Ugly Cry

 My brother passed last Thursday, after a brief, very brutal battle with cancer of the esophagus. People always describe cancer as a battle, but in most cases, it seems like an ass kicking. An unfair fight. One that no one is ever prepared for. Overwhelmed, so many people- no matter how strong they are in healthy life- wind up just lying there and taking it. It doesn't give you much choice, depending upon the stage. You probably know that.

Pat entered the hospital on June 1. I drove up to visit on the second. He had lost a lot of weight; how much, he wasn't sure. It turns out they didn't have any scales in the house, so going off his driver's license listing him as 155, it was a good chunk. Knowing that the DMV prefers to reenter basic data as previously entered to move things and people along, I doubted that was accurate. Various DMVs had me for years at the 140 pounds I was at 16 when I first got my DL. Every female DMV employee has seen my eyes as blue. They are hazel. Pat was a full-grown man. He ate and drank like a man. He lost a lot more weight than the doctors guesstimated. I don't know that that really mattered.

As it stood on June 2, the only viable treatment was chemotherapy and that could not commence until he got up to a chemo-fighting weight. A tall order, but doable I thought. A google had told me that it was common- with treatment- that a person with his cancer could survive as long as five years. Pat was in good spirits and pretty mobile that day, all things considered, and we were both encouraged. We talked as we usually did about the Cubs and old times. His spirits were good. He had been plotting retirement after 40 some years at his company, and a move westward, like I had done when I had retired. A simpler life amongst the cornfields of Illinois, but I suspected, a little further south towards me that his wife intended. I brought that up as I left his room and he said he would be calling me about that soon. I took that to mean he was looking forward to drinking beer and listening to Cubs game with his brother, as I was with mine. 

Life comes at you fast, and death often comes faster. Sixteen days later he was gone. I visited two days before he passed and knew it was the last time I would see him. He could no longer speak at that point. When I entered the room, I stood at the foot of his bed and our eyes locked for a couple of very long, heartfelt minutes. I smiled encouragement. He could not smile back. I do not recall what I said platitudes-wise. If anything. I just don't recall. I am really bad at small talk. I had made a point to wear a Cubs shirt he had given to me on a previous birthday of mine. "I Like It Better When the Cubs Win" it reads. I hoped he could see that and I knew he would appreciate it. 

As these things go with many families, we chit-chatted while he laid there. A nephew is set to report to Federal prison next month. I got the full story on that. They asked about the progress I was making with my estranged son. I did not feel it was the time nor place, but my people can be real in-the-moment types. They don't have the filters I have. His wife and our oldest sister discussed funeral arrangements. I didn't like that one bit with my brother laying there, wasting away, in earshot. It was neither the time nor place for that, nor to make a scene. I deflected that conversation in another direction, but I honestly don't recall how. I think they picked up on the poor timing of their planning and also a prompt from Pat's daughter as well. Normal chit-chat ensued. 

I was there about three hours that day. I knew it was the last time I would see my brother. I had preplanned my goodbye. There is a very old family story that, like a lot of old family stories won't make any sense to outsiders. As kids, Pat wanted to be a civil engineer, like our dad. For Christmas he had been gifted something called a "Junior Engineering Kit". At some point, that kit went missing, never to be seen again. I was believed to be the culprit. Admittedly, I was a likely suspect. As a boy, I was always up to something! It was a running joke in the family for the rest of our lives that I did it. Honestly, I don't know. It sounded like me, but I still doubted I had done it. He got even by tossing out my Afrix soldiers my freshman year. He said I was too old to be playing with toy soldiers. He was probably right about that, but if anyone remembers themselves at that age, it's very okay to still be a dork. As brother's, we considered ourselves even with his revenge. We played along with the joke for decades after that though. Still, I did not want my brother to go to his grave thinking that I might have. I leaned over him and told him, "Before I forget, I want you to know that I did not take your Junior Engineering Kit!" If he could hear me, he would 'get' and appreciate that. I don't know if he heard me. Of course I like to think he did. Everybody gets their own closure- if they are lucky. I told him I loved him. That was more important. 

He passed two days later. I haven't ugly cried. I just don't do that. Tears for me come and go quickly, brought on by well-done TV commercials and films designed to tug at heartstrings. "Dad- how about a catch?" always gets me from "Field of Dreams". A part of me wishes I could breakdown and let it flow as it could have happened with the recent deaths of my beloved mom and my sister, Kate and now, Pat, but didn't. Death, to me isn't the end. It's the promise of more memories of loved ones. I celebrate their lives more than mourn the endings. That's just me. That's the way I do it. I don't want anyone to suffer. Whatever we think we know about death, it is the end of earthly suffering. It is the release we are all going to get someday. I won't mourn that. I'd rather celebrate the lives we shared.