Tears spilled onto his cheeks as my husband Doug took his Dad’s hands into his and said, “These hands gave me so much. They gave me confidence to do stuff that I didn’t have the confidence to do. ” His voice cracked, “ My Dad would look at something and say, ‘ we can do this ’ .”

I smiled as I looked at the frail form in the hospital bed. He had shared a lifetime of memories with us. A man of few words and limited education, my father-in-law Bob (known as Pap to the younger family members) brought his knowledge of hard work and determination to everything in his life.

Nearly 30 years ago, newly married and with a new baby in tow, my husband and I had set out to buy a house. Scared youngsters, we wondered if we could manage. The house we chose had “good bones,” my father-in-law assured us: you can do this. Money was tight and I was bedridden during a second pregnancy. To help ease the burden, Bob picked up the slack; he used his hands to mow the lawn, paint, and to help dig a French drain around our home.

His hands shared many hugs. His hands held little hands as he walked along the dirt road near his home. On hunting outings, he held his grandchildren or son in one hand while holding his bow or gun in the other. On sunny afternoons, his hands would often cast a fishing line into a creek, or river, while he shared fish stories. His hands built his home and his life.

Now at the end of his journey, our tears flowed amid the many memories we shared. As in many families, there had been tension, arguments and rifts. Those things were left outside as extended family came to say their goodbyes. Laughter began to filter through the air. Funny stories were told, old pictures were pulled out, escapades and memories were swapped. Trips to the park, family get-togethers, and fishing and hunting adventures with Pap were shared.

“What a great send off,“ my daughter Paige said. “Pap’s surrounded by his family; we’re laughing and telling stories. No one’s arguing or bickering; he must be happy to have us all here like this. This is probably one of the best ways to leave this earth.” In the end, he had brought his family together.

I thought of Paige’s words. As a nursing student she had recently finished her clinical rotation in hospice and had called me crying everyday, saying how sad it was. I was glad she was now experiencing dying as a happy event.

As a youngster in church, I was taught that death was a new beginning. However, as much as we want to believe that teaching, it is hard to say goodbye to a loved one. We grieve for time lost, time misspent and not enough time.

Death was a lesson I learned early in life. I remember one morning, jumping out of bed, hoping to hear about a new baby in the family. Even at the young age of five, I could feel the heaviness in the house as I made my way to the living room from my bedroom.

My dad was sitting in the easy chair, replacing my grandma who had tucked us in the night before. I crawled up on his lap and he hugged me.

“Your baby sister Wendy is in Heaven,” he said. “She only lived a few hours; I guess God needed her back. When your mom comes home from the hospital, be kind.”

I will never forget those words.

Not even a year later, I faced more death, still not quite understanding it, but knowing that the people I loved were gone. I lost my Grandma Cedes, then my great-grandfather Bill and great-grandma Lala soon followed.

Growing up in an Irish-Catholic household, I was dragged to viewings, funeral Masses and gravesites, which I just thought were a part of life. These events were like big family reunions. Our mother recounted stories around the kitchen table of wakes where the deceased would be propped up and used as a dummy hand in poker. Shots of whiskey would be tossed into the coffin. We never experienced anything like that; I instead remember the family getting together, laughing and telling stories. At the cemeteries, my brother, sister, and I would rush off to read the gravestones and make up stories of the person’s life and death.

Playing in the cemetery was just youthful fun, but all of that changed when my older brother Brett was diagnosed with AIDS. Then, I was no longer a youngster with a vague sense of death.

In the mid-1980s, once diagnosed with AIDS, time was limited. Brett had kept the diagnosis to himself. Instead, his doctor had told us about the diagnosis just two weeks before he died. Brett knew that our parents would have loved him even more and supported him through the worst of it. He told his doctor that his parents were so proud of him but he felt he had failed them.

When I found out the reality of what was happening, I realized that many times he had started to tell me and then stopped.

Was it me? I wondered. Had I become such a shallow piece of existence that Brett was scared to tell me?

