This past weekend, two different and separate events reminded me of a moment I shared with my brother before he died.
The first was the visit of my fantastic brother-in-law K. Witnessing the great relationship between brothers made me wonder what my relationship would have been like with my brother if he hadn’t been sick. The second was my friend J talking about how going home for the holidays was not only a time to celebrate, but to also spend time with elderly family members, knowing he might not see again.
A month before my brother died of pulmonary arrest, a complication of muscular dystrophy, I decided to go visit him in El Paso where he lived. It was Easter time, and when I told my mother I was planning on visiting him, she asked me “Why? He’s fine.” I think my parents were in such a state of denial that they didn’t see his condition worsening as time went by. Because I only saw him once a year, his deterioration was very apparent to me.
Throughout the years, my brother’s illness had taken his ability to walk and at this late stage, most of his mobility. He refused to use a wheelchair. Instead he had an office chair with wheels so he could still, somehow, propel himself in his apartment. When I arrived he was in his usual place: in front of his computer, a portal into a world where he could move freely, using only the frail muscles of his hand.
I opened the door and he turned to me and breathed out a quiet “hi” with his deep voice. I think he noticed my sense of shock when I saw him in such a frail and delicate state, because he smiled in a comforting way. I stayed with him all weekend, taking over some of the many things my mom did for him. Cooking, cleaning up the apartment, watching TV and just chatting it up was the easy stuff. The hard stuff was of a more personal nature.
My brother and I are very private and independent people. We hardly ask for help and are very stubborn in our ways. This time, it was different. I bathed him or should I say, he let me bathe him. It was a process that I am sure my mother and his nurse knew very well, but I did not. I think he sensed my hesitation and told me not to worry, he would let me what to do. I wanted both of us to feel comfortable, so I followed his instructions of privacy carefully: when to undress him, how to move him from his chair to the bench in the shower, where to put the towel. I made jokes every once in a while and he seemed to welcome the comic relief. I washed his hair and closed the curtain so he could rinse.
After the shower, I dressed him in his pajamas and noticed how dry his skin was, especially on his feet. I asked him if I could put lotion on his legs and surprisingly, he said yes. I applied the lotion on his atrophied legs until his skin was soft. We talked a little as I got the nail clippers and clipped his toe nails, careful not to tickle him. I brushed his hair when noticed that his eyelids were heavy with sleep. I picked him up from his arm pits and sat him on his bed. He felt so light for a man of his size. I am sure he was at least 6 feet high, if he had been able to stand up right.
“Do you want the light of or off” I asked before I closed the door. “Off,” he said.
The rest of that evening, I thought about my mother. How could a petite woman with a full time job do all this on a daily basis? Every morning she crossed the border to see him, then work, then see him at lunch, then go back to work, then come back, make him dinner, bathe him, put him to bed and drive back across the border to make dinner for my father. I also couldn't help but think about how her routine would undoubtedly change in the very near future.
My brother passed away a month after my visit.
I think of those last days we spent together as his gift to me. By being completely vulnerable and allowing me to help him in such an intimate way, I was able to show him how much I loved him and to see how much he loved me. In a way, this feeling eases the guilt that I feel for not doing more for him, at least a little, sometimes.
0 comments:
Post a Comment