1978The room had two doors and two windows. Unusual for a bedroom but it was mine and it was familiar so my child's mind never questioned this odd arrangement. In fact, I felt a certain delight that I had the only room in the big house like it.
One window delicately filtered in the dawn sunrise through willow branches. The other overlooked the creaky basement door which my father and four brothers had trudged in and out of daily in their manure-caked boots heading towards the barn for chores.
One door led to the kitchen with it's ample table and cluttered counter tops, the other to the back hallway giving me quick access to my parent's room.
As a small child, in the dark watches of the night I would at times soundlessly find my way to their room and stand shivering by my mother's bedside until she woke up enough to either send me back to my bed or (if I were lucky) let me crawl in beside her for comfort and warmth.
But, I was eleven now, too old to crawl into bed with them. And besides, it was no longer my room.
I had been relocated upstairs to my older sisters' room. With one sister moved out, I shared their room with the other.
My sisters had redecorated their room and it seemed cool and modern.
And safe.
Here, the sunrise filtered through the same willow branches cast dappled shadows on the funky flowered wallpaper.
Twin beds covered in matching purple bedspreads and walls hung with sentimental posters and macrame art. The room was strewn with the signs of girls-who-were-now-women and I felt older just being there.
And, I was growing up a bit too fast.
My room had changed.
As long as I could remember it wore the same faded silvery pink daisies on one wall surrounded by the remaining pale green walls.
But my double bed (because my room also served as the Guest Room) had been pushed to the side to make room for the shiny chrome of a hospital bed.
My familiar objects, stuffed toys, and the organized chaos I lived happily in had been removed or put in the closet to allow extra space for the items necessary in caring for the terminally ill.
Laid out on a table just outside the door that led to the kitchen were many strange packages, vitamin bottles, linens and peculiar-smelling substances. Only once did I ask what something was for; and my mother's direct but hushed response left me uncomfortable enough to ask no further.
The door to the back hallway was usually left open now. My mother could easily slip back and forth between her room and mine to tend to my brother as he lay in the room with two doors and two windows.
He had suffered in pain quietly for many months before he could no longer hide the agony of the headaches that tormented him.
Surgery gave little relief and the tumour was relentless.
Only a short time left.
He wanted to stay at home if possible.
So here he was, at 22 years of age, dying in his little sister's room.
People came and went. To me, his many friends seemed so old, so mature and so pained by his suffering.
But they were just barely adults themselves and the cruelty of cancer that had invaded my brother now wreaked havoc in their world and would change them forever, too.
I went to school as usual. A place of stability and structure, childhood friendships and fifth-grade dramas. Only once or twice did I speak of my brother. But, a couple times my emotional distress erupted in ways unrelated to his sickness and the teachers would try their best to diffuse the situation and redirect the focus.
But no one spoke to me of it. I imagine they all felt I was coping well and, why rock the boat?
At home I mostly tried to stay out of the way. I was invisible. But not out of earshot. There were many secret gardens of solitude I had discovered. Out in the forgotten corners of the barn, in the attic of the shed, back in the bush or down by the river. Places I could hide in and talk to God.
Cry.
Dream.
Imagine.
Forget. No, I couldn't forget.
When in the house, I did what was expected and what was needed and said nothing about my brother.
I knew what was happening and between my prayers and nightmares watched powerlessly as things spiralled down to the moment of his inevitable death.
Once, at the apparent request of my mother, my sister-in-law asked me if I had ever thought that Richard might die.
Two thoughts went through my head at that question. Of course I knew he was dying. I might be the baby of the family, but I was not blind nor stupid.
And the second; which I spoke out loud,
"Yes. But I know he will go to heaven when he dies."
My older siblings were devastated. My eldest brother and Richard were only a year apart in age and inseparable. My eldest sister, just a year younger. My other three siblings also all had claims of relationship to Richard that I did not have. I was the baby. But my soul ached at losing him. The one brother who seemed to enjoy me more than being annoyed by me.
I remember...
