Reflections on Loss and Comforting

My brother, my only sibling, lost has six-month battle with gliobastoma two months ago.  With my parents also gone, I feel fully an orphan.  I have lost those who shared my childhood, the links to our shared history.  I feel cast adrift from the moorings that anchored that part of my life.  But I do not feel sorry for myself.  Others have lost so much more, some at such an earlier age.  Indeed, I am incredibly fortunate to have had him for so many years, to have shared visits and vacations, endless phone calls, and to have together forged a bond that has so enriched my life.

I spent his last three weeks at his bedside, along with so many others that loved him. He could barely speak at first and, then, not at all. He slept almost all of the time, before he lapsed into the total sleep of his final days.  Yet somehow this period now stands out as one of the richest of my life.  I was surprised and initially troubled at that thought.  How could this be so?

While he could no longer muster the strength to talk to me, I still talked to him, recalling our times together and expressing my love.  I had done that, of course, when he was healthy, but it seemed now to take on a special meaning and of course was unobstructed by the reserve that often pervades so much communication among men.  I held his hand, stroked his brow, and kissed him gently.  We had a closeness in those final days that was a tribute to the love he engendered in me.  I would give anything NOT to have had this happen to him or to have had to do this with him.  But I did not have that choice, so I am grateful beyond words that I had the opportunity to be so close to him.

When someone dies, we tend to think of what the loss means to us individually, but the person we lose is the hub of a web of relationships. My brother knit together the strands of his children, his devoted second wife, her children, their grandchildren, my wife, our children and family, me, and of course a network of friends - all of whom formed the rich fabric that he wove with his love.  Even Mitzvah, the pup that nestled next to him on his bed for hours each day, was an inextricable part of the blanket of people who kept him surrounded with warmth.

What I did not expect when his time in hospice began, but which I now see with thankful clarity, is how caring for him would strengthen the bonds among all of us, making us so grateful not just for him but for each other. We shared our pain and grief, but in doing so we shared our love and support with each other as well as with him.  He gave us the strength to persevere through his weakness. Strange as it seemed to me at first, it was the beautiful, last - and lasting - gift he bestowed upon all of us.

Illness disrupts our lives.  If we care about caring for the ones we love, the practical and emotional consequences of illness take a toll.  Yet life's disruptions, both delightful and incredibly sad, shape us, probably as much or more so than all the things we plan and use to put order into our existence.  I shall mourn my brother for the rest of my life, but I will be thankful for him as well, for all he gave me during his life - and for what he gave me at the end of it.  

Photo Credit: Cathy McCray