My brother died this week.
We weren't terribly close, as children
or adults. We saw one another infrequently and phoned irregularly,
although when we were together we had a lot in common. I didn't just
love him; I also liked him.
While it's sad in and of itself, my
sorrow is compounded by the realization that the people I care about
who are near my age do not still have plenty of time left. Our
earnest efforts to eat healthy, take our medications as ordered, get
some exercise, keep our minds active, the endless denial of our
slothful candy-crunching, steak-chewing urges doesn't stave off death
for long.
I suppose in a way my brother was
luckier than most. He was born to a white couple who valued
education. They were able to live where it was safe, where the
schools were good, where everyone seemed to have everything they
needed and much of what they wanted.
Because he was both driven and smart as
well as lucky, my brother was able to get a good education, marry a
fine woman much like himself, have a series of good jobs that paid
well, buy a nice home in Silicon Valley before it got so
crazy-expensive, have a child, pay for her education, see her enter
the Peace Corps, meet a good man, marry, and have children of her
own.
This is so very much more than many
people get, yet it seems unfair. He was 68. He took care of himself.
And he's gone.
All of us accept on some level that
we'll lose our parents. They're old. Then one day, you lose a
brother. You realize that it could have been
your long-time friend. Your sister. Your spouse. Yourself.
And with
the new understanding of how great loss can be, you realize how
deeply each of those losses will slice. Your tears aren't just for
the brother who's gone, the sister-in-law who is alone now, the
daughter who's lost her dad, the grandchildren who won't even
remember Grandpa, but for your own connections who will one day feel
this way when you yourself are gone. This is going to isolate my
husband, devastate my daughters...
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