There was no need to explain those two words. The voice on the other end of the phone was my Mother and she was calling me to tell me my brother had died. It wasn't a surprise. But receiving that phone call still felt like I had been punched in the stomach.
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My brother Joe died in May 2004 after a brief and brutal battle with skin cancer. He was 28 when he died. Since he was eight years younger than me (and my second brother eleven years younger) he was my first real exposure to the mothering instinct. We never played together like some siblings do, and there was never any rivalry. What I remember about both of my brothers is taking care of them (my parents divorced when they were babies) by doing things like feeding, bathing, and dressing them. They were like little play dolls only they were real and a lot more work.
I try to keep those memories fresh and live. The memories of holidays together, watching the Cowboy games, the teasing and the laughing, and even the commiserating about our dysfunctional family life. Joe was the typical middle child but definitely a bit of a hot head. He was the spitting image of my father and they even shared a name. I adored him. But the bad memories still seem to consume my thoughts.
The day when my mom called me to tell me his cancer was back - he had been diagnosed two years earlier but had surgery (no chemo) and they thought they got it all. But then that call came and I remember it so clearly. I was on the bus coming home from work in downtown Seattle. I started to cry right there on the bus. I'm sure people were staring.
The first time I went to Houston to see him. They allowed him to leave the hospital and come in for outpatient treatment. At this point we knew the treatments weren't working. I hadn't seen him in about four months. His appearance was shocking. So scary. There was a hasty wedding scheduled. He wanted to marry his girlfriend and we held a wedding in the chapel of MD Anderson hospital while I was there. I started crying a few minutes in and had to leave. It was overwhelming. My brother was going to die. It hit me like a ton of bricks.
An hour or so later we were having a small reception in the family room on the palliative care floor of the hospital. We were all trying to be in good spirits. Toward the end of the night my brother was sitting in a chair, and I went to sit on the ottoman at his feet. We were talking about the fact that he was starting radiation treatments again soon. He said "I don't know why we are doing this. I don't think I'm going to make it". It was the first time I had heard those words from him. I didn't know what to say. I held it together, but when it was time to leave I went in the parking garage and broke down. I cried a lot in those few days. I told my Mom and his wife what he said. They got upset too. It was a pretty awful night.
Not long after I received a call telling me my brother had a stroke. He was taking an experimental drug, and either the drug or the radiation was just too much for him. This time the call came from my Dad. He told me he made it to the hospital to see him before he faded into a coma. He said he bent down by the bed to tell him he loved him, and thanked him for being such a good son. My dad told me my brother reached out to hug him, but at this point he couldn't talk anymore. This phone call was the first time in my life I had ever heard my dad cry.
I returned to Houston to say goodbye to my brother. We met with his doctor, who told us Joe would never be the same and probably would not recover. We made the decision to stop all treatments and let his body go. I spent one night in the hospital with my brother before I went home. I talked to him, told him I was there, and told him how much I loved him and how grateful I was to have known him.
It took two weeks for his body to let go. He was so young, and from the neck down he was a healthy 28 year old man. But the cancer took him in just 6 short months.
I don't think it will ever stop hurting. It has gotten better with time, but I can still think of him and be in tears within seconds. I am not the best at processing emotions, so part of me is probably still stuck in the grieving process somewhere. Most embarrassing grieving moment - I was with friends once and someone said "if you could have anything in the world, what would it be?" as sort of a fun game that was supposed to bring a fun answer. I just blurted out "I want my brother back" and broke down in tears. Super fun. Not.
As a Buddhist I like to believe that we all live on and get another chance to reach our state of enlightenment in the next life. My wish for my brother's next life is this: somewhere a young boy is playing football in the front yard with his dad, and someday that boy will grow up and play for the Dallas Cowboys. Joe would love that.