How It Is with My Brother
Today my brother called me at work. Well, he had the aide at the nursing home where he lives dial my number. My brother used to be a wisecracking smartass photographer and news producer. Now he lives in a nursing home because of the stroke he had a year and a half ago. He is paralyzed on his right side and wheelchairbound; he cannot walk or talk. He makes a few sounds, mostly variations of "yeah" or "oh," but does not have any other words. In person, he communicates by gestures or pointing. The gestures are not always easy to understand; they don't always seem to correspond to what he wants to say or ask about. Sometimes, for example, he will place his hand over his eyes to communicate that he needs toothpaste, or wants a cigarette. (Yes, he is still smoking.) The mismatch between the gestures and what he wants to communicate is because he has both receptive and expressive aphasia.
Last week I was at a small New Year's Eve party at the home of a family I know. In an effort to while away the time until midnight (the adults were yawning, the kids were hyperactive), we started playing charades. When one of the kids starting acting out the name of a movie, and we all shouted out various syllables and words, I was startled to realize how much this reminded me of trying to communicate with my brother.
On the phone today, I could not of course see my brother's gestures. I asked a lot of questions: "Are you feeling okay? Do you just want to talk? Do you want someone to come visit you? Are you wondering where Daddy is?" (My eighty-three-year-old father treks over to the nursing home three or four times a week from his home a few blocks away.) I told my brother that I was at work, that there had been something wrong with my computer but that the tech guy had just fixed it, that I was going out on a date Saturday night, that I would come see him on Sunday, that I was still grading my students' papers. He took all of this in and responded with variously inflected ohs and yeahs. Then he started trying to say something to me, to ask me about something, but of course he couldn't. I told him, "It's hard for me to understand when I can't see you." He said, "yeah." I could tell from his voice that he understood what I was saying.
I asked him to put the aide back on the phone. When she got on, I asked if she could figure out what he wanted. She asked him if it had to do with me specifically and he said yes. It seemed to be something about a picture, or something else he wants me to bring. I don't really know what it could be. Finally, I said, "Tell him he can tell me when I come on Sunday." She did, and we got off the phone.
There are times (today is one) when the sadness of my brother's situation--or, even more, of ours, trying to take care of him and missing the person he was--seems like too much to bear. I know there are other ways to look at the situation, that maybe I don't have to be sad about it, maybe he is not so sad, maybe he is just living his life the way it is now. My coworker, who overheard my end of the conversation, thought it was impressive or touching that he called me.
But, for tonight, I am sad.
Last week I was at a small New Year's Eve party at the home of a family I know. In an effort to while away the time until midnight (the adults were yawning, the kids were hyperactive), we started playing charades. When one of the kids starting acting out the name of a movie, and we all shouted out various syllables and words, I was startled to realize how much this reminded me of trying to communicate with my brother.
On the phone today, I could not of course see my brother's gestures. I asked a lot of questions: "Are you feeling okay? Do you just want to talk? Do you want someone to come visit you? Are you wondering where Daddy is?" (My eighty-three-year-old father treks over to the nursing home three or four times a week from his home a few blocks away.) I told my brother that I was at work, that there had been something wrong with my computer but that the tech guy had just fixed it, that I was going out on a date Saturday night, that I would come see him on Sunday, that I was still grading my students' papers. He took all of this in and responded with variously inflected ohs and yeahs. Then he started trying to say something to me, to ask me about something, but of course he couldn't. I told him, "It's hard for me to understand when I can't see you." He said, "yeah." I could tell from his voice that he understood what I was saying.
I asked him to put the aide back on the phone. When she got on, I asked if she could figure out what he wanted. She asked him if it had to do with me specifically and he said yes. It seemed to be something about a picture, or something else he wants me to bring. I don't really know what it could be. Finally, I said, "Tell him he can tell me when I come on Sunday." She did, and we got off the phone.
There are times (today is one) when the sadness of my brother's situation--or, even more, of ours, trying to take care of him and missing the person he was--seems like too much to bear. I know there are other ways to look at the situation, that maybe I don't have to be sad about it, maybe he is not so sad, maybe he is just living his life the way it is now. My coworker, who overheard my end of the conversation, thought it was impressive or touching that he called me.
But, for tonight, I am sad.
posted by Sarah Sometimes at 11:33 PM
4 Comments:
It must be so hard for your brother not to be able to communicate the way that he once was. I am sorry for both you and him.
jar, thanks for the good thoughts.
How difficult. Especially since you remember how he used to be.
Sending you a virtual hug.
jo(e), thanks for the hug. I am feeling better today.
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