Christmas in October
Michael
“Mama always said dying was a part of life.” -Forrest Gump
death (deth) noun: a permanent cessation of all vital functions; the end of life.
From the doorway, I could hear the Christmas loop on his audio player. Although it was only the last week of October, Michael had downloaded a playlist a while back, anticipating what was to come. He wanted to last long enough to have one more Yuletide, the music being his only glimmer of hope. Back in the spring of 2013, he received the final diagnosis of Stage IV anal cancer, a cancer that had rapidly progressed and metastasized over the last two and a half years of his life and had been misdiagnosed repeatedly throughout his adult life. All the radiation treatments, chemotherapy and various alternative therapies attempted in vain ultimately resulted in a colostomy and numerous hospitalizations due to concomitant medical complications. He knew he was dying. He knew it back in July 2015 when the kid and I last visited, privately telling me he was ready to go and wished to die. He just didn’t want to live like that anymore. Then it was too late. There was nothing more the doctors could do for him. It would be his last admission to a healthcare facility, an inpatient hospice located in the suburbs of Milwaukee. His wish had finally been granted.
Arriving at the General Mitchell International Airport in the early afternoon of October 26, 2015, I was picked up by my sister-in-law’s brother and sister, both of whom I had never met before. Somehow they knew as soon as they saw me, waiting with miserable smiles and soothing embraces. I’m assuming they were shown a photograph of me to verify my legitimacy. How is it that after 10 years of marriage to my brother I never met my sister-in-law’s family? I guess it was nothing new. For some reason I never made much effort to know any of my sibling’s in-laws, despite the fact that they all knew mine.
The morning before, my eldest sister Kathy telephoned with the devastating news. She had been in Milwaukee the previous week and felt Michael wasn’t going to last much longer, but my sister-in-law Liz had confirmed what we all feared: he only had a day or two left, the doctors predicting he would be gone within the next 48 hours. Michael had misled us over the last several months of his life, first telling us he had at least another year. Then it was six months. And then, less than 48 hours. After disconnecting that call from Kathy, I sobbed uncontrollably in the hubby’s arms, a yowl bursting from my belly and piercing the quiet calm of our typical Sunday mornings. I questioned whether or not I should fly out to say goodbye, not knowing how much time we had left. In an effort to mollify the decision not to go, Kathy assured me that Michael was in and out of consciousness and probably wouldn’t even know I was there. She also emphasized how painful it was to see how much the cancer had ravaged Michael’s body and that the experience reminded her of our mother dying at home with hospice in February. I wasn’t sure I could handle that again. My other surviving sister Regina had visited Michael earlier in the month while he was still conscious and alert. She wouldn’t be going to Milwaukee. I don’t think she could handle it either. Between her own breast cancer battle and mom’s death, she had enough on her plate.
What I did next may sound insensitive, but I stopped crying, calmed myself down and went for a bike ride. Michael would’ve understood. Anyone who knows me by now knows how much cycling has affected my life. It’s a way of helping me clear my head. Since the age of five, I had shared the love of cycling my brother once had. Michael and I often talked about our bicycle adventures, our favorite story being the time he and a friend in high school rode over 60 miles roundtrip on a whim of boredom from our house in Ramsey, New Jersey to West Point, New York. I was surprised to learn that he had stopped riding over the years and no longer owned a bicycle. I’m not sure why he stopped, but I guess he had his reasons. Maybe he questioned it himself and liked hearing about my escapades, reliving the fond memories he had from childhood.