Many times listening and watching and singing along with him as he sang and played his Yamaha guitar.
His laughter adding more music to the songs.
He inspired me.
I remember....
One night, when I was about six or seven, after the evening church service was finished and the children were off running about while the parents visited, I came around the corner of the church and there sat my brother, Richard, leaning against the church wall by himself.
And this was strange to me. For he was very well liked and usually had an entourage of friends; mostly girls; following him everywhere.
I took advantage of the moment to have him to myself and plunked down beside him asking him what he was doing.
He didn't brush me off or send me away.
He simply said that he was looking at the stars. I turned my face to see the glorious panorama of the heavens being displayed majestically above us.
Together, we listened to them sing as they had done from the dawn of creation.
Another time around the age of eight or nine, my brothers and a friend were playing rugby in the yard. For whatever reason, Richard let me join them and I was on his team. I was thrilled! The ball was ours and he hoisted me onto his back, ball tucked between him and I, and made a run for the goal line. I hang on tight shrieking with laughter. Suddenly we were tackled and down we went, but I landed safely on the grass, my brother and his friend ensuring I wasn't hurt.
Now, he was the one hurting and there was nothing I could do.
One warm spring day, close to the end, I came home from school and rushed to tell my mother that I had seen the first robin.
"Go tell Richard" mom replied.
I peeked tentatively in the door that came from the kitchen.
Richard was completely bedridden at this point.
Massive painkillers helped ease the discomfort of the headaches, but not enough.
He was pale and small.
Frail.
My big brother.
Where there had been wavy honey-coloured hair was now the half-inch bristles of post-operative regrowth.
Where there had been muscles made strong by farm-work was now just skin and bone. His guitar was silent.
The afternoon spring sun was shining in through the window that overlooked the basement door.
He didn't move.
Was he asleep? Or barely conscious?
I didn't know.
I gathered up my courage and with uncertainty approached his bedside.
I didn't touch him, just looked at him for a moment unsure if he was able to hear me or even knew I was there.
I used to love pouncing on him, hoping for a piggy-back ride or I would get to sit on his back when we'd crowd into the small room to watch television as a family.
But he was strong and solid then.
Now, I didn't want to hurt him.
In a quiet voice I told him about the robin I had seen today.
The first sign of spring.
New life.
And then, impulsively I leaned over his bed and gently kissed him on the cheek.
And he smiled.
And my heart knew, somewhere in there, he was still my brother. Strong in spirit. Laughing on the inside.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Sunday night he died on April 16th, there was an amazing sunset. People were busy in our house. The doctor had made a house-call and said simply; within the next few hours Richard would die.
He had made peace with God through Jesus.
I felt the rising desperation as the nightmares I had been experiencing became real.
I slipped out the door to escape by watching the sunset near the back of the shed. It would be quiet there and I could cry alone.
But my mother called me back in.
Don't leave the house now, Mary.
So, up to my sister's room I waited.
And waited.
Clinging to my teddy-bear and hearing the mingled voices of friends below singing hymn after hymn, I waited.
Once, I ventured down the steps to the door that led from my room to the back hallway and peeked in.
My mother and another woman were busily caring for Richard as he struggled for his last breaths.
My siblings surrounding his bed.
The friends singing, "The Lord is My Shepherd".
And Richard died.
I stumbled back upstairs until an aunt came and found me and said my mom wanted me downstairs with the family now.
Throwing my teddy-bear at the wall, I walked mechanically down and stood by the end of the bed, behind my youngest brother, 2 years older than me.
He was crying, holding Richards finger.
My one sister was wailing into the pillow by his face.
The room was full and the singers were still singing.
I looked at him and then turned my head towards the window that overlooked the basement door, as though somehow I could be transported out of there to a quiet place.
A safe place.
Where the angels were.
Heaven.
Where he was now.... in the presence of Jesus.
Whole, healed, fully alive.
And I knew then that truly life on earth was not the end of things. Just the end of things as we know it.
And I strained to listen... to hear if Richards voice could be heard amongst the angels and the stars.
