From Mother-Sister to Sister-Sister

It's about time for an update on Brother Gary.  Because I haven't written very often about him, it's hard to know where to start.

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The above line was written almost two weeks ago.  That's as far as I got.  And as of today, I realize that it hasn't been about the start . . . meaning Gary's absence from my blog topics.  It has been about the long, possibly unending finish.  And my role in all of that.  And the constantly changing lines in the sand as we rework our relationship boundaries.  I think I knew it was all there, gently bubbling just beneath the surface of my conscious awareness.  But with the excitement and emotion of a young daughter's marriage and move to another country for 3 years, there was no surplus of feelings and intellect with which to effectively explore all of that.  Much less process it.  It's not a simple relationship.  What in the heck is a simple relationship these days, anyway?! 

My husband is the one who actually brought on about what I consider an epiphany this morning.  As we often do to one another, he asked how I was.  Specifically, he asked if anything was bothering me. "I don't THINK so.  I mean, I've not slept enough.  I watched a movie last night about a son who kills his father, his sister and several of his schoolmates with a bow and arrow ("We Need To Talk About Kevin" with Tilda Swinton and up-and-coming actor, Ezra Miller -- keep an eye on this kid).  I just talked with _________ and she had a rough week; I feel for her.  And our daughter just shipped off to Germany a few days ago and I ship off to Colorado for a family wedding next week.  I suppose THOSE things could have me distracted.  Make it seem like something is wrong?" I answered.  After sipping on his coffee and watching me for a moment, he tried again, "It really seems like something is bothering you . . . " He paused for a second or two, "How's Gary?"

I started to give him my pat answer of the past few months or so.  "Well, he calls less and less.  It's been more than a week this time.  And when he did call, I had to hang up because something was going on.  He didn't call back.  And he even wanted me to order an electric shaver for him.  I'm trying not to think it means anything bad if I haven't heard from it but there's always a little bit of that in the corner of my mind . . . "  I trailed off as I thought a little more about what I was saying because it didn't feel quite right.  Like I had pinned the tail on the donkey and upon removing my blindfold, discovered Eeyore with a tail on his nose.  And then it HIT me, "You know what?  Jimmy.  I miss him.  I miss just talking with him.  Whether it's bad or good or has me guessing.  I know he's getting better and has a life in there.  A girlfriend.  A new team of doctors and social workers who are getting through to him.  He's attending groups four times a week.  I know it's good that he doesn't need to call me several times a day.  Or even every day.  But he's not just my brother and I'm not just here to help him solve problems or bail him out or worry or all that other stuff we've cycled through," I feel a little surprise as I talk and THAT is a surprise because I'm naturally introspective and analytical and self-aware, "I miss him because he's my friend.  I like talking and hearing his voice and being in his life loop.  I'm not sure he fully gets that." 

I'm not sure that I fully got that until this morning.  

So, for the second day in a row, I tried calling him instead of awaiting his call.  When he came to the phone, we chatted a bit and then I asked if I had caused him to avoid me, even subconsciously.  Because regardless of what he might say -- "not feeling well," "the phones are always busy," "I forgot" -- when he wants to talk with me, he dials and talks.  Period.  End of story.  Nothing gets in the way.  Though he couldn't nail down anything concrete, he agreed that it seemed like he was avoiding me, even if in a passive, unaware manner.  And then we dug into the multiple ways in which our connection was evolving and morphing.  How I was trying to back out of mothering or enabling so that he could spread his own developing wobbly adult wings as he sheds his arrested development cocoon.  How he was figuring out the complexity of living out consequences while simultaneously engaging in life.  "In prison, you get in trouble, you go to the hole for awhile.  It's regimented.  You're alone.  You serve that time.  And you return to the population."  We agreed that in regular life, even with all the needs met that weren't always met in our childhood, it's messy.  And when trouble comes, you still have to keep all of the other balls in the air.  People and work and emotions and all of the rest don't go into a state of suspension while one deals with the trouble and its fall-out.  It's all a barely contained amalgam of dealing and feeling and thinking and being accountable. 