By the time I got home from that bike ride, I had ridden 30 miles but was no closer to a decision on whether or not to go to Milwaukee. Wanting her advice, I telephoned Liz the next morning. I could hear the need for closure in her words and the disappointment in her voice if I didn’t show up. I was the only one left who hadn’t said goodbye. The decision was final. By nine years, nine months, three weeks and one day, he was my older brother, the only brother I have ever known. In the 50 years, eight months, three weeks, two days, two hours and 40 minutes on this planet together, we had shared way too many experiences to simply say goodbye in a one-way telephone conversation. We shared a special bond, he being the oldest and me being the youngest. I needed to go. So, looking online I found one last flight out of Philadelphia to Milwaukee and quickly bought a ticket. There was just enough time to call an airport shuttle and throw a pair of pants, some undergarments and several pairs of socks into a small duffle bag. If needed, I could always buy more clothes and other supplies at a local department store. Honestly, I didn’t care if I needed to wear the same clothing for several days. In context, it really didn’t matter.
Walking through the entry hallway of his private room, I knew nothing could fully prepare me for what I was about to see when I turned the corner. If memory served from earlier in the year with mom, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but after 30 years of being a psychiatric social worker I’m well versed in putting on a pretend smile while shoving those feelings way down into my gut and acting like the elephant in the room is perfectly normal. There was a counter to my left with cabinets for storage above and below, an assortment of food, personal belongings and medical supplies strewn about. The room was typical of most inpatient hospices. I certainly knew at that point. I visited more of them than I cared to have over the previous five years. Natural light was radiating through a large bay window facing the highway outside and exposing the inner sanctum before me. This one had a more homey feel to it than all the others, set up like a sterile bedroom in someone’s home with a couple of arm chairs, a nightstand and a simple chest of drawers, the hospital bed centered against the wall. Michael was lying on his back, his head slightly elevated and adorned with a Santa Claus hat, an NG tube thrust up his nose. He looked so old, his once auburn locks faded and receding with the remnants of a white beard resting on his chin. It was so strange to me – in his entire life he never had facial hair. Apparently, he decided that he liked it after not shaving while being stuck in the hospital and insisted on keeping it even after his death. Although his eyes were closed, Liz, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, assured me Michael was “awake.” At that point, I was told he could no longer open his eyes or speak but could hear and “respond” to my voice. The painkillers were working pretty good this time.
If there’s one thing my brother had was a fantastic sense of humor, something all my siblings and I inherited from our father. That ability to laugh in the face of death had been his strength, as well as his saving grace nearing the end of this life. It’s something I myself learned to embrace facing my own pending diagnosis of possible cancer over the prior 16 years. The only way I was going to get through it was to find that funny bone and throw it out there. I kissed him on the forehead, grabbed his hands and swayed his arms in time with the music, a faint smile creeping across his lips. All I could think of saying was, “Hey! What’s this lying around shit?!”
Sitting in a chair to Michael’s right and making small talk with Liz who was sitting to his left, we could hear her mother Lisa and step-father Frank quietly speaking in Chinese as they entered the room. Through everything, Michael’s in-laws had been the supportive parents an orphan could truly appreciate. The funny thing is that Liz’s mom was around the same age as my brother, Liz being 20 years his junior. No one in our family cared. Even though it was his third marriage, we all knew that Liz was “the one.” Our “sister from another mister” was the best thing that ever happened to him. Her natural ability to interact with him in a way no other human being had come close to achieving speaks volumes of this extraordinary human being. Trust me, I knew from 50 years of experience that Michael wasn’t the easiest person to get along with; there was a lot of baggage and anger there. But if her only purpose in this lifetime was to make the last years of my brother’s life happy and comfortable, she had succeeded tenfold. What makes this story more sorrowful is that Liz, her siblings and mother had already been down the cancer road with her father some years back. I can’t even imagine how painful this situation had been for them.
