George: a brother's story My name is George, I am 46 years old, and I live in Missouri and I'm married, and I have a seven-year-old daughter. My brother died almost 20 years ago from cancer. In the final six months of his life, I became his principal care provider. At that time I had returned to college to work on a neglected degree program, and I was also working a part time job. Even as I invited my brother to share my small, rented home, however, I harbored an unspoken resentment. Here we were, both in our twenties, and I was being held responsible for my younger brother, again. Further, I became frustrated at his refusal to move boldly against his disease. Now I believe he felt paralyzed by the prospect of his ordeal, and the gravity of his circumstance. Russ began to have problems with his right shoulder after a one-vehicle wreck when he rolled a jeep on its side. At the time he had a job delivering pizzas, one of a series of food service jobs he held after leaving college in the late 1970's. In the wreck, he suffered an unusual bone fracture, the doctor told him. The fracture healed, but Russ shortly thereafter developed a lump on his back, midway up the right shoulder blade. At the time, there was no diagnostic link between the bone fracture and what became a soft tissue sarcoma. To me, the coincidence made a connection likely, but the specialist expressed no hypothesis about the origin of his sickness. Russ was slow to react to the lump, a classic symptom of potential cancer. He balked at going to a doctor to have the lump examined. It grew to about the size of a golf ball. Older than Russ by almost two years, I badgered him about getting the lump examined whenever we got together, but we saw each other irregularly, and I had given up trying to coach him or influence his life. Weeks passed before he sought treatment or even diagnosis. When finally he took that step, doctors determined he had a malignancy. They tried to remove it surgically, but the cancer spread, in surgery, trying to eradicate the cancer, they took part of his right scapula. This measure was especially drastic for my brother, because he was born without a left hand. The surgery limited the strength and mobility in his right arm. The good old days At his physical peak, a couple of years earlier, Russell was healthy and even robust. One of my favorite surprises as an older, larger brother, was the first time he wrestled me off my feet during horseplay in the back yard. We were each in college, home for some holiday, and the surprise made both of us laugh. It seemed to say, "he's not just a little brother anymore". Russell had a passion for reading history, listening to music, and for baseball. He kept spiral ledgers filled with his own compilation of statistics extracted from official histories, he was a fan who delved into the world of numbers and trivia, but he also appreciated the live game. One of his part time jobs was to umpire games for recreational league softball. One summer he also traveled by bus to see major league ball games in different cities. Russell came to live with me in late summer or early autumn of 1982, when he began chemotherapy. Already, by this time, he had tried some homeopathic approaches toward a cure. That decision frustrating me. I don't remember what he tried, but I recall he wanted something other than medically prescribed treatment, and who could blame him? But I was upset by any possibility that would delay a medical attack. Russell seemed to fare well enough in his first chemo treatment. Afterward, he needed to follow a special diet, and I tried to stick with it. Food purchases bothered me. Social service workers had helped him apply for food stamps. I was grateful for the help, but ashamed of using the food stamps. Now, that seems petty, but it's similar to other remembered frustrations I had. We lived in cramped quarters. I was going to class and working part time. When I would leave him, he typically said he was happy to sleep in, but of course, I wonder about that now. A handful of memories Chemo treatments became more aggressive, and he became gradually more ill. We would spend time at home reading separately or listening to music, and we talked. In one sense it was good to be with my brother, room mates again, an older version of boyhood, despite the tragic circumstances. We had a few outings, remember a trip with friends to a ball game in St. Louis, actually September 9. At Christmas, we drove with my girl friend to a nearby town to see their Christmas lights in the snow, returning home we sang winter songs, which cheered my brother, who had a sharp memory for lyrics that I had forgotten. That time passed all too quickly. The signs had been there, but I had not wanted to see them. But one day I helped him from the bath tub after washing, "it's cold," he said, from under a robe he was wearing. I helped him to a soft chair next to a heat register and then turned up the thermostat. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and pants and covered with a blanket, and he became drowsy and closed his eyes. As he dozed, I sat thinking about this change in him. Even then, I did not accept the very real approach of death. Some days or weeks later, I was home with him, one January afternoon, when he collapsed, passed away that night in a hospital bed. He was 27 years old. I was with him at the time, but he did not regain consciousness. I later when through a period of grief when I acknowledged in hindsight that I owed him more than I gave him, more time, more care, more attention. Russell. I also came to realize that Russell probably foresaw his end when he came to live with me. I shared with him but I believe I could have done more. When a loved one faces that frontier and all it means, it is important to prepare them, and to prepare yourself. I continue to think of my brother with a sense of loss, memory is typically painful. I have been touched by this illness, but also I've been touched by God's grace. I believe my brother felt blessed by the almighty as well, though we did not speak of eternity at the time. During some quiet evenings together, as Russell wrote in his notebooks or slept, I paused from my work and made quick sketches. I would never have tried to photograph him at that time, but I wanted to preserve my own memory. The drawings are simple. I have only two or three. They show his face wracked by illness and by chemotherapy. I cannot look at them for long, and put them away. That's all I have right now. A brother's love Thinking back right now, I think one of the things I could have done better was I wish that I had been able to be more of a bridge between him and some friends he'd had. I learned later that he'd received only one visitor during the six months that he was at my house, one visitor when I was not there, who was a friend of his, and if I could have been more of a bridge or a mediator for those folks and him, that's something I wish that I had thought of at the time, but did not. It would have been good for him and I think it would have been good for them. So much of this oversight or reflection pertains to the realization that sometimes the wave is gonna come and get you, and you have to realize that when that happens, it's you have to be prepared for it, and you can't always know when that will be. But sometimes the signs are there and you don't want to be ignorant of them. Now this occurred - our family at the time consisted of my brother and I and a sister who is four years older than I am, living in another town. Our folks had passed away about eight years prior to my brother's difficulties. |
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