Home At Last

My brother and I were close as children but as adults, well, that was another matter. I married and moved to Long Island, and he moved to Virginia after a tour of duty with the Army which had sent him to Viet Nam.

Because of complications in our own personal lives through the years and because of the distance in miles, we lost touch.

He finally moved back to New York and agreed to share a house with an old friend. I’d see him from time to time when I visited our parents, but it was always like seeing a stranger. Things between us weren’t what they had been; the closeness wasn’t there. We talked little and spoke of general pleasantries – nothing personal or intimate. The war had taken its toll on him. It was as if the spark of his life had been permanently extinguished.

One day, I had gotten a call from his housemate. Frank was taken by ambulance to the hospital. He had slipped into a coma. We were all shocked to learn that my brother had cancer. He never told anyone and because of the doctor/patient confidentiality, his physician couldn’t say anything. Since he was sure my brother would never awaken, he finally felt obligated to explain Frank’s condition to the family.

It was Frank’s wish not to worry anyone or seek sympathy. He didn’t want to be treated differently because of his illness. The doctor respected his wishes.

Frank, as the doctor suspected, never regained consciousness, and died five short days later of liver cancer.

One night, while lying in bed awaiting sleep and trying to make sense of my brother’s death, I began to sink deeper and deeper into depression because of the loss I felt. It wasn’t just the loss of my brother; it was loss of losing the closeness we had so many years before. I thought of the fun we had as children, the parties and dances we attended as teenagers, our marriages, his tour of duty in Viet Nam, and his bitter divorce that caused him to remove himself for years from those who loved him unconditionally.

After Viet Nam, he returned to find his young bride, now in love with someone else. He was devastated. No matter how he tried to repair and save his marriage, it was hopeless. I can only assume it was around that time when he learned he had cancer, because shortly after his divorce, he stopped calling and wouldn’t return our phone calls. My parents and I drove to Virginia to visit him, but he was rarely home. We left messages – all unanswered. Soon, we learned that he moved and left no forwarding address.

Where he was and how he lived was a mystery to us all.

About three years later, when the doorbell to my parent’s home chimed, they were astonished and overjoyed to see their son standing on their front porch.

Frank agreed to have dinner with them explaining that he had just recently moved into a house several doors down from theirs. One of his Army buddies had been looking for a housemate and he and Frank made a deal. Frank moved in a few days later.

Our parents asked if Frank would prefer living with them and he replied that he wouldn’t feel comfortable. After all, he’d never lived there when he was younger. The Army took him when our parents lived in Brooklyn. It wasn’t until Frank was in Viet Nam that our parents moved from that apartment into their home in Queens. Therefore, Frank was correct. Our parent’s home was never his and he’d now feel awkward. At least with his Army friend, he'd already shared a bunker with him. Our parents accepted and respected his decision.

During dinner, Frank didn’t talk much. He never mentioned his ex-wife, Viet Nam, and definitely never mentioned anything about his illness.

We saw Frank more frequently after that night and noticed his weight loss. Always one to make light of any situation, he’d joke about his weight by saying, “Makes the coffin easier to carry.”

When he said that, after seeing the look on our mom’s face, he smiled, hugged her, and said, “Mom, I’m only joking. Don’t worry; I’m fine.”

He never spoke like that again.

Thinking back now, he might have wanted to tell us about the cancer and was “testing the waters”, as the saying goes to see if mom could handle the aspect of losing her only son. Viet Nam was bad enough and she was delighted when he returned but returned only to lose him to cancer was unthinkable. At that point, I’m sure he knew mom would have a rough time and therefore kept his illness to himself.

While thinking of all these things, the depression and emptiness I felt was overbearing.

Could I have helped him in anyway? I already knew the answer to that. It was NO. I would have loved to spend time with him so he would have had someone to talk to. However, that was never Frank’s style. He knew we’d hover and probably, never leave him alone. He would have hated that kind of attention and now in retrospect, he’d have grown to resent us and the intrusion into his final time on earth. It would have been hell for him.

Frank exhaled his last breath a few months later. Losing a sibling was tough but I can’t imagine what my mom went through losing a child – her first born – her only son. Her words as the bugler played Taps at the cemetery will always echo in my mind, “My boy My boy! Oh my God, my baby!”

Yet despite my own grief, I prayed that Frank finally found the peace that escaped him for so many years on earth. As tears filled my eyes and sleep began to overtake me, the last thing I remember thinking was how I wish I could see him just one last time to let him know I still loved and missed my big brother.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the third to bottom step of a long winding staircase. Looking up, I could see no end to this magnificent structure.

It was, well, I guess the best way to describe it is to say, it was a glowing white ensemble of steps. Honestly, there are no words to describe adequately its magnificence.

Suddenly, I was aware of a man standing on the floor before me. I turned fully and saw an extremely handsome man with golden-blond hair that seemed to almost glow. His hair was a bit long, falling in soft curls just below his ears. His eyes were a pale blue, the color that reminded me of a cool, clear, pool of water.

He smiled and his face became radiant. He was dressed in a tailored suit that appeared to be made of silver and white thread.

When he looked at me, I felt as if he understood my anguish. As he spoke, his eyes were filled with sympathy and understanding. His voice, although soft and gentle, was majestic.

“Your brother is well and finally at peace. He cannot visit as he is

going through a period of transformation, but he sends his love.

Do not grieve for him as he has found his happiness. He is with

God.”

Before I could think of asking anything, this handsome stranger finished his statement by saying, “He is in the Arms of our Lord.”

He then turned and walked through a beautiful golden door that I had not noticed before.

I awoke the next morning feeling the warmth and comfort I had not felt since Frank’s death.

Was this handsome man my Angel sent to comfort me in my time of despair? If my opinion counts for anything on this earth, I will say definitely yes, for now I can honestly feel that my brother is home at last.