benson & Hedges 100s--never got cancer.
It came for him.
I have run out of words to describe how I feel.
He was the first-born only son. I was the fourth daughter (after a girl who died as an infant). I was the caboose.
He went away to college when I was four. I have just a handful of memories of him then.
Somehow both my sisters and parents were out one evening, which meant he was, for once, babysitting. So he sat on me--"I'm babysitting!" he said. He must have been 16 years old.
I remember the flavor of the white cake from when he was made an Eagle Scout.
I remember we had his graduation party with those very chic plastic japanese lanterns in our backyard.
He got up early and made pancakes for his breakfast before going on a paper route.
He had a backpack from a Boy Scout Jamboree he went to--he carried it for more than 20 years I think.
He was with this girl forever. He married her in 1969. I can't imagine either of them without the other. They were forever forever.
I was constantly falling down as a kid--so I always had band-aids on my knees. When he got married, the big pre-wedding fight in our family was whether I would be a flower-girl with band-aids on.
He and I didn't talk much over the years. I visited home and would see him a little. He'd ask some question about whereever I was living. He had hobbies.
He bought my first son a Duplo train set.
During one visit home he took my #2 son down to the basement and they played with the model trains and old firetruck toys for hours.
We stayed next door to them after Katrina. We entertained family during the five months we lived in a house loaned by a very generous aunt. One day, my husband was invited to come over and help my brother "clean out the garage." Guess who moved the most stuff out of the garage.
When I came back to the city, I just didn't want to talk to anyone. Certainly not anyone who's entire city had not been smashed to hell.
When he was dying, I didn't call. I figured he needed his strength. I sent books on trains.
I didn't visit him. We were hoping that he would out-live the cancer. Instead, he died of skin cancer--despite his perpetual pale lifestyle.
It came for him.
It came and spread. It was less than a year. I was spared any knowledge of the first six months, because everyone thought it was cured by an operation.
He had brain tumors that blinded him for a while. He had to be in a wheelchair. Pinpoint radiation on those tumors shrank them a bit, but in the end, he was out of time.
In March, I was browning hamburger for tacos and I remembered him showing me how to do it so that the meat was reduced to tiny dark brown bits.
The last time he was in my city, we made an appointment to go around one of the tourist neighborhoods and he had a guide-book he was reading and looking at the mansions. I was looking at the tourists traveling in little mobs with their guides.
Last week I got three pictures of him in the mail. I don't know why they all came at the same time.
I haven't gone home yet. He was cremated and we will have a memorial in June. I am hanging on. Guilty about it.
My family had been spared cancer since my grandmother died of breast cancer in the 1950s. I grew up with white-haired ancestors who were often very healthy and independent until a brief illness or a serene "died in his sleep."
I have relatives in their 80s and 90s who go wherever they want. My old, memory-impaired mother, who was never without Menthol Benson & Hedges 100s--never got cancer.
It came for him.
I have run out of words to describe how I feel.
Comments
The 20 year old nephew of a friend has terminal melanoma - it too came for him. There is no sense, or logic, only a sense of helpless frustration.
For some reason I was thinking about movies yesterday. I remembered that I saw Jabberwocky, The Seventh Seal, and Animal House with him on visits in Boston when he lived there. I think it was the Seventh Seal--it might have been Love and Death.