I also realized we'd each been taking the other one for granted as the luxury of regular communication became a common occurrence.  Gary said knowing I had the iPhone and he could call any old time made him more casual about calling.  It was easier to put it off for later.  For my part part, I would multi-task with such time-management efficiency -- walk the dog, do laundry, check e-mail, brush my teeth -- that I often missed the details he was relaying to me.  When first we began to converse with freedom, I'd take notes, on paper, on the laptop, on my phone, and know every detail of what was transpiring in his life.  But later on, not so very much.  I backed way off.  Too much.  I guess we both did that.  A part of redefining who we are to one another in the midst of our separate lives outside of the pain and fear and all of that not-knowing that was who we were when he was incarcerated for so many years.  Phew!  Just writing that and rereading it, that last sentence, reminds me of the terrible burden I willingly lugged around.  Of the empty place I carried in my sisterly heart for Gary.  A place of sorrows and heavy love.  A place which was connected directly with him behind those concrete walls instead of within the wood and brick and mortar of my homes.  

Now, there is a lightness of being that I could not ever have predicted.  And it continues to blossom within me.

I love our frankness.  We don't hold back.  But as Gary says, he knows I'm not ever out to hurt him.  He trusts me implicitly.  It's why even when he's lied in the past because of addiction or shame or fear of disappointing me, he always comes round to spilling the beans to clear the slate.   He says it hurts to keep things from me because I'm so transparent with him.  Because I sacrifice without expectation.  Because I so clearly and truly love him.  And THAT, folks, is what we built between us while he was IN PRISON.  Imagine what our new relationship as brother and sister, as adult sibling friends, could be once he repairs his damaged walls and shores up his foundation?  Once freedom, inside and out, is truly his.  Even as broken as my baby brother is, he's a better man than many I've seen who are supposedly whole and intact.

Now, as far as an update on Gary himself.  The big news is that for the past 10 weeks, he's been on an interferon treatment regimen for his hepatitis C.  Because of his genotype and numbers, the program staff felt he would show favorable results during the course of his treatment.  But his body's response, even within the first 4 weeks, has been a pleasant development for everyone involved.  Without trying to explain the chemistry of hep, it's simple enough to state that Gary's numbers are low enough that he tests negative for Hep C.  To be sure, the side effects of this treatment -- it's akin to a type of chemotherapy -- are numerous.  And they all seem to be manifesting with Gary.  He says some days he wants to quit but he knows that if he powers on for the entire recommended 6-month duration, his quality of life and health will be much improved.  

So, he's shooting for nonchalance where the drop in weight from 188 to 170 is concerned;  about the sores in his mouth, on his tongue, down his throat and in patches along the inside of his mouth; per the strange red rash on his hands and forearms;  with the constant lack of energy, a deeply draining fatigue; in dealing with the lack of sleep and depression brought on by the twice-daily ribavirin pills and once weekly interferon injections; and handling the topsy-turvy body temperature regulation, whereby he feels feverish and flushed much of the time, soaking his bedsheets with sweat.  I'm proud of him.  This is a drug regimen with tough physicality, much like other drugs he's allowed in his system, but this drug habit will benefit him instead of robbing him.  What an irony: an illness contracted through a street drug habit being 'cured' via another drug.  Both harsh.  But with opposing purposes. 

I like to think of something working for the good of my brother outside of those familiar with him.  It's been a long time coming.    

Coach Bobby

Yesterday, in a burst of physical energy which pushed me through all of my morning and most of my afternoon, I conquered the garage.  Specifically, a wide spot of dried weather-cooked egg  spread beneath the refrigerator and embedded in the fibers of a space rug.  A tumble of fresh eggs late last week caused the odoriferous accident but because it was outside, it evaded my easily distracted radar.  Hank the Wonder Pup's radar, however, was fully engaged; he attempted to help reduce the crusty yellow spill during the course of the weekend.  I began to think this might not be very good on his stomach.  I also scrubbed the dusty cobwebby grime all along the inside of the garage door.  It was the sweaty satisfying kind of housework which is its own simple reward.

To keep my mind occupied and quiet my busy thoughts, or maybe to center them at times, I keep a variety of NPR podcasts loaded on the ol' iPhone.  (I don't have a name for this one.  Yet.  The smartphone, that is.)  This time around, "This American Life" was on tap.  One of my absolute favorite newsy-type research programs with just enough quirkiness to balance the intelligence of the material.  The topics they cover run the gamut, from outlandish levity to weighty seriousness.  Often combining the two in a pleasing mental swirl which always manages to keep the listener from fading away or switching it off.  I believe I've referred to it in a previous entry or two.

