Same mother. Same father. The genetic material used was so similar, making the differences between my brother and I unexplainable. We should be near clones, but we are near opposites. That was what I spent most of my life thinking. Brother Al was fastidious, serious, earnest, pragmatic, and a proudly rational man with a full head of mostly dark hair. A problem solver par excellence. A man who held strong opinions and fearless when expressing them. Some might say he saw things in nearly black and white terms. I sometimes wished I was more like him.
I was either a product of a maternity ward mix-up up or immaculately conceived by Rufus, a fallen angel. Blond curly hair. Personality tests would suggest that I am a ‘global’ type. Not serious. Particulars bore me. I like things with curves and the color taupe. I enjoy visiting both the Rijksmuseum and a good antique car show.
We’re only sixteen months apart in age (I am older), and it was expected that my brother and I would play together peacefully. We didn’t. We were to be great friends. We weren’t. Take our differences and add an extra fifth of competitive spirits, and you have a recipe for some serious sibling rivalry. So bad was one particular childhood dust-up, my mother sought the advice of our church pastor. I can imagine the conversation. But her obvious concern possibly changed our behavior in that we, from then on, went our separate ways. We tolerated one another. We celebrated each other’s birthdays. We babysat each other’s children, and Christmas gatherings were fun and relaxed. But we lived in different worlds.
Recently we spent a week together working on some home projects. Just him and I. Up and down ladders and covered with attic dust and cobwebs, we found time to connect. We talked about our lives, our dreams, our challenges. We spoke of our deceased parents, our early years, and found much to laugh at. Whatever hurts and misunderstandings existed have been either forgotten or forgiven or both.
I observed how brother Al must now spend some part of each day managing his Type 1 diabetes and a liver transplant. A mountain of drugs are taken throughout the day. His blood sugar monitor beeps at various times. Sometimes it’s too high and sometimes too low sending him to a glass of orange juice or a candy bar day or night.
One night he couldn’t sleep because of a recurrent fever. He joined me in the living room and sat silently, shivering, and grimacing for an hour. Finally, he fell asleep. A couple of hours later, to get his mind off his misery, he’s back on the ladder with an electric screwdriver. We tease each other until he laughs. He doesn’t complain.
Some experts will tell you brother Al should no longer be with us. When diagnosed with a fatal liver disease, liver transplants were rare and seldom successful. By the time his liver finally failed, and he turned yellow from toxins, the odds had improved considerably. A donor’s liver was available and now functions in Al’s body. He prays his gratefulness often and has shed tears for the family of the donor.
While watching my 63-year-old brother shiver, I thought back of our childhood together; how I would like that time back; how I might have shown more patience, more tolerance, and more love. I fight back the remorse. It’s not too late to be a better brother.
If you have a brother or a sister, it’s not too late.
