The Last Parade

I always looked up to Frank, not just because he was taller than I was, but also because he was my big brother. We were born in an era where our parents taught us to look out for each other; big brothers were to be treated with the same respect as our parents, and they were taught to take care of their little sisters.

And as big brothers go, Frank fit the criteria perfectly. Before I found friends of my own, he’d taken me under his wing and taught me about baseball, football, hockey, and any other things boys enjoyed. Of course, once we were old enough to be interested in dating, I was on my own – with one exception. He never failed to check out the boys I’d bring home: was he good enough, did he lie, was he a bully, did he respect his elders. If a boy didn’t pass my brother’s inspection, Frank did everything to encourage me to be as disinterested as possible and stay as far away as possible. Honestly? I usually listened to him. He was rarely wrong.

There was a time when my brother had a disagreement with another boy in the neighborhood. This boy was as tall as my brother but a little stockier. I never knew what their argument was about and it didn’t matter to me. All I knew what that I arrived home one afternoon with a bloody nose, a brewing black eye, and fat lip. I was twelve and told to give my brother a message: “Next time, this will be worse.” I doubt I’ll ever forget those menacing words. Frank asked who hit me. I told him and he saw red! The boy ended with a broken nose, two loose front teeth, a spilt lip, and an awfully bad stomachache. My brother’s message was clear: “stay away from my sister!” All these years later, I still have no idea why that happened. Frank said it was over and that’s all that mattered. Strange how we remember certain instances in our lives.

When a boy I’d been seeing broke up with me one week before my senior prom, Frank didn’t wait for me to either find a quick substitute or miss the prom. He asked one of his friends if he’d escort me. Tony eagerly said yes. I had a fantastic time with one of the cutest boys at the dance. Oh, and Tony and I dated for several months after the prom. We lost touch when he went away to college but, I’ll never forget him or the fun we had.

While Tony left Brooklyn for an out-of-state college, Frank decided to attend a local one. He enjoyed college as much as he did high school. I always said if he had a choice, he’d be a permanent student. He was that kind of person. Our mom said he was like a sponge and learning was his liquid. He just soaked up everything there was to learn.

I never attended college. With my brother in college and my sister in middle school, once I graduated, I opted to join the work force and help my parents pay for their educations. That’s where I met my first husband but that’s another story.

Frank was about to graduate from college and my husband, and I were living sixty miles away. Being newly pregnant at that time, it was too far a drive for us to attend - or so my husband said. While Frank understood, I was truly upset. I was more upset two days after his graduation when we spoke on the phone.

“Hey, Sis! You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today.”

“An invitation for grad school?”

“How I wish! But no. What I received was a draft notice!”

“What? Frankie, you only graduated two days ago. What’d they do, mail it a week beforehand?”

“Don’t know when they mailed it but I’m not going down as a draftee. I’m going to the draft board office tomorrow and ask them if they can change this to enlisted”

“Oh crap!”

We spoke for about another half hour and said our goodbyes. I cried. I knew in my heart, my brother was going to war: the Viet Nam war!

While his major in college was science (he had hoped to go to medical school), the Army trained him to be a combat engineer. Because of his college education, his immediate rank was Lieutenant. Not that it mattered. His rank and position placed him and his battalion in the heart of many battles.

I knew many young men from our area in Brooklyn that, like my brother, came home “damaged.” Often, they’d sit and stare as if in a world of their own. Nightmares became their normal sleeping habits. They’d all lost significant weight. Some did drugs, others drank too much. Some never made it home at all. At least, I still had my hero, my brother.

He'd grown a mustache. I asked why since he was always so clean shaven. His answer was, “Let’s just say, I’ve changed.”

One afternoon while visiting my mom, she asked him to fix the kitchen ceiling light. When Frank raised his arms, his shirt lifted, and I saw three round scars. He never had them when he was a kid. I asked him what happened. He replied, “Don’t worry about it. It’s over.”

Time went by and though I didn’t see my brother every week, I did see him occasionally and when I did, I noticed a slight limp. I asked him about it, and he told me it was nothing to worry about – just getting older, he’d say.

Just getting older? He was only forty-eight years old. I knew not to push for answers he didn’t want to give. I let it go but told him if he ever needed to talk, I was there to listen.

Then it happened. A few months later, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. However, he made his doctor promise to keep his medical condition private. Frank wanted no sympathy. He’d fight this disease alone. He was determined not to have his family feel sorry for him. He’d rather die with dignity than pity.

He joined the American Legion Post in Queens where he’d moved with a friend. My mom, now lived across the street.

Two years later, on Memorial Day, in 1995, his Post in Maspeth, NY was to be a part of the town’s Memorial Day Parade.

I don’t know why, but Frank was chosen to carry the Post’s American Flag – an honor given to only a select few. It made his day! He was so proud to wear his uniform and carry the Flag of the country he so loved.

Little did we know, that would be the last time he’d ever carry the Flag he so cherished.

Little did we know that Frank would wear his uniform only once more.

September of 1995, when Frank was just fifty years old, he began coughing severely. Every time he coughed, or maybe I should say “hacked,” his mouth filled with blood. He grew weak and his roommate called 9-1-1 and our mom who called me immediately.

I met them at the hospital where we were told by the doctor that Frank had slipped into a coma in the ambulance.

Looking at his skin, I asked the doctor why his skin looked so discolored. He replied with, “I had given him my word and also according to the law, I wasn’t allowed to say anything, but now I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore. Your brother is past stage four liver cancer.”

We stood their numb. Mom’s eyes filled with tears and while she began to shake and hyperventilate, she found no words.

I looked at my brother’s almost lifeless body and whispered. “How long does he have?”

The doctor replied, “Probably only a few weeks – if he’s lucky. This is the way he wanted to go. He wanted to no one to know, no one to suffer with him.”

I leaned over and gave him a hug and kiss, then whispered in his ear, “Whenever you’re ready, Frank, just let go. I hate this. I don’t want to lose you, but you’ve already been through too much. Please don’t suffer anymore.”

Two hours later, he was gone.

It’s so hard for me to write this while I remember the boy I adored, the man who was my hero, and the brother that cancer had the audacity to take away from us.

We honored the wish he’d written and buried him in the uniform he so proudly wore.

The photo I’ve chosen for this story is the last Memorial Day where he was honored by his American Legion Post to carry the Flag of our great nation. This is the photo taken before he died just a few months later.

This was Frank’s Last Parade.