Don't Talk, Don't Go

A friend reminded me today of a lesson that has remained with him for the 14 years since I told this story. It's worth repeating. When my brother was in his last days with melanoma, he struggled to stay alive and comfortable, while maintaining he was "going to get well." Not that he believed it, but he wanted us to. One morning he called early because his family was going to be gone for the day and since he lived in the mountains in a remote place, he was nervous about being alone that day. I'd been taking him to treatments, doctor appointments, therapy, every day during the week for quite some time, so this was the first full day with nothing scheduled. He asked me to come.

I drove up to the mountain, feeling like Mother Theresa (fantasizing) and imagining that we'd get to have some quality time and conversation about how things were developing with him. I could offer him wise counsel and comfort. But when I got there all he wanted was Cream of Wheat. And then, the newspaper. When I settled in with some needlework and then tried to initiate a meaningful conversation, he pushed his reading glasses down on his nose, gave me a fierce look over their tops, and said: "Judy. Don't talk. And don't go."

Tim read the whole paper cover to cover, even the ads, had a little lunch, took a long nap, watched Oprah, and finally it was time to pick up his girls at the schoolbus stop. I was free to go.

It was a lovely, quiet day, and a lesson I've not forgotten. Just being there was the gift. I didn't need to add anything more meaningful than that.