Relative Redemption
My brother Bill would have been 73 years old today. He passed unexpectedly at age 67, though not wholly unexpected. He had fought his demons, alcohol among them, and was a lifelong smoker to boot. This picture is a classic Bill pose, just one of many family pictures with this face among the crowd. One home movie had all five siblings in the backyard dressed in our “extra fancy” church clothes. Dad, ever the director, had us line up and walk slowly toward the camera like soldiers going into the breach. We all dutifully walked across the backyard except Bill, who followed a few paces behind while pretending to read the newspaper he was holding in front of his face.
Memories of Bill from my childhood spring from photographs and home movies. Our age difference meant he was done with high school and gone before I had much time to register that he was there. I remember a party he threw at the house when our parents were out of town. I was in 5th grade, and let’s just say there was no “Say No To Drugs and Alcohol” program at our school. It was an eye-opening experience. He is why when most kids my age were listening to The Jackson 5 and The Partridge Family, I was well versed in The Moody Blues, Captain Beefheart, and Quicksilver Messenger Service.
At some point, Bill moved to Arizona, and I went to college. My only contact with Bill was through mom, dad, and the occasional holiday gathering. One day, mom and dad got a call from a doctor in Tucson. Bill had been found passed out on the street and had been admitted to the hospital. The message was, “If you want your son to live, you need to come and get him because if he keeps going this way, he’ll be dead soon.” Off they went to bring him home, moving him into the basement and trying their best to understand alcoholism.
Having Bill home derailed my folk’s retirement plans. He would sober up, seem to be making progress until they left on a trip, and then he’d drink until they returned. For a while they stopped traveling altogether, and I deeply resented him for turning their Golden Years into a journey through Al-Anon and the 12 steps to recovery.
When I moved back home for graduate studies at Illinois State, I found myself a part of the cycle. I witnessed his falls off the wagon firsthand, and I admit I was more angry than sympathetic. At least retirement travels could continue as mom and dad felt better about leaving when I was at the house. After graduate school, I moved to California and only saw Bill again when I visited Illinois. Slowly, he recovered. The time off the wagon became less and less. He got a job and stayed sober, and mom and dad enjoyed their retirement. He worked at a grain elevator where his corny humor and easygoing, folksy nature endeared him to his co-workers and local farmers. I’m sure they thought he was crazy when he showed up with his climbing gear and went rappelling down the outside of the silo just for fun. A lifelong avid reader, his downtime was usually spent on the basement couch, nose to book.
At some point along the way, the scales of support tipped between my parents and Bill. He slowly took over household tasks and transitioned from needing care to giving care as my parents grew older. For years, we had wondered when he would get it together and move out of the house. As time went on, we hoped he wouldn’t. Mowing the lawn, fixing a broken faucet, trimming a tree, and cleaning the gutters all shifted from dad to Bill.
I got to know Bill more and more on family visits home. He would accompany us, along with the boys, to the zoo, play chess at the Children’s Museum, rock climb in a grain silo, or toss the ball in the backyard. He would visit us at the family cabin in Missouri, where he helped teach my boys to fish, brought them box turtles rescued from the side of the road, and swam with them in the lake. Getting to know him through his interactions with my boys was a wonderful gift I’ll always appreciate being given.
When my father’s cancer became debilitating, it was Bill’s presence that allowed him to stay in the family home until the end. It was a comfort knowing he was there, a far cry from my days of resentment toward him. He was a nurse, caregiver, handyman, and more. After dad passed, we wondered if mom would be able to stay in the family home. As long as Bill was there, she could, and she did. Again, Bill became a support and caregiver. The son's dependence on his parents' paradigm had turned around, and his mom was now dependent on him.
Eight years would pass before my mom had a stroke. It was Bill who heard her fall and called the ambulance. She chose to ride out her time in hospice rather than struggle to recover and live a diminished life in a nursing home. The family gathered around, but Bill was there at the end; Bill took on the bulk of emptying a house filled with half a century of memories.
Now what? The house would be sold, and what would become of Bill? Would the lack of purpose derail him completely? I hoped not and was pleasantly surprised when he bought a condo and settled into life on his own for the first time in over 30 years. He fell off the wagon a few times but seemed to keep the demons mostly at bay. He sent me some bulbs from Aunt Margaret’s swamp lilies that had been in the family in one pot or another for more years than anyone could remember. My last conversation with him was to get detailed instructions on taking care of the bulbs in the winter so they’d once again bloom in the spring.
The loss of Bill hit me in an unexpected way. As you grow older, you know that your parents will pass, and while difficult, still somewhat expected. The passing of a sibling makes it feel as if the clock has accelerated to warp speed. After all, if Bill can go, what about my other siblings or me? He felt like a tie to the family's childhood home that was now severed. I knew Bill’s health would catch up to him sooner or later; I’d just hoped for later.
Sibling relationships can be tricky at times. Often, you find yourself related to someone you might never have been friends with if you had not grown up in the same household. The shared journey through childhood binds you together regardless of differences. The arc of my relationship with Bill changed and grew through the years. I’m grateful my earlier resentment had the benefit of time and opportunity to morph into appreciation and gratitude. I'm thankful I took the opportunity to tell him when I could. You never really know if your last conversation with someone will be your last conversation. I’m still caught up short when I think I should call him and realize I can’t. We miss him at the lake, but I can still sit on the dock and remember his youthful enthusiasm and dry wit. I will also remember him when I uncover the bulbs, place them in the sun, and watch them bloom again.
Regina Stoops is an award-winning storyteller, comedian, writer, producer, MS Warrior, and Autism Mom living with her wife and three kids in the San Francisco Bay Area.