My younger brother Dick died this morning (July 5th). He was 55 years old (would have been 56 in October). He fought colon-rectal cancer for just under 4 years. During his fight he showed extreme courage in the face of something that I don't know how I would have acted. He fought the disease to the last, he did not give into it. But still it sucks.
He told me last year when I met him for lunch after one of his visits to the surgeon that he wanted to live to his 56th birthday; as our father died just 2 weeks past his 55th birthday in June 1971. He didn't make to to 56 but he outdistanced our father.
He and I were never very close; as a matter of fact none of the older brothers are very close. In his case we saw each other a few times during the year, called in between those intervals to touch base with each other; short conversations, but enough for us to maintain contact. During the four years of his sickness we maintained this pattern as neither one of us saw a need to change it. He made a turn for the worse in December 2003 and our contact became more. I would call him a little more and in the past months I made it a point to increase the frequency of my visits; to sit with him and his wife and children.
I went out to see him on Saturday and I am glad I did. I would not have felt guilty if I had not, but I feel good that I did. I loved him and he should be proud of his children who are wonderful young adults. They, along with his wife took really great care of him especially at the end when his condition deteriorated greatly. He did not want to go to the hospital, nor did they want him to go.
This may sound very sterile, but I wrote a great article in my head on the train from Long Island earlier and promptly forgot it when I sat down here. My thoughts are a lot more emotional than portrayed here. I wanted to publically write something here about his death for myself.
12:48:06 AM 
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