"To laugh often..."

From a refrigerator magnet my brother gave me many years ago:

"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. 

This is to have succeeded!" 

Ralph Waldo Emerson

My brother, Steve, did all of these things. He succeeded in life. It's whether or not we succeed in death that makes me ponder.

In the late 1990's, I battled two, concurrent fatal illnesses and survived. From about 2005 on, my brother fought through loss, loneliness, and deep internal pain and chose to die. The paradox is frightening. I remain confused. 

But if I look at his life, I know he set a wonderful example for many. 

Did he "laugh often?" He did loudly and with abandon to the delight of his friends and family and, in particular, his young nieces and nephews over a span of 23 years (13 of them, aged 4 to 23). The "affection of children" was guaranteed once he started talking like Donald Duck or handed out silly nicknames like they were candy or rolled around the floor playing just like a kid. 

"Win the respect of intelligent people"? Of course. He was a MENSA member and there was no one he couldn't engage in elevated, useful conversation or debate, including me. I guess I, too, like to think I'm intelligent although I've never been tested for genius. Up until just a few weeks before his death, we battled at online Scrabble, sometimes starting and finishing a game in one day. He won every time. Every single time. 

Did he "earn the appreciation of honest critics?" Over and over again Steve put his heart on display via his art, his writing and editing, his advocacy for the lesbian, bisexual, gay, and transgender (LBGT) community, and his volunteerism via the Saugerties Public Library, the Burrill B. Crohn Research Foundation and many local art events, festivals and fairs. His participation both actively and vocally during the Civil Rights era earned him respect and life-long compatriots. The comments flowing in about his present and past efforts are glowing and numerous. 

Ah, "the betrayal of false friends." I know of an occasion or two where he got hurt by those he thought were true. I'm sure there were many more. I know I hurt him more than once but I was never a false friend; just a typically-flawed sibling. 

God did he "appreciate beauty." His eyes were beautiful lenses as he would always remark about color and palette and the wondrous and breathtaking glory of the natural world. He would see things others did not see. He would point them out for us to enjoy. And he "found the best in others." More than one colleague has said he lit up the room when he walked in and made everyone feel good with his razor sharp wit and emanating love. 

Yes, he "left the world a bit better." A whole lot better in my opinion. He helped research scientists find a viable cure for HIV! He volunteered his blood. He went back to the researchers over and over again. He made this incredible difference for all of mankind all while growing glorious "garden patches."

I literally "breathed easier" because he lived. He sat by my side after an emergency tracheotomy and I wasn't so scared anymore. My big brother was there. He protected me and I breathed, albeit with the aid of a machine for weeks, but I breathed because he held my hand. He was there. 

So I guess what I'm saying is success can be marked by simple good deeds or by remarkable achievements. My brother did both. May I be worthy enough to carry the torch. 

Great-nephew Peter with Uncle Steve

Little Girl Lost

It is two days since I buried my brother. I feel like the lost little girl I wrote about in my book, DYING TO LIVE: Running backwards through cancer, Lupus and chronic illness. But I'm thinking long and hard about the title's pre-fix: DYING TO LIVE.

Because, I guess as we age, many parts of us die - whether they be our actual loved ones or our dreams or parts of our health, we are dying all the time. I turned 53 on Monday. It's a pretty insignificant age yet it will forevermore be burned into my brain due to my brother's death mere days earlier. And, for me, it brings back the question of why I lived through traumatic and near-fatal illness? Why was I chosen to stay in this Earth school when others I loved were not? Most importantly, however, we must accept that constant rejuvenation, growth and miracles accompany this dying journey. We just have to be willing to see and accept them quietly and with grace, or loudly and with gratitude - or both!

I don't talk about this much and not even in my book, but I had a Guardian Angel while I was critically ill. He visited me sometime during my wreck of an emergency tracheotomy, chemotherapy and never-ending hospitalization and his name was Sid. He was tall, blue-eyed with blond curly hair. He would sit by my side, visible only to me, and speak comforting words of encouragement and share my sorrow. Sometimes he would challenge me when I wanted to give up. His favorite three words when I would cry out: "Why me?" were "Why not you?" Months later when I started driving again, he was in the passenger's seat urging me on even through my eyesight was hazy, my confidence was zero and my muscles were weak.

One day he told me it was time for him to leave and I begged him to stay. But with a smile and wink (like Santa) he was off - back to God, I presume as his job with me was done. I looked for him for months - in real live humans. I was sure I would recognize him instantly and be able to walk up to him and thank him. But, of course, he was not of the physical world and I finally accepted I would not see him again until I rose to Heaven when it was my turn.

I hope my brother, Steve, has met Sid and they will become good friends; unless, of course, Sid is still working missions since I do believe God hands out certain job descriptions once you arrive in Heaven. I wonder what my brother's mission will be? I'm sure part of it will be to delight people with his wit and artistic expression. Perhaps he is already comforting someone else singing in his deep baritone voice, soothing with carefully selected words, or just making some ill child laugh.

According to one angelic website: "Usually, the guardian angels are spontaneously manifesting their support and divinely-protective influence when the human being truly needs them, because the mission they have from God, in respect with our being, is of acting like a sublime Providence..."

I believe, but you don't have to. I believe because of personal experience. Before that, I was a staunch non-believer. It takes a lot of time and argument with yourself and others to accept what is clearly not logical but I learned - slowly - that I actually prefer the illogical at times; especially times like these - times when nothing seems to make sense and I am that little girl lost yet again.

I will heal. The vast hole in my chest will fill in slowly and joy will return, most often when good memories of my brother surface. For now, I stay in sorrow and ache all over. It's just the first of many steps to come.

By Stephen Lyon Crohn 2013