To the editor:
I was not at the funeral of my brother Buddy, but I know all is over: the emails, long phone calls, packages in the mail. Denial works only so long. Memories now replace the real.
In the 1940s, on arrival at Grampy and Grammy’s farm in Carmel, Leonard and I went across the road to play with four cousins, sons of Reid and Phyllis. Buddy was second oldest.
Fifty years later, Buddy arranged a reunion at the Bangor Mall food court, where I met his wife Marge, and marveled at Phyllis, in her 90s and appearing 60. Other cousins and our uncle joined us. These annual luncheons continued through 2007. In 2008, Buddy emailed photos of Phyllis, very stylish, at her 100th birthday celebration dancing with each son.
May 20, 2011, 9:18 a.m. Subject: BMP & me. “Good morning, BMP. This is a love letr 2u.” (We never texted, but abbreviate we did.) He explained that his mom had wanted a daughter and he a sister, but that was not to be. He had had a feeling he called “sisterly love” for a friend and a cousin, both gone, and for me. A sermon he once heard about the levels of love lacked a feeling of “sister love for a relative,” and he could not convince the pastor it was necessary.
I was a bit overwhelmed, but flattered, and accepted. After that, he used sis, sista, sistah, and nicknames. I reciprocated. Sign-offs always included lol, xoxo, etc.
January 26, 2013, Marge died suddenly after the funeral of her sister, her last sibling. In October, she had told him, “Don’t ever make this house a shrine to me.” Now, their three kids sorted and made choices. He had a yard sale and sold the house. He was free to visit them and other relatives and friends. “Rochester’s on my list,” he assured me. Neighbors in Belfast had a room for him, as did his mother in Bangor.
However, she needed more than the two days he had been giving her, and he quickly became her primary caregiver. At 106, how long could she last? With help from his brothers and a woman aide, Buddy found some respite. In March, 2014, he took off a few days to drive south. First of four stops was to see a woman who had worked with him over 30 years ago; she sent him a sympathy card after hearing about Marge.
A bad ice storm prevented his leaving as planned … and by the time he left, they were planning to buy a place in Florida where Phyllis would live with them. They married September 30 in the bride’s back yard near the pond.
Early in November, back in Bangor, Bud went to ER and was diagnosed with colon cancer. ”It’s incurable, but chemo will keep me alive a long time,” he told me from the hospital. His brother in North Carolina took Phyllis to stay with them while Bud had chemo. But the prognosis soon changed to a few weeks left for him and no chemo.
He called me Thursday evening, January 15, “Mom died at 1:00 this morning peacefully, happy from days of playing cards with grandchildren who stopped in. Richard was with her. There’s nothing more they can do for me. I’m set up for hospice here in the living room.” He died the following Wednesday afternoon at 5:30, his newlywed wife at his side.
My two brothers were younger than I, whereas Buddy was more like a twin, a good friend, a soul mate. He became the brother I never had.
Byrna Porter Weir
Rochester, N.Y.
