The visit

I always enjoy writing “hairballs” (learned from my cats) but this one is difficult. I believe in communication but what to do when you love someone who can’t speak?

I visited my brother last week in southern California. He can’t walk or talk. He’s been lying in bed in a nursing home for over seven years now. It’s quiet when we’re together except for the televisions blaring and elders screaming in the hallways, rumblings and beepers around the clock.

The space between us is thick. He doesn’t laugh much anymore. I see the pain behind his eyes. I get all balled up inside. How can I connect with him? Should I tell jokes, reminisce, be honest, lay back or what?

What do I do with no words?

When I ask him questions I know he’s mentally intact, I know my brother. I asked if he was afraid to die and he said, “No.” I’m nervous and whisper “Are you tired of it?” Nod. I wriggle around, what can I say that helps? I asked if he wanted a sandwich, “No.” Ice cream? Nod. Ice cream is always good.

I blurted out, “Sometimes I feel like mom and dad are real close, like they are right here talking to us.” Lee smiles, a big, big smile. I’m tense, like I’m on a tight rope talking. I can’t tell what helps. His back and neck always lay stiffly upright. I try wit, “Well, zillions of people have died for centuries, so I guess it can’t be that bad?” He looked irritated, but the social worker almost fell off her chair laughing. (I’ve never seen her laugh before.) Maybe she hadn’t ever heard it said. It must be a hard job.

I asked if he wanted to be moved to live near me. He shook his useful hand, made it look like a teeter totter, “Not sure.” I rubbed his forehead, awkwardly touching my palm to his forehead. I wonder how he feels. He’s my brother, why don’t I know?

I flash back, how we loved jogging, telling jokes and eating mom’s warm chocolate chip cookies. Meeting at the airport was ecstatic. I miss my brother terribly, beyond words. I never imagined losing him. I just assumed we would go through life, side by side. That’s how it’s always been.

The nurses ask: “Are you his sister? He is a kind man.” They turn his body and change his diapers, telling me not to give him ice cream without a towel around him.

He never cries, maybe we hope we won’t bring each other down, but he cried when I left last time. And I never feel like I leave the right way. I never know how to leave and I always feel as if I fled.

Murky, painful, confusing hairballs flood me. I yell at God. I know I’m not supposed to but that’s how I feel. “He doesn’t deserve this,” I throw my fist to the ceiling.

Words don’t help. The only comfort I feel in the space between us is love. So, I thought it might be nice to call his former wife and her brother answered. “Maureen died two weeks ago. Bone cancer. In Seattle they allow legal suicide.” He said she passed peacefully.

I wondered if my brother would be relieved if, at least, he could choose. It just seems like it would lighten his load. I mean, if we all could pass on when our bodies were ready to go. Wouldn’t it be better? I don’t know.

When I got home I laid in bed, holding my stomach, rolled up in a ball. But this time I didn’t feel cozy in bed. I had just bought a new comforter thinking it would be something to nurture me. On the visit I treated myself to a fancy Radisson Hotel – but came home with bed bugs.

So I lay there, scratching all over, wondering, why? I tossed my baggage in the garbage as instructed on the web. Would my mattress and blankets and new pillows need to be thrown away too? Was life this unpredictable?

Katy Byrne, is a psychotherapist, writer, and public speaker in Sonoma, Ca.