I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. My brother was deeply asleep. He didn’t murmur or acknowledge my presence, even when I leaned over, touched his hand and said softly, “Billy, this is Kathy. I’m going to spend some time with you.” I suspected that on some level my brother knew I was there.
From where I sat in his room, I could see part of the dayroom. Other residents of the home were coming and going. The television next to the Christmas tree was on, although no one was watching it. The sound gave the room a normal, homey atmosphere.
As I quietly sat watching my brother slumber, I remembered how I had taken care of Mom as she aged. I had paid bills, given baths and filled her pill box each week. Billy and Casper, my bachelor brothers who lived with her, made meals and kept her company.
A few years after Mom died, my weekly visits to the farm resumed. Both of my brothers had developed Parkinson’s disease. Now my visits were to fill their pill boxes, pay bills and keep them company.
Two years ago, my brother’s needs began to exceed my ability to keep them safe, so I moved both into assisted living homes. Their health decline accelerated. On Christmas Eve the nurse taking care of Billy called and said, “Your brother is no longer able to swallow. He’s having pain, so we’re giving him morphine. If you want to say good-bye, now would be a good time to come to visit.” Continue reading