Welcome home

The apartment is small and filled with boxes and furniture. I find my brother, released now from his convalescent care, sitting on the edge of his bed, his walker at the ready. He rises and walks to the front door. He wants to go for a walk. Our youngest brother is there too and the three of us stroll out to the street and down to the end of the block.  Later, as the youngest brother is saying goodbye, our youngest sister comes by with my brother’s laundry. After she goes, I install the riser on the toilet. Then we leave to go grocery shopping and have lunch out. He is moving better, getting stronger. The surgeon (the one who neglected to talk to us after his surgery) says my brother can go back to work this week! I think he fails to see the larger picture, sure, the surgical wound is healing nicely but my brother is using a walker, for God’s sake! He isn’t in any shape to go back to work. Fortunately, my brother sees his GP this week and will get that order amended.

My brother had been incapacitated by his back pain for many weeks and needs some time to rebuild his muscle strength and stamina. Then he will need to cope with whatever the oncologist recommends for the treatment of the cancer that weakened his bones to begin with. But my brother seems to be coping better (at least better than I would), taking these things one at a time. He says he feels glad to be at home and we have made sure that the basics are covered, food and clothes. He seems to have a long list of friends stopping by and he can begin driving when he is ready (it takes some negotiating for him to get in and out of a car so far, but that will change as he limbers up).

Last night S and I drove to Los Angeles to attend a Dia de los Muertos event. In the Mexican culture, the Day if the Dead is a jubilant celebration with food and music, honoring family members who have died with festive altars upon which are placed photos, food offerings and items the person loved in life. We listened to a lecture about the significance of this particular celebration and how other cultures deal with the death of loved ones. What struck me is how easily we segregate the sick and dying, we never hear about a person’s "last words" anymore because their mouths are filled with tubes, and once they have died, how quickly we give away their things as though they never existed. We move on. The lecturer said that a person is truly dead not when they have been buried, but when they have been forgotten. I guess that is one of the reasons I like to write…that the people I love might be remembered and that I might be remembered long after I am gone.

Today, there is grocery shopping. This afternoon S’s family gathers here for a barbecue. Her mom is returned from New York and this is her welcome home.