Lisa and Frank were standing at the foot of Michael’s bed, welcoming me and asking about my travels while Liz and her sister Karisa were getting ready to drive over to the funeral home to meet with the director and arrange for Michael’s burial. It was a surreal conversation to hear, but I’m cognizant of its necessity. “I sure wish it wasn’t.” It’s a fact of life and death and one I’ve overheard at least six times over the five years prior but one I’ve never had to have myself. As Liz and Karisa were walking out the door, their mother and step-father were smiling sincerely, talking to Michael as if he was consciously part of the dialogue. Turning to see if he had any reaction, I found my body catapulting from the chair in shock to see Michael slightly sitting up in his bed, perched on his right elbow, eyes wide open and mouth agape, his left arm stretched out with index finger pointing towards Lisa and Frank, who were chuckling with astonishment and happiness that he had suddenly “woken up” and appeared to recognize them. As they moved next to me, however, Michael was still pointing at the wall opposite his bed, a look of absolute awe on his face. And then, as quickly as he had risen, he laid back down and was still again, his eyes and mouth closed once more. I recalled the friend that asked after mom died who I thought she might have been welcomed by to guide her into heaven and wondered who was waiting for Michael at that moment.
Watching another human being actively die is difficult to describe in written words and is absolutely exhausting, especially when you don’t know how much time you have left together. At some point you need to develop a routine despite their wasting away in the other room. You need to breathe. You need to eat and drink. You need to piss and shit and change your underwear. You need to sleep. You need to secure where you’re staying for the night and check in with your loved ones. You need to ensure you’ve done everything you can in all your relationships while considering your own future. You are still actively alive. These things are necessary.
Lisa had made a feast fit for royalty. I was escorted to one of the family rooms providing kitchen and dining facilities for those who chose to stay close enough to be there until the bitter end. The family gathered around a couple of tables pushed together to allow enough room for all of us, looking at and inspecting the food Lisa had prepared and brought from home with smiles of approval all around. I felt awful rejecting it due to my being strictly kosher at the time, but Frank was quick to ask how he could accommodate my needs and offered me his car keys so that I could drive to the local supermarket to buy food for myself. Learning from religious friends who’ve traveled to the outer reaches of the world armed only with cans of tuna fish and a can opener, I knew what to look for and had learned not to be picky. I didn’t require much; however, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and it was already dinner time again. Before I could even get behind the wheel, Frank was at the driver’s side suggesting he drive me to the store instead. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he was concerned about my state of mind or didn’t want me to be alone. Or maybe he was worried I’d get lost or crash his car. Either way, it was a nice gesture, although I’m not a very good passenger. My overwhelming need to control situations causes a bit (actually a lot) of anxiety when I’m not. I couldn’t say no – it was his car. If I didn’t already, I’d surely look like an asshole now if I refused and took the car without him accompanying me.
I really like Frank. He has a good heart and treated me with genuine care and respect, even though he’d only known me for a few hours. I was Michael’s sister; that was good enough for him. He drove the way my father always did, slow and steady, doing the exact speed limit and obeying every traffic law to the letter, which helped lessen my anxiety. I enjoyed his company as he attempted to help me pick out something decent to eat, asking various questions about what made the food kosher. I liked that he wanted to understand my situation and gladly answered every inquiry. Managing to find a couple of kosher frozen meals, Frank and I headed back, where we joined the rest of the family in the dining area. Despite their absolute kindness, as I kashered a microwave to heat up my frozen dinner, I felt completely and utterly alone. I was with a family who was not my family, although they treated me with the warmth and affection I would expect from my own. Aside from Liz, they were people I had never met or interacted with until that day. The hubby and the kid were back on the east coast, along with my sisters and brothers-in-law going about their daily business and all I wanted to do was cry out of self-pity. Mine seemed like a different kind of grief than theirs.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I had nothing left to say and no more tears to cry. The nurses offered the family room as a place for me to sleep, assuring me that Liz and I were the only visitors staying overnight, so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Before heading to the bed I created by pushing the front rails of two armchairs together, I wanted to say goodnight to Michael – it might have been my last chance to let him know how I felt. The room was darkened, dim lights guiding me toward the bed. Liz hadn’t left Michael’s side since his admission and would be sleeping upright in the chair that had been her “bed” away from home. Saying goodnight to Liz, I leaned over to kiss my brother’s face and whispered in his ear that I loved him, wished him a peaceful journey and asked him to hug everyone for me when he reached the other side. He squeezed his eyelids several times in response. It didn’t last long. At that moment, I had a feeling it would be the last “conversation” I would have with my brother.