No, I realized that he didn’t tell me because he was afraid of facing the reality of death. Afraid of the situation and that he didn’t know how to approach it. He was entering the unknown. Taught the Catholic doctrine of life after death, he knew that life as he’d known it was being left behind. It was scary stuff for a 29-year-old.

His radio journalist career was just taking off and he had two offers in major markets. One offer was in his college town of Cleveland and the other was in his hometown of Pittsburgh. He dreamed of working in his hometown but now his dream would never be realized.

He loved music and shared his love of it with me. Many evenings, he and his school friends would practice downstairs in our home, the music spilling out onto the streets. Often my friends and I would be the first audience. Brett’s blonde hair spilled over his forehead as his hands strummed the notes on his guitar. We went to the movies, concerts, and talked at length late into the night and made plans, lots of plans. I bought tickets for a concert by one of his favorite bands, U2.

Unfortunately, his condition worsened and he couldn’t attend the concert. I stood by my brother and said if he couldn’t go see the band, neither would I. My mom, however, had other plans. Behind my back, she and my friend tricked me into going. In the end, I bought my brother a T-shirt from the concert. He thanked me, but I could tell from his eyes that he knew, with his limited time, that he would not get full use out of the shirt. Instead, Mom sneaked it in under his funeral suit when the time came.

Prior to the concert, it was clear that the disease had traveled to his brain. His quick wit and intelligence began to wane a little, although he still beat us at Trivial Pursuit, playing for hours until one of us would lose on some stupid question. Eventually, in the two weeks before his death, Brett was in and out of coherency and eventually lapsed into unconsciousness.

He took his last breath on Halloween night, the eve of All Saints’ Day. It was ironic that Brett picked that particular evening, when the veil between the mortal and spirit realms is at its thinnest. A few months earlier, we had watched a documentary about Houdini, who believed in the spirit world.

“Do you think it’s possible for people to visit after they’re gone?” he asked with a glint in his eye.

“Don’t even think about haunting me.” I laughed. Through my halfassed joke, I was trying not to think about what he was implying.

Ultimately, it seemed fitting that Brett passed into eternity on October 31st, the same date that Houdini passed. He kept his wit ‘til the end, letting me know, like Houdini, he may haunt me.

More than 30 years later, I still remember the clear, cool autumn night of Brett’s death vividly. I stood at his hospital bedside, looking at my grieving parents, not quite sure of what to do.

I said goodbye and sat for a while, watching if he 60 61 was close to his last breath. I held his hand in mine, clasping his long lean fingers and noticed how they were piano hands. Instead Brett had used his hands to strum the guitar. I realized, at that moment, his hands weren’t going to play another note. As my big brother, his hands had always been there for his little sister. His hands supported me during heartaches and triumphs. But there would be no more late night chats, evening board games, or concerts. I squeezed his hand and whispered, “I love you.” Then my sister and I went home, as my parents needed to say goodbye alone.

We drove out of the city to our rural home. I got out of the car, looking up at the sky. I guess I was looking for an answer of why Brett was leaving so early. The dark sky sparkled with stars.

I remembered a speech in a documentary about Bobby Kennedy, speaking of his brother John at the 1964 Democratic Convention. Kennedy made a reference to a passage in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

To paraphrase, Bobby said that upon John’s death, he wished he could have cut John into stars and put him into the night sky, like Juliet wished for Romeo. In that way, everyone would “be in love with night.” I looked up at that clear autumn night and thought of those words. My dad’s words from several years earlier also echoed in my ears: God needed him more.

It was another autumn night, cool and rainy, when I watched my father-in-law in his hospital bed. His hands unclasped as he took his last breath. Those hands that held so much love were now empty. I asked God to comfort us and take him into His arms. My heart swelled with love and I smiled, drying my tears, as I looked around at scattered photos and family. Peace enveloped the room. If there was ever a perfect way to go to the next phase of your life, it was that night.

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