A Man after Your Own Heart

One statement was made to me 1997, when my brother Robert died. "Oh, it will hurt less and less as time goes by." It was said with love and with the intention to comfort me.  

I knew that they meant to reassure me, but I always wondered if they knew what he had been through. Robert had continued to drink coffee and smile at the local cafe. He shared jokes with friends. So, they could not see what had been his last months.

Robert had an anaplastic astrocytoma brain tumor, an aggressive incurable tumor. He was diagnosed September, 1995, and died May 1997. People knew this was a 'time was short'. His community knew him well, some prayed for him.

In 1996, one of the times I was visiting, I walked to his house and found daughter Amy washing dishes. She was angry. "Dad's listening to this CD, searching for a song to be played at his funeral."


Robert gave me his characteristic crooked smile, but didn't say anything. This was the song.

Man after Your Own Heart, sung by Gary Chapman

We listened in silence while Amy and I cried silently. Then we listened to one other song. Neither was played, but that's the way it was.

Sometimes He Comes in the Clouds, sung by Steven Curtis Chapman

In truth, I do not think of Robert every single day, but I do think of our family when we were all together with Robert. 

Hurt less? Grief never stops or goes away, but hurt less? I don't know yet.

G is for graduation

Source

Holding a newborn after so many years was such tingling experience. Such a precious little man, Sean…so precious.  Family gathered around him, loving him.

Grandchildren had gone from baby to teens and these grandparents hadn't held a new grandson for years.  Sean was the beginning of another set of babies.  Sweet boy...such a precious sweet boy.

Sean could hit the baseball hard, could stretch out his glove, and catch anything hit his way.  Then his parents noticed that he wasn’t using his left hand. 

Doctor visit, then Pediatric Neurologist, then an MRI, and then on the fourth day Sean’s parents heard the news of a brain tumor. Surgery would happen in seven days.

The first surgery was done by one of only two Pediatric Neurosurgeons in the entire country. The tumor was wrapping around the brain stem; if the surgery had not been done, he would have died in two months. Sean was nine then.

A new MRI, and then a second surgery. The first surgery had been brutal, but the second was indescribable.  So much trauma, so much of who he was, taken away. Sean was ten. 

Then radiation. Then this…that…this…

Now…Sean is 22 years old.  Now, even after such horrible surgeries which left severe disabilities, Sean is graduating from University.

There will be rejoicing and tears for this young man, this precious man, this precious young man.

Of all the A to Z posts written this year, this one was the hardest. No words seemed to fit or relay this. My nephew is amazing.

Where were you?

There are certain days that one remembers always.  People remember anniversaries of great events, horrendous events, and glorious events.  Examples are endless:  the wedding day, the assassination of JFK, or just about anything where the images, sounds, and smells are forever ingrained in our computer-like brain.

In fact, someone can ask you, “What were you doing when you heard the news about the assassination of John F. Kennedy?”  Most of us who were cognizant at the time can call up that moment with clarity and emotion.  For me, I was sitting in my 7^th grade classroom, when the principal walked in and told us.  The room was cold and silent.  Then a boy turned in his chair, and it squeaked.  Another boy laughed.  We looked at each other, and then looked down quickly.  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, or where I should look.  Yes, a frozen photograph with sensory sound.

Robert Peck (in glasses)

I remember what I was doing on May 19, 1997.  It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and I had just gotten home from school.  There was a ‘to-do’ list running wildly in my head, and I was pulling dinner together.  The phone rang and I answered it, with the list still occupying my attention.

It was my parents.  I immediately sat down, and felt a chill creep over me from my head down to my toes.  I started to shiver.  “Yes?”  I answered. 

Easter 1959; Robert (glasses)

“Robert is gone,” my father’s voice sounded tired, stretched tight.

“This afternoon, two hours ago,” my mother filled in from another phone.  “It happened quickly.”  Mom’s voice was flat and without any light.

Robert & Cheryl, 1970

“I’ve got to go.  I need to make arrangements.”  I hung up.  I didn’t want to know how, for his death had been fast approaching, and the days passed while we held our collective breaths.  “Any day now,” was what my folks said every day when I called to ask “How’s Robert today?”

Uncle Robert with my Mary, 1985

Robert is my brother, and was born in January 1951; I was born in December 1951, and we were 10.5 months apart.  We were always close, and the attachment we felt stretched across countries, was always fresh and strong.  He discovered he had a brain tumor, an angioplastic astrocytoma, or a multiform glioma., in August 1995.  He had a dangerous surgery in early September 1995.  Robert lived nearly 21 months following his diagnosis.

Robert at Mom's kitchen table on the farm

So, today, I write this in Robert’s memory, for I know what I was doing when the phone call came.

Dad, Robert, brother Don, and my husband John

This is being posted on Memorial Day weekend, a time for families to remember departed loved ones, and to honor deceased veterans.  I needed to write this and breathe it out onto paper. I think of my brother Robert every single day, and I miss him dearly.