That leads us to who knows where?
Who knows where?
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
So on we go
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
Isn't filled with the gladness
It's a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share?
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
As I've referenced here before, my older brother, Ken, is in late-stage lung cancer; but while I've hinted at it a bit over the past year or so, I can't really bring myself to put anything too personal here. So here's a surface-level story about what's going on.
Ken's health has been going up and down over the past few months, and while our younger brother, Kyler, wants Ken to commit to going down to Nova Scotia with him and a bunch of other guys in June in order to put in the dock at his lakehouse, Ken can't quite plan out that far. I have told Ken repeatedly that any time he does want to go to Nova Scotia (that family lakehouse is his favourite place on earth, and close to our aging parents), I am free and interested in going with him. So it was a little alarming when, a few weeks ago, Ken texted me and said that we should probably plan a trip down, sooner rather than later. So we got flights, and he and I flew down for a week.
Where Ken is in his journey: From the beginning, Ken's oncology team has been hesitant to give him a prognosis, and when Ken initially told them that he'd be interested in having his life insurance paid out while he's still alive, the doctors informed him that they couldn't sign off on the forms until he had less than a year to live. And the doctors have now signed off on the forms. Where Ken's head is at: He keeps reassuring everyone that he is in a good place mentally; he feels really good about getting the fat insurance cheque (and paying off his mortgage and other debts and knowing that his wife and kids will be well-provided for), and he wants everyone to know that he has no regrets; that he has lived a full and happy life. But feeling particularly weak as January ended, Ken felt like this might be his last chance to visit Nova Scotia, so I didn't hesitate to book the tickets and join him.
We flew in on the Wednesday and went straight to our parents' house for a short visit. Ken immediately told Mum that he thought she was looking good and she said that she feels like everything is going down hill. Both of Mum's sisters died last year from dementia-related comorbidities (how strange that my own funk prevented me from writing anything at all here last year about the loss of my aunties), and Mum herself was hospitalised last year with a dangerously low red blood cell count (again, unremarked upon by me here), and Mum ominously said to me this time, "It's so funny that when I was in the hospital last year, I really could have died — the doctor said to me that he had never seen anyone with my blood count who survived — but I don't remember any of my time in that hospital at all. I could have died and never seen it coming, and never knew it happened. That's just how fast it can happen." So, by comparison I guess, Ken is "lucky" to have had a year, and maybe one more, in order to get his affairs and mind in order.
We then had one quiet evening at the lake, and were joined the next day by my Mum's two brothers and one of their wives (and for context on that: Mum's brothers are only 11 and 7 years older than Ken, and they have always been really close); and as much as this was a loving and lovely show of support for Ken, these folks sure can talk, and that can feel a bit draining (they even talked all through the Four Nations Hockey Tournament — including the all-important overtime period of the final game); and while Ken kept feeling like he needed to apologise to me for their presence, it didn't much bother me — it was good to see Ken active and sociable.
The whole gang went back into town to see Mum and Dad on the Friday — and despite her protests of deterioration, Mum was still shuffling around their house on her own, following and adding appropriately to the conversation, and appeared to be having a good time — and I was left behind for the night when Ken and the others went back to the lake. Dad wanted to go over their estate with me — showing me where to find important documents as their executor, telling me what their wishes are for final arrangements, wanting me to get better insight into Mum's evolving needs — and I did have a nice visit and learned what I needed to know; it sure was sweet to see how Dad dotes on Mum now that she can't do much for herself anymore.
Dave and Kyler flew in the next morning, came for a brief visit with Mum and Dad, and brought me back out to the lake. They were really only there for about 24 hours, but again, Ken must have been feeling the love and support, and that's what it was all about.
The Monday was Dad's 78th birthday and their 59th anniversary, so Ken and I and the uncles and aunty went back into town with a cake and cards and flowers for another brief visit. (The only concerning thing was Mum asking me if Kyler was going to be able to make it down from Ontario this trip — despite seeing him two days earlier — but she seemed to remember he had been there when I reminded her; memories fail, don't I know it, and for now, she doesn't seem to be going the way of her sisters.)
Back to the lake again, the uncles and aunty left the next day, and after one more quiet evening, Ken and I flew home early the next morning.
Okay, that is a pretty surface-level, non-introspective, just-the-facts-ma'am, recitation of events, but here's what I came here to say: My choice of song for this Tunesday borders on ironic; Ken (and Kyler for that matter) are no burden to me, but mostly because I seem to be incapable of carrying anyone. Ken kept thanking me for coming with him, for "everything" I do, and I have honestly done so little for him. My brother lives across the street from me, I know that I am going to lose him (in less than a year, according to the experts), and yet I don't really see him that often; I haven't seen him at all since we got home last Wednesday. I know part of it is denial (I know he's going to die, but I also don't believe it), and part of it is this awful funk that I'm in — I feel incapable of doing any of the things that used to bring me joy; I'm writing no book reviews because I'm reading no books; as my brother lives out the last days of his life across the street, I'm over here spending my days doing very little of consequence at all. And I don't know how to change things. And I feel like a fraud anytime anyone says that I'm being so great to Ken. I would do literally anything he asked, but I can't bring myself to offer anything. I would also do anything my parents asked of me, but I don't even call them regularly. I'm not lazy or cold-hearted or depressed, but there surely feels like there is something wrong with me. Yet, despite ironic overtones, it's the right song in the end:
So on we go
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
