My parents are undergoing the most difficult thing that older adults have to do that is unrelated to their health, their family, and their mortality--they are making the last move of their life. In the process of doing that, they are sifting through their worldly possessions and deciding who should get them. I recently made what I hope is the 2nd to last move of my life, and so I have a sense of what it is like to get rid of things that once seemed quite precious to me, but what I don't yet fully understand is the part about finding a resting place for the things that still are precious.
They still have a long way to go on that journey, but in their early baby steps, I got a photo album with all the early photos of my brother Charles, who died when I was 10 years old. When I posted this photo on National Siblings Day one of my college friends said that she didn't realize that I had a sibling who died and wondered about the impact that had had on me. I still grapple with that question, even though I do it less now than I did 10 or 20 years ago.
Throughout my childhood my brother had a tremendous impact on my life, who I was, and who I became. He came home from the hospital on my 2nd birthday, a healthy baby boy, but by 5 months he had polio, and I do not remember him ever not being paralized. A sibling in a wheelchair changes you. For one thing, you really cannot be mean to them. Seriously, who would do that? It teaches you kindness and compassion that I do not think I come naturally by, although my other sibling is one of the kindest people I know. A sibling in a wheelchair is always around, so he was not just my brother he was my best friend, and losing him meant losing all of that and more. My parents had lost a child. I had lost what was not an exaggeration to call the center of my life. The problem with trauma when you are a child is that you aren't old enough to process it--so you keep putting it into context at every developmental stage that you go through, and Erik Erikson was right, those don't stop at adolesence.
So, how do I feel today, on what have been my brother's 53rd birthday? I still cry when I think about him, even though it has been 45 years since he died. Grief has a tenacity that love should strive for. I definitely became a physician because of him, and I am tremendously grateful for that, because I love my job. Losing him made me feel like I was strong, that I had faced tragedy and could survive it--I found out when I was 40 that I had been completely mistaken about that. My youngest son was diagnosed with cancer, and that invincibility myth shattered into a million little pieces, but I did get 30 years where that fantasy was alive and well. He taught me to look at the world through the eyes of another--we were nothing alike in many ways, and being able to step into his shoes and see what he saw is a great skill to have. I am also grateful to have had an intense sibling relationship. I missed out on the part where your sibling is the only one who has known you all your life, but I did get the emotional intelligence that I needed from that love.
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