It was so cold in the building. I know it’s necessary for the health of the patients in combating bacterial growth, but my sweatshirt wasn’t much of a warm blanket and the chairs kept slowly separating every time I moved, not to mention the rock-hard pillow under my head. My brain refused to shut down. I just couldn’t fall asleep, but at some point I must’ve dozed off because I awoke to find a nurse gently touching my shoulder. Looking up at her and checking the clock on the wall, I saw that it was 2:50 AM. With an angelic voice, she declared, “Your brother has passed.” I can’t imagine how many times a day the staff must say these words, but she was good at it. Maybe it’s a midwestern thing because every death for me on the east coast had been completely different, more manic and not this kind-hearted. Not knowing how to respond, all I wanted to know was what time he had died and what it was like. He died 10 minutes before. She described standing next to Michael’s bed and holding his hand when he opened his eyes, looked at her as if to say, “I’m ready,” closed his eyes and then quietly and peacefully left us. He finally succumbed to cancer, his life coming to an end at 2:40 AM on October 27, 2015. He had got the cancer and died on a Tuesday.
Somehow teleported to his room, I found Liz holding Michael’s hand and sweetly talking to him as only a wife would do. She had not been there either, having decided to lay down on one of the lobby couches in front of the gas fireplace. Considering what I had been through over the past five years, I would have made the same choice. Sometimes you just need a break. I don’t know what she was saying, not because I didn’t want to hear it – I didn’t want to invade this very private conversation between a husband and his wife and feel like I was eavesdropping. When she was done speaking to him, I hugged my sister from another mister and sat back down in a chair, staying with Liz and Michael’s body until the funeral home came to collect him.
Waiting in the lobby while Michael’s body was being prepared for transport, Lisa and Frank rushed through the main entrance, weeping as they hugged us. That nagging feeling of loneliness hit me like a ton of bricks again. I wanted my family to be there. I wanted my family to be weeping and hugging me – the only other people who have known Michael as long as me. I hated myself for being so selfish. I didn’t experience the last two years as Liz and her family did with my brother’s cancer. Her family took care of him, not mine. Liz was the one who drove him to appointments, comforting him after every treatment and prognosis, learning wound and palliative care towards the end. Although Michael and Liz had visited our family in New Jersey at least yearly throughout their ten-year marriage, I only visited them twice since he moved to Milwaukee and got married, the second time only because we discovered he was sicker than he let on. Maybe I was an asshole.
Liz warned me that Frank only takes “scenic routes” because he doesn’t like driving on the highways, so it took a bit longer than usual to get to her townhouse. I didn’t mind. I drive the same way. I’m not too fond of highways either. It also gave us more time to think about what came next now that there was a giant hole in our lives to fill. Although I would be sleeping in one of the guest rooms that night, there would be a lot more people wanting a place to stay over the next few days. I wouldn’t be needing the bed for long, however. Things were about to get complicated for me, and some people were not going to be happy with the decisions I needed to make for myself. Until then, all I needed was to run out for some new clothing and toiletries before heading to the airport to pick up Kathy, my brother-in-law Joe and Regina the day after Michael’s death.
