Three years younger, healthier all his life than I have been, my brother Howard is dying of what began as the same cancer that I have in these same last months lived through and lived beyond.
Indeed, 20 years ago we wrote a book together about how our lives have intertwined -- and diverged. Becoming Brothers, we called it. And now, after many years in which he became for me the older brother that he wished I had been for him -- years in which he taught me how to love -- he is dying; leaving me bereft, bereaved. Profoundly sad.
He lives in Portland, Oregon, a continent away from me in Philadelphia. I have just come from spending four days with him, to tell him what he has meant to me, and that I love him; and in tears to say goodbye.
And at the same time, I am filled with joy and energy at my own deliverance. I have thought about "survivors' guilt," but only thought about it. I have not -- at least not yet -- been gripped by guilt that he is dying while I survive. Instead, I am living with a two-fold awareness: grief and joy.
When the home-hospice nurse talked with him about the meds, he said, "I need one week of mental acuity." Pause. "Three weeks." Pause. "Or more."
Why does he need this time, why is he measuring it?
For years he has been working on a book called Homeward Bound: Finding Satisfaction in the Family. In the last few months, before and since discovering the cancer that is killing him, he has been finishing it -- and he is passionately hoping to seal the arrangements for its publication before he dies. Or leave the process so far advanced that he can die in peace that it will happen.
The book is a remarkable guide to the journey of healing our families. It weaves together the three great strands of Howard's life -- explorer and healer of his own family conflicts; critic and teacher, Ph. D and all, of the great literatures of England and America (including an extraordinary book on Walt Whitman's poetry); skilled and cunning therapist, alert to the discontents of soured families that bring his patients to be healed. He is an eloquent writer. The book will guide many of its readers to their own healing, a broadcast version of his work at one-on-one.
(Though Howard and I have often talked about how we are like twin football power players of our long ago, Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside -- he has focused his life on healing injuries close-in, face-to-face, and I on healing the great broad circle of the world -- his book Homeward Bound will carry Mr. Inside to the Outside.)
Despite Howard's alertness and his clever wit, "marbleized like Rocky Fudge" was not quite right for me. My sadness at his dying and my joy at my aliveness, and my sense of the uncanny intertwinings of our lives, are not exactly mixed and swirled together. They live in me, and I in them, each with independent vitality and vigor, not even sadness today and joy tomorrow but all of them in constant presence.
Indeed, the days in Portland have already enriched my understanding of the Transformative Judaism I have been exploring. I left Howard's bedside to speak about that vision to the Renewal-oriented rabbis of Ohalah. What I will be saying to them, trying to "broadcast" the grief and the love that was warming that bed, was that these are the emotions and the sense of the Spirit that we need to bring to Earth itself and all its communities.
Grief that the world we have known is dying. We are living through earthquakes of a dying society, racked by violent "hiccups" as Howard is by his own. The economies, the ecologies, the sexualities, the families, the communities and traditions we have known, are all gasping, coughing, shaking. It is appropriate, it is necessary, to grieve.