My brother Joseph was a Bu-Jew. Like me, he was raised in a Jewish household, but somewhere in his twenties he was introduced to Buddhism and he never looked back. He joined a Sangha in Hawaii where he lived and meditated daily for over 40 years. Perhaps that’s why, when he learned he had terminal brain cancer at age 64, he reacted with Buddhist calm.

“I’m not going to ask Why me?” he said. “Why shouldn’t it be me? I’ve had a wonderful life with more blessings than I can count. If this is my time, so be it.”

But I wasn’t calm, I was desperate. I reached out to our rabbi, who said: “If Joseph tells you he’s had a Grief and Gratitude: wonderful life, that he’s filled with gratitude, then you should follow his lead.” And I tried, but my heart was consumed with anger and loss and I had no room for gratitude.

Joseph and his wife, Ann, opted for surgery to suppress the tumor’s growth and maybe buy a few more years – with luck, even a decade. They flew to my home in San Francisco so the highrisk operation could be performed by one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. My sister Fran arrived from Washington and we hunkered down in our house, talking late into the night to capture every memory and moment while we still could.

On the day of the surgery, Joseph told us there was 23 nothing in his life he would change. Rather than grief or fear, he felt content. He planned to return to Hawaii and continue to live exactly as he had for as long as he could. No bucket list, no frantic attempt to dot all the i’s before his time ran out, no bitterness or anger. But I simply couldn’t imagine a life without my brother.

Although the surgery went well, there was no denying that life was now dramatically different. Joseph had to adjust to a loss of brain function, a debilitating schedule of chemo and radiation, a highly restrictive diet, and an experimental alternative treatment Ann found online. Yet, he chose to focus on everyday pleasures – what he could do rather than what he couldn’t. He and Ann meditated together in the morning, snorkeled in the ocean almost daily and watched a sunset most evenings. Joseph continued to attend his book club even though he couldn’t read the books, and to strum along with his ukulele group, even though he could no longer follow the sheet music.

“It’s not the life I’d imagined”, he told me, “but it’s a good life nonetheless.” But I was too focused on the impending loss of my beloved brother to appreciate each day as a gift. My pre-grieving prevented me from living in the moment as he did.

Joseph and Ann’s community rallied around them. Friends dropped by with groceries, dinner invitations, and Joseph’s drink of choice (bourbon). He warmly welcomed everyone, provided that they mirrored his positive attitude. Pity was an unwelcome guest. In Joseph’s view, he wasn’t dying any more than we all are.

Just ten months after the surgery, the tumor was back and this time, inoperable. I struggled in the face of this new reality, but Joseph, with death imminent, was at peace. “We tried everything,” he said. He had no second-guessing, no “if only I had…” He simply accepted that the long shot we had hoped for was not to be.

The finality of this stunned me. Rather than making peace with his death, I had still been bargaining. Why else did I say Joseph’s name aloud during the prayer for healing in Shabbat services, thinking it would somehow change his trajectory? And now it was all but over.

Watching someone as brilliant as Joseph lose the ability to think clearly, struggle to come up with words, be unable to follow complex thoughts and conversations, and yet be aware of every loss, was heartbreaking – at least for me. Joseph simply stated, with full acceptance, “I’m losing my mind.”

My brother chose to let go of the material world while he could still make decisions with intent. He gave his motorcycle to his mechanic, his piano to a fellow musician. He gave away his scuba equipment. With each gift, he said goodbye to a treasured part of his life. He sold his financial planning business to his junior partner. He gave each of his nieces and his nephew one of his prized ukuleles. He endowed a scholarship fund for firstgeneration Hawaiians at the local community college. And he gave me his favorite piano sheet music, fully annotated, which, as an aspiring pianist, I cherish.

Our son and daughter each visited Joseph in Hawaii to say goodbye and to be of service to Ann. Joseph was, as always, a gracious host and although he was open to talking about his disease, he far preferred to engage his niece and nephew in what was happening in their own lives. The only time I saw him tear up was when he talked about his great-nieces and great-nephew. It pained him that he wouldn’t see them grow up or be a presence in their futures.

All Joseph asked was that his death be cliff-like not a gradual decline. “Nothing else has gone my way”, he said. “I deserve at least this one break.” It 24 wasn’t self-pity; rather, he didn’t want Ann, or any of us, to witness a long, drawn-out process of continued physical and mental deterioration. For himself, he had no fear of death. He said he viewed death as “a calmness over a beautifully still ocean filled with love and happiness,” an apt metaphor for someone who spent so much of his life in, on or near the water.

I visited Joseph three times in his last four months and the decline was shocking. In August, he was meditating each morning, snorkeling every day and watching the sunset each night. But by November, Joseph couldn’t climb the stairs to the sunset deck or walk without a walker. He became extremely tired and was easily confused. Yet he still wanted some agency over his own death. After consulting with his hospice doctor, he made the decision to stop taking steroids. He asked only that he be as free of pain as possible, and that we not do anything illegal to expedite the process.

Ann and I agreed. Joseph’s doctor told us how brave we were to support such a difficult decision, but I didn’t see it that way. Joseph had made his wishes perfectly clear, and we were simply following his lead – just as my rabbi had advised at the very beginning of this journey.

Soon, Joseph was confined to bed. Although immobile, he continued to project kindness and gratitude. He thanked every person – and there were many – who came to visit, who brought food, who meditated by his side, who shared memories. He treated the hospice nurses and caretakers with the same respect afforded to longtime friends.

At one point, as Joseph lay in bed dozing on and off and I massaged his feet with oil, he opened his eyes and asked, “What did I do to deserve this?” It flattened me. It was the first time he acknowledged the unfairness of it all. I moved up to the top of the bed where he could see me and said “Joseph, you didn’t do anything to deserve this! It was just bad luck.” But I had misinterpreted. He paused for a moment, then said, “That’s not what I meant. I meant, What did I do to deserve all this love?”

I left Hawaii a few days later. Joseph was medicated and free of pain and although I believe he knew I said goodbye, I will never be sure. I had done what I could to help Ann prepare and she needed time alone with Joseph at the very end.

Less than two weeks later, Ann’s friend, a nurse and hospice volunteer, was sitting with Joseph so that Ann could run some errands. She noticed his breathing change and recognized it as a sign of the body closing down. Ann got home in time to call Fran and me so that we each could say goodbye as she held the phone to his ear. Twenty minutes later, Ann called again. Joseph was dead.

We sat shiva (the Jewish mourning ritual) in San Francisco and at Fran’s in Washington and toasted Joseph on each coast with bourbon. Although it was non-traditional to sit shiva for a Buddhist, our rabbi was all-in. My brother’s roots and history were intertwined with Judaism and he lived by Jewish values, although called by a different name. In the end, what did it matter?

As I approach Joseph’s first yarhtzit (the anniversary of his death), I’m struck by the many lessons he taught me. Gratitude, kindness, faith, acceptance – these were his daily mantras as well as his final gift to me. While I still struggle with profound grief, I have finally discovered in my heart a place of gratitude. What did I do to deserve a brother like Joseph?

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