Driving Michael’s car was so surreal. He was like me: we both needed to be the one behind the wheel and in control. He also drove like our father (and Frank), slow and steady, doing the exact speed limit and obeying every traffic law to the letter. The only times he didn’t drive were the few occasions he visited our parents and I picked him up from the airport in my own car. Of all the cars he owned, this was the first one I had driven. It was nothing special, just an inexpensive previously owned American-made sedan that gets the job done (flashbacks to that awesome baby blue convertible he had in his mid-20s). I was actually surprised at how messy it was. Michael was typically a very neat and organized guy, his car not being as untidy the last time the kid and I were passengers. I suppose he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Pulling the keys out of the ignition, I eyeballed a New York Yankees hat (his favorite baseball team) in the back seat, tossed it onto my head and grabbed the makeshift airport taxi sign made for my family’s arrival. Waiting at the terminal, I found it difficult to control my need to cry as I saw them slowly walking towards me down the ramp. We were all that was left: three sisters out of four; three children out of six; three members out of eight. Grabbing Kathy and hugging her tight, I told her how happy I was to finally have my family with me, to which she responded, “But they are family.” I felt like an asshole again, but my definition of family was not the same at that moment. Honestly, at that point, I would have rather had the hubby and the kid there hugging me. They are my family.
Michael’s funeral was scheduled for Saturday, which just so happened to be Halloween. How apropos. Karisa contemplated how to manage trick-or-treating for her young children while Liz put the finishing touches on Michael’s life celebration. I, however, was trying to figure out how to make my exit by Friday morning. I wanted to be home in time for Shabbat. I sound like a callus heel, but mourning for someone who is not Jewish is tricky, especially for a convert like me when it comes to their family members, let alone attending a funeral on the Sabbath, which is forbidden and simply does not happen in religious Jewish communities. I’ve been Jewish for more years than not and had a difficult time wrapping my head around the burial process of non-Jews. I prefer our way: you die, you’re buried within 24 hours, your family mourns for whatever allotted time required depending on the relationship and then it’s done. Move on and keep living the life you still have. I had already been down this road a few times, thinking about the body sitting in a refrigerated drawer somewhere waiting for its final resting place six feet underground. Then again, Michael was cremated; that’s something completely different altogether (an issue I actually shared with my mother, she being a converted Catholic).
The following day was the most difficult. That morning Kathy, Joe, Regina and I accompanied Liz to the funeral home to review the details of the ceremony and observe the mortician’s handiwork. Liz was very upset with someone’s decision to dye Michael’s beard a reddish brown and used a makeup color too dark for his fair skin. I’m relieved not to have seen Michael in that state – it was not how I wished to remember him. Besides, in Judaism, displaying a dead body for viewing is considered disrespectful to the person whose soul has passed, a tradition I wasn’t willing to defy and that just doesn’t happen in the life of a Jew. I wasn’t a fan before I converted either. It wasn’t the first time I needed to make the choice to wait in the lobby while others paid respects and expressed condolences.
Later in the day, a large group of us went to a non-kosher restaurant for dinner where I opted to eat a plain salad. I was just too tired and hungry, my faculties being worn to the bone and incapable of making appropriate decisions. Heeding the words of a former rabbi of mine, I ate one less bite just to be sure. At least the beer was kosher. Vowing to myself to never do that again, I understood why it was important to surround yourself with religiously like-minded people. At times like these it mattered. My mourning process was and would be unique to my status as a convert to a sibling. I needed to be with my tribe.
Being that Michael was a beer fanatic, the night ended with multiple beer toasts in his memory, followed by personally crafted picture boards for the wake. I chose to sleep in the living room on one of the recliner chairs so that others could have the extra guest bed; this way I could also make a quick and quiet getaway. I still couldn’t sleep though. I don’t think I slept that entire week. I know people were not thrilled with my leaving before the funeral, but what’s done is done. I wanted to be home for Shabbat to embrace the next 24 hours without any obligations, no distractions and grieve the way I needed to with my family. The taxi arrived right on time, leaving me enough time to get to the airport for a 6:00 AM flight back to Philadelphia. Our bus with wings only had a handful of passengers, leaving me two seats to spread out my body and the duffle bag filled with the unlaundered pair of pants, undergarments and socks worn throughout the week. I sat in the window seat, watching the sun rapidly rise as we flew east. The clouds looked like foamy white waves breaking through space, the morning slowly creeping into view, changing from violet to midnight blue and then to that beautiful sky blue I had grown to cherish; that blue sky – it was Michael’s sky.
My Gump Ride 