I keep wanting to text my younger brother Wally, who is recovering from surgery in Los Angeles. I keep wanting to ask him, “What’s it like now?” to find out if he’s still standing in the light that shone when the veils parted two weeks ago, when a football sized tumor was discovered in his stomach. There he was, just a young guy in the middle of his life – busy, running a business, juggling 10,000 things – and then bam, everything that was so important evaporated, the veils parted, and he was reminded that his life was very small in the face of something much larger, something that he didn’t have any control over, something that made him stop and get very still.
As I write this, I realize that this is his story to tell, not mine, but I piggybacked onto his story because I needed it, because it never occurred to me that I might lose my brother, and that thought slowed me down and had me get very still too.
The veils don’t part for me that often. The hallucination of my important, busy life mostly stays firmly in place. Like most people I know, I run around trying to keep up with my list, ambitious, always trying to get ahead, and with a fair amount of worry that I won’t do something right, or do it as well as I could, all the while forgetting completely that my days are numbered. And so I watched my little brother very carefully. I paid attention.
Two days after they discovered the tumor, they took it out. The two-hour surgery became a five-hour surgery, but the doctors felt they got it all.
I drove down to L.A. a few days later, and one night after his wife had left the hospital, I sat on his bed holding his hand in the dark as he fell asleep. It was the smallest thing, holding my little brother’s hand. Here we were, the two of us in middle age, but we might as well have been five and six years old, sitting in the dark, waiting out the monsters. The warmth of his hand, the feel of his grip…I sat there for a long time, glad for once that I didn’t feel a pull to be somewhere else, privileged to be included in something so real.
After Wally’s surgery, he and his wife and son sat quietly for 8 days, recovering, waiting to find out what the biopsy would reveal, and what that would mean to the rest of his life.
“I feel I will get good news,” he texted me the day before his doctor’s appointment, where the results of the biopsy would be disclosed. “But I’m prepping myself for bad news because believe it or not, there’s something bigger than me. And bad news,” he wrote, “might not be bad per se, but just a hassle for me in the coming years. There is much to be earned and learned from this experience,” he said, and then ended by telling me that he would spend the rest of the day practicing his Italian.
I always knew my younger brother, my only brother, was a beautiful person. He runs our family business in Los Angeles. He’s smart and organized – a numbers guy with an artist’s heart – he’s warm and funny and everyone who meets him loves him – men and women alike. “Palms open,” he told me once, years ago when we were together, as if to say, “whatever is coming is coming.” So when I got his text, when I saw the way he was holding this whole thing, the way he’d found such a gracious, glowing place to wait for the news, I was astounded. I wondered how I would be in the same situation.
The next day, driving home from the doctor, he texted all of us to let us know that the tumor was benign – that he was in the clear – that he could return to his life as he knew it – no toxic surprises for now.
“Do you still feel it?” I want to write. The glow of the veils parting, how for a brief moment the hallucination of what was important and what was not faded and he and I were both reminded of how sweet things are – how precious our lives. We signed our texts and emails the whole next week “Love, Love,” a word we bandy about, but which now seemed to glow on the screen.
It’s always my fantasy that these moments will change me forever, help me get things straight, but they come in and out like bad radio reception. I will return to the hallucination, I will forget what’s important, I will get stressed about nothing, forget that I am loved and the world will become small again. I’ll forget that Wally and I are being carried by something larger, and that even with good news, we’re all still terminal and have no time to waste.
So beautiful. I love “open palms.” Gorgeous story, Laurie. Thanks for sharing!!
Laurie,
I love the way you capture whats REAL. Thank you. THANK you.
So much resonance here, the pausing, the witnessing, the return. “We’re all terminal. We have no time to waste.” I feel that line in my bones. Thank you. xxoo
Beautiful xo
so powerful that I could feel the veils parting a bit for me. thank you.
I love this! Savoring the sibling love… YES!
I hear your “So be it. Amen”.
And that’s as true as it gets. Happy to hear your brother is doing well!
Wow. Beautiful. ‘It’s always my fantasy that these moments will change me forever.’ Me too. Thank you for sharing.
Beautiful story and thoughts Laurie! I kept thinking of my own brother as I read it and our special close relationship. So glad to hear he is doing well!
Wonderful piece. It reminded me of one of my favorite poems by Rainer Maria Rilke:
We lack all knowledge of this parting. Death
does not deal with us. We have no reason
to show death admiration, love or hate;
his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us
a false impression. The world’s stage is still
filled with roles which we play. While we worry
that our performances may not please,
death also performs, although to no applause.
But as you left us, there broke upon this stage
a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight
opening through which you dissapeared: green,
evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods.
We keep on playiing, still anxious, our difficult roles
declaiming, accompanied by matching gestures
as required. But your presence so suddenly
removed from our midst and from our play, at times
overcomes us like a sense of that other
reality: yours, that we are so overwhelmed
and play our actual lives instead of the performance,
forgetting altogehter the applause.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
Thank you for this. Amen and holy yes.
gorgeous writing and gorgeous sentiment. I loved this whole post, especially this: “The veils don’t part for me that often. The hallucination of my important, busy life mostly stays firmly in place. Like most people I know, I run around trying to keep up with my list, ambitious, always trying to get ahead, and with a fair amount of worry that I won’t do something right, or do it as well as I could, all the while forgetting completely that my days are numbered. And so I watched my little brother very carefully. I paid attention.”
A wake up call with a happy ending for now, as you say. I hung on all of your words to see it through with you. Thanks for taking me (us) along on this journey.
dear laurie, thank you always for sharing your words. your stories always linger with me. so glad your brother is doing well.
great story! loved reading it!!
love, love
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story – wow – beyond lovely…….
Laurie,
Beautiful thought provoking piece which had a happy ending. Simply put, Life is a fragile state of being where good health should never be taken for granted. Your brother is a lucky man to have such a loving compassionate sister as you. I hope for his full recovery. I’m sure this experience has changed his life as well as all his loved ones. Thanks for sharing this. My day today will begin a more grateful one.
So beautifully written, Laurie, I am glad to hear your brother is well.
Beautiful Laurie! I want to underline every line. What a powerful thing. What a beautiful thing. Love, Love.
Lovely and hashed through as always with the most choice words. Love your writing Laurie.
Your writing hit a deep center of truth for me; when my husband got his diagnosis of neuroendocrine cancer with a grim prognosis, his four siblings, who had all blossomed into saying “I love you” when their middle brother died suddenly, bloomed into an even more loving family, bonding deeply with visits and ooVoo, unashamed of hugs and tears and speaking openly of our love for one another, for our six children, five sons-in-law and 16 grandchildren, and it continues to weave our family together across the continent over two years after my husband died at home, with family surrounding him and sending him forth.
All of us are terminal and all of us make our journeys better when carried by Love. Love back to you and gratitude for the love I experienced in your coaching session!
Beautiful piece! Thank you!
Laurie, So true. So beautiful. Thank you!
Laurie, SO beautiful and true and honest. Not much more to say than that.
xo, tc
Laurie, I have always loved how you can cut into a life happening and pull out the raw emotions. I’m so happy your brother’s health scare turned out well. He sounds like an amazing person. Must run in the family 🙂
Writing that parts the veils for the reader too. Ain’t that the thing? Amazing Laurie.
outstanding! what a wonderful wordsmith! I was “in” this story the entire time. Thank you for birthing your gifts to the world.
Thank you for this wonderful piece…love your reflections and love that your little bros tumor was benign…there is nothing better than love shared among siblings….glad you are so close!
Such a powerful last paragraph. I am so glad Wally got good news.