Signs of Later Life

Four brothers. From the left, Wayne, Warren (author), Bob, Bill (who is younger and yet to have “senior” health problems).

Over a year ago I purchased hearing aids.

Several months ago I fell down the bottom three stairs in our house and landed with my back against the wall, chipping the plaster. No injury. 

In early October, 2019, my wife and I drove to Maine for vacation. Barbara planned to meet three high school friends in Bar Harbor, and I was hoping to explore Down East Maine, that part of the coast northeast of Bar Harbor. As we entered Maine, I began to shake uncontrollably. After dropping Barbara and reaching Lubec, at the New Brunswick border, I holed up in a motel, alternating between periods of cold shakes and fevers. A few days later when I picked up Barbara, we headed directly home, calling ahead for a doctor’s appointment and postponing a side trip to western New York to visit my oldest brother, Wayne. 

A week after arriving home I began to wonder if I would soon die. I was getting sicker and we still hadn’t identified the illness. I felt captured, with no control. Disease was carrying me downstream but I wasn’t ready for the end. I had been healthy, and I had plans. Yet there was nothing I could do.

Me (left), Wayne (right)

A few days later I was in the hospital, diagnosed with a liver abscess, and I had a plastic drain tube protruding from my side. Spent six days there, the prognosis gradually took shape and the doctors expected a full recovery. My thoughts of death faded. For another month I returned to the hospital everyday for antibiotic infusions. The entire journey through that illness was about two months. (The bacteria forming the abscess may have invaded in conjunction with a tooth extraction I had in late August, but we’re not sure.) 

Not long after coming home, Wayne unexpectedly passed away. He was a carpenter during middle life, and he developed Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, probably from exposure to dust and chemicals at work. He caught a winter cold in late October, and with his weakened respiratory function, he ended up in the hospital. He labored harder and harder to breath, and early in the morning on November 1, he stopped. 

Our family scheduled Wayne’s memorial for December 1, when I could attend. By then we had grown accustomed to his passing, and the memorial events were somber and efficient. The raw emotion of dramatic loss had dulled. Still, it was good to celebrate his life and remember his endearing qualities: his sense of humor, his dedication to family, and his years and years of hard work.

I was still weak by the time Barbara and I arrived home, and the holidays were near. To save time, I began saving phone messages that weren’t urgent and by Christmas I had accumulated 13. After Christmas I sat down to go through the messages. The first message, from October 23, was from Wayne, who was calling to see how I was doing: 

“Hey Warren, it’s Wayne. It’s Wednesday afternoon. Just calling to see how you’re feeling. I’ve got a case of the stomach flu or something; Got the “green apple two-step,” and I don’t feel good at all. Supposed to go to the installation of officers for the Odd Fellows Lodge tonight, but I’m not going to make it. 

Wayne loved motorcycling, but let it go during middle life when his responsibilities to family dominated.

Got my driver’s license yesterday, new driver’s license; I’m all set for another 8 years. 

So, just wanted to know how you’re feeling and whether or not you’re okay or whether I should come down and plan to do some housework for you and your wife while she sits in the hospital next to you.”

He recorded the message 8 days before he passed, and he was chipper and funny. With his new driver’s license, he was thinking ahead 8 years, even if a bit whimsically, and offering help to his younger brother. 

Bob

Wayne had just turned 80 when he died, and at that age, illness and death are common. Yet his was unexpected and therefore hard to accept. We have our memories, photos, a voice message that reflects his humor and general happiness. For these I’m grateful.

My illness and Wayne’s death are not the end of the story. My other older brother, Bob, was diagnosed with a form of T-cell lymphoma while I was ill and just before Wayne’s death, and he is now tied up in the U.S. medical system trying to figure out the best treatment options. Because his doctors believe they caught the cancer early, Bob’s prognosis is good. Yet the precise treatment is still uncertain.

What an autumn! What can we make of all this?