The Ongoing Trial

When I'm sick and I spend a day at home I find myself alone with my thoughts, which is never a place I should remain for any extended period of time. It's part of the reason I try to surround myself with distractions, but those occasionally fail me, and I find myself waxing wistful about old times within my head. Some of these memories are an endless source of amusement, and to that end I am always glad I've spent the time going through my personal vault, but there are dark corners in there - unavoidable shadows that creep up the deeper you poke around, until you hear that tell-tale click of a latch on some unseen door and you know that you're stuck there for a while, playing some sick game of tag with your own feelings of guilt and remorse.

It's not my fault that my brother fell ill with cancer. It was not wrong that I survived and he did not. It just is, like a force of nature - no positives or negatives intrinsically attached. But leaving him to go back to work, returning every weekend to find a bigger divide between the two of us as he went from bad to worse...those are choices that I made. I'm the one who slowly started to question if I should even bother coming back at all, wondering what good it did, and contemplating just abandoning the entire situation like something you see and then try to forget. The efforts that I made during that period essentially amounted to being a presence; a figure in the background moving out of the way every half hour so that my parents could help Sam throw up again.

When Sam talked to me, he was annoyed, pushing, for quite a while. His demeanor changed somewhat when my parents made him realize what he was doing, but then there were other problems. There was the time Sam forgot who I was - by that time the cancer had spread to many parts of his body, including his brain - and asked me when his brother was going to show up, like I was some kind of nurse. I really wanted to escape that time, to just make the whole thing a bad dream and wake up. But it was also an important moment. Sam was a creature of routines his entire life. My weekend visits were expected, if not almost required for his sense of normalcy. He forgot me at that time, but he remembered later.

If I have a sense of guilt about anything, it was the end times, when I wasn't there at all. Two weekends in a row I missed going back. One was so I could spend time with friends - a break I felt like I needed to prevent me from going insane. And then the next was so I could move. Neither were reasonable excuses for not being there in hindsight.

When I think about my brother, I have such a sense of joy at all the ridiculous, irreverent, and funny things that we did together. But there's also a melancholy because of the pain he endured. And remorse that I wasn't there for my best friend; somebody I love very much to this day. My parents were there with him, and held him - literally held him - at the very end. I was putting dishes in a box. And that is something that will reduce my very emotional core to a shambles every time I think of it, no matter where I am or what I'm doing.

--Lee

A Mother's Thoughts

As I look at this picture of Sam and I, I see what isn't there. His stoical expression because he was ready to go and didn't want to have his photo taken...one or two pictures, okay and we had stepped over the line asking for more. He was my handsome, compassionate, yet taciturn son. He knew his own mind and seldom strayed from what he believed. Naive in some ways, worldly wise in others...he was simply our Sam and we love him.

For so long I haven't been able to write about him for possibly many reasons. First and foremost, because it makes it so real, seeing words on a page. In Black and White. Carved in stone, engraved on a marker. Strange, I should feel that, when I have always derived such comfort from words.

Missing Sam is part of me, like taking a breath. There is a hole, jagged edges, painful and aching that does not fade or dissipate with time. I am certain everyone thinks I should be over this by now, but I am not...and that is just what is.

So I mourn for Sam: his potential, his presence, his personality. Sam saw the world in black and white, but he was beginning to discover the shades of grey that make everything more vibrant. His was a romantic soul. There was a hero for every vanquished villain, good always triumphed, and there was always "the right thing to do."

So I imagine how he felt when he tried to wrap his brain around the news. The encompassing word, cancer, enormonity of the word "rare," and the even scarier words, "No treatment, No Cure," as well as the finality of the unspoken word, "dying." I have to imagine, because Sam didn't discuss it, wouldn't discuss it...and you couldn't make Sam do what he adamantly would not do.

His stubborness was almost legendary. We always considered it an asset and told him so. He didn't try to be even more unyielding, instead he would redouble his efforts to persuade you that his way was right. He would argue, consider what you said, think about it (okay, brood is a better word and often would revise his assessment and change.) It was this ability which became even more evident as he grew up that garnered our respect. So we respected his wishes, the subject was closed. We played it out Sam's way.

Maybe that is why I can't seem to say goodbye. It is so final.

I am stubborn too, and I prefer the wave and the words I uttered as I dropped him off at school:

Later Sam...Love you!