The stories pouring into my head in the midst of my scrubbing and spraying of egg, dog hair and dirt centered around a common theme of Crime Scenes.  The whole thing was excellent but one segment held my attention above the rest.  An ex-con, literally a convict AND a con-man, returns to his old neighborhood, the place where he cheated and swindled family and neighbors for years, to try and retract some of the damage he inflicted by doing a good deed.  Specifically, to coach a little league baseball team of local kids.  Kids with street knowledge, smart mouths . . . and not a lick of experience with a ball or bat or glove.  The field in which they met and practiced was overgrown and rundown.  It took quite awhile for the boys to begin to trust him; when they first called this man, Bobby, coach, he felt he was finally worthwhile as a human being.  But he struggled with his anger and the desire within him to be a better man.  He was also a recovering drug addict.  His voiceovers, telling of his adventures in little league and revealing his fears and neglectful youth, were compelling.  The reporter covering the story had been his neighbor and acquaintance growing up, and she was well aware of his reputation and history.  Initially dubious about his intentions, it took only one time seeing him with the kids, hearing his concerns, conversing with him afterward, to recognize his complete sincerity.

I had no problem recognizing his sincerity, sensing his ongoing inner battle, understanding his guilt and regret, his fear and angst.  Bobby the Ex-Con/Little League Coach was as familiar to me as . . . well . . . as my own brother.  As I absorbed his story, fully rapt, I only wanted to stand toe-to-toe with him, hug him, tell him he was worthy beyond the sum of his past.  Applaud him for allowing those boys to teach him as well as learn from him.  He was never late or absent from one practice or game, even when the other teams didn't show.  He faced those he had wronged, allowing them their opinion, their vent, their judgement.  He followed through.  I also wanted to write his friend, the woman who covered the story for the broadcast, Katie Davis, to encourage her to keep on doing what she was doing.  To make sure she realized her job mattered because her material is reaching people.  And about that time, Ira Glass enters the end of this segment (it originally aired in 2000) to update listeners: though Bobby did go on to coach basketball, too, and his team won first place at a local Boys & Girls Club tournament, he relapsed, heroine, and eventually died in a halfway house.  A CD copy of this NPR story was one of the few possessions he had.

And there, crouched in front of the hose caddy, shaded by the oakleaf hydrangea bush, with water gushing from the nozzle and spraying dried egg down the driveway and into our fading lawn, I cried.  For Bobby.  For my brother, Gary.  For those boys.  For me.  For every addict who has tried and succeeded.  For each addict who has tried and succumbed to old demons.  For the very imbalance of who lives and dies in this world . . . because it is all so riddled and wracked by unfairness from my limited human perspective.  I gave full rein to the emotion, allowing it to wash through me, to join the wet yellow bits as they rode the bubbles and out of my sight.  Then, I dipped the scrub brush into the brackish bucket of water and returned to the job at hand.  I turned off the hose; I turned off my tears.  It was all I could allow in that moment.  But the imprint in my mind?  It never fades.  The shadowed room in my heart?  That door never closes.

I love my life.  All of it.  I love the gummy egg which took up an hour of my Monday morning.  I love the white and brown spider sacs which clog the joints of my garage door.  I love that I can simultaneously clean and cry in equal measure.  I love the freedom I enjoy unfettered from any sort of life-altering addiction.  I love the people who share space with me through family, friendship, church, even at the auto mechanic's shop.  I love Gary, just as he is.  I love men and women like Bobby.  I love this hard because I can.  Because it's apparently how I'm made.  Because it is within me and has yet to come to an end.  And I love because there are those who have been thus consumed, digested, defecated, and find themselves unable to fully experience such love, regardless of their desire to do so.  I refuse to allow their portion to lay in waste at the side of the road, buried beneath the detritus of despair and collapsed effort.  I'll carry their burden of unused love . . .

. . . and spread it as far as I can.  Disseminate it through words and wind and wonder.  So that the forgotten are not truly forgotten.  So that even the smallest amount of balance can be restored to the big equation of this existence. 

Coach Bobby's Story: CLICK HERE to listen to "This American Life"