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.