My baby brother is dying.
Well, he’s nearly 51 years old; he has not been a baby for quite some time. It’s just…he’s still a baby to me. I’m the older sister who bossed, fed, changed, chased him; carried him around(until he was so tall, his feet dragged the ground), walked him home from school.
I am in awe of this man. So like that sweet baby; yet grown with a family. His faith is strong; his life an example to folks he will never even meet. (Those of you who know me personally, can appreciate what I say here.)
It’s a cruel process, as all of you know who have been where I am now. I was an RN for many years; some of those in Hospice. I have no illusions about this illness. I cannot afford denial. For one thing, there’s no time to waste on it. For another, what has denial ever accomplished or improved?
I decided to write. Baby bro has been blogging from the start; now that his disease is progressing, he constantly writes, blogs, records memories and musings. His mind has sped up, and we spend much time talking. It honors me…and at the same time, it takes me aback. He’s always been that kind of quiet, thoughtful person with whom phone convos were….odd, lol. He no longer pauses between comments. Too much to say.
One other thought tonight. I always thought that throughout life, the essence of who we are becomes clearer with time. Hard times—crisis, illness, sorrow—escalate the process. If we are good, compassionate, loving folk, our strength comes from this essence. Our own, and what is shared from those who love us.
Facing death is a distillation of essence. I’ve seen it, felt it. The soul becomes pure as starlight. My Baby Bro: he shines.
celtgirl60 