A Promise to My Brother

Two and a half years ago, you phoned, upending me with your words, “I have a terminal illness.”  After we hung up, I wept, cursing the universe for saddling you with a difficult diagnosis.

You’ve beaten the odds, surprising your doctors by living fully: attending senior college classes; maintaining membership on community boards and regular workouts at the YMCA.

I’m thankful for every minute we have left, ruing the 1,000 miles that separate us.

You were born 19 months after me, sandwiched in between me and our younger brother.

In our teens and college years, we got to know each other, joining the generation opposing the war in Viet Nam. When you graduated law school, Dad pressured you to join his mainstream law firm. Your wish to serve the marginalized took you and your new bride to a city where you joined the Quakers’ legal arm.

I admired your dedication, sharing your disappointment when Dad offered a lame excuse for not attending a Supreme Court hearing when you argued a case before the Court.

When you retired as a civil liberties attorney, accolades and awards for defending minorities and women followed you.  You’ve been modest about your record. Yet through social gatherings at your home when colleagues sang your praises, I learned of your accomplishments.

By chance, I once picked up a magazine at your home:  a feature article where your legal peers honored you for your dedication to civil liberties. And you made the front page of your big city paper for an unexpected win when the police were found guilty of discriminating against your black client.

Your big heart includes friends and family. When I was fired from my job at a small college, you referred me to an attorney, specializing in unfair employment cases.

You celebrated my accomplishments. When I hosted a women’s radio show, you were front row, showering me with accolades after the program.

When our mother was dying, we made several weekend visits, supporting one another in our sadness.  There were joyful moments. We spoke of mother’s new boyfriend and how slowly she moved. You said with characteristic perception and wit, “They start to disrobe for bed right after they finish breakfast.”

My mother and I, July 1999, six months before she died.

Now we play word games where you throw out a word, challenging me to an impromptu word contest. Laughing with you is the best!

You are among the kindest, gentlest and most caring people I’ve known. I rage at the universe for handing you sadness over and over: losing an infant at 3 months; a wife of a sudden heart attack at 60;  two years ago, losing an adult son. A lesser man might have become cynical, depressed or even alcoholic. Yet you are steadfast in kindness and love. Even now as your days are numbered, you express gratitude for your long life.

How to imagine a world without your presence?

You light up my world, enlarge my life in ways I’m not sure you recognize. You’re there for me. Whenever I mention this, you respond, “It’s no big deal.” Get over it!

Here’s my promise to you: I will hold you in my heart by modeling your kindness towards others. I’ll endeavor to be as kind, generous, tolerant, and yes, as committed as you always have been.