By Amy McGarry
Oct. 2 would have been my brother Denny’s 77th birthday. Last year at this time, my sisters and I were busily preparing a birthday party for him at his assisted living facility. It would be the last time several of his best friends and some of his nieces and nephews would see him. Our brother passed away peacefully on Aug. 20.
Aug. 20 was also the day we had scheduled our brother to be evaluated for hospice care. Since moving from assisted living to memory care in June, Denny’s decline from Lewy body dementia was breathtakingly rapid. With at least one of us sisters visiting him every day, we witnessed this decline in real time.
The first weeks of August, when Denny was eating less and less and sleeping more and more, we knew it was time to contact hospice. He was unable to communicate if he had pain, and we were terrified that he was uncomfortable. By the time my sister Shannon made the phone call, the waiting list for an evaluation by hospice was over a week long. We took the soonest appointment we could get: Aug. 20.
After my visit on Aug. 15, I texted my sisters and said Aug. 20 isn’t soon enough to get hospice on board. Shannon got a hold of a miracle worker at Horizon Hospice who got the appointment moved to Aug. 18.
What a relief to finally know for sure our brother was comfortable. With Lewy body dementia the body can become very rigid, as our brother’s did. Under the care of hospice, for the first time in months, his body looked relaxed. He looked at peace.
On Aug. 19, the hospice nurse told us our brother had less than 48 hours to live. I held his hand and talked to him, then left. I was always super conscious of giving him privacy. My sister Shannon held vigil at his side to the end, as is her way.
My brother’s love language for his family was gift-giving. When my daughter was growing up, Denny would visit – briefly – and always had something to give us. My sister Shannon and her husband received nut roll candy bars. He sent money to his son and daughter in California regularly. He brought me family pictures and artifacts. But my daughter Alex, his favorite niece, received the most interesting and broadest range of gifts.
I can’t help but think of Denny’s rapid passing as his final parting gift to us. He was suffering terribly. All we wanted was an end to his suffering. And he gave that to us.
He left us, his sisters, with other gifts as well. As his dementia progressed over the last two years of his life, we sisters came together to make decisions, support him, and share in his care. Before this team endeavor, our interests and focus went in separate directions; now, we had a shared focal point, thus forging an unbreakable bond. This bond was a gift. We grew to recognize and respect each others’ strengths. That too was a gift from our brother. We are now closer than we have been since we lived under the same roof, which was a very long time ago.
We also were gifted an education in eldercare planning. We were forced into uncomfortable discussions with our children about worst case scenarios in aging and what they should do when we can no longer care for ourselves.
We received the gift of relationships with caregivers and residents at the assisted living and memory care facilities.
For me personally, this whole journey of caring for my brother was a gift. I learned about the depths of my heart. To care so deeply for another’s wellbeing is one of the hardest things we do. But it’s also an honor and a privilege.
I can’t help but think the timing of this journey was also a gift. As difficult as it was, dividing my time and energy between my brother’s care and my only child as she navigated her way through the end of high school was a gift. My brother prevented me from being a smothering parent. I couldn’t obsess about my kid’s last dance or last debate tournament. I couldn’t hover. I couldn’t feel sorry for myself for “losing” my daughter. Worrying about Denny was almost like having another child. Or, it put me in that “sandwich generation.” Only instead of caring for aging parents while raising a child, it was my brother who was old enough to be my parent.
My brother’s passing distracted me from the grief of the impending departure of my daughter’s move to college one month after Denny passed. I’ve had little time to pre-grieve my empty nest.
At the time of this writing, I have just a few days to help my kid get stocked up and packed for her first year of dorm life at the University of Washington. With shopping for a mini-fridge, a microwave, and every other little thing she might need, I have had zero time to grieve the loss of my brother. When we go shopping, I catch myself thinking, “While I’m here, I should pick up toothpaste and soap for Denny.” I have to remind myself we don’t need to plan Denny’s birthday party this year. Instead, I spent much of September preparing for Denny’s celebration of life, which was lovely and attended by a number of high school friends from his Ritzville graduating class of 1967.
I had the honor of writing and reading my brother’s eulogy. Everyone knew my brother’s favorite days of the year were Bloomsday and the Kentucky Derby. I finished the eulogy expressing the hope that now, every day is Bloomsday for Denny, with a Kentucky Derby thrown in here and there. I also said, as I gulped down a sob, “I miss you, brother.” And that is a gift, too, a testimony of my love for and connection with my brother. The gift of grief is a reminder of all the memories and the impact he had on my life.
Happy Heavenly Birthday, brother!
Amy McGarry grew up in Spokane Valley, Washington. After a 20 year hiatus, she moved back to Spokane Valley where she lives with her husband and two cats. She is the author of I am Farang: Adventures of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand, available on Amazon.com.
