Jeff’s Christmas Gifts
“The joy of meeting and the sorrow of separation … we should welcome these gifts … with our whole soul, and experience to the full, and with the same gratitude, all the sweetness or bitterness as the case may be. Meeting and separation are two forms of friendship that contain the same good, in the one case through pleasure and in the other through sorrow… Soon there will be distance between us. Let us love this distance which is wholly woven of friendship, for those who do not love each other are not separated.” ― Simone Weil
Sue and I decide to make a quick trip to visit Sister-in-law, Sheri.
It’s the first Christmas since Jeff passed and we all feel the void. We’re sad. We miss him. And we cherish the memories because, especially at Christmas, Jeffy never missed a chance to make us laugh.
Sitting around the kitchen island, Sheri tells a story: “Jeff always made sure Santa had a special gift to him under the tree. It was usually wrapped in a towel and hockey tape. But the best part was how Santa took the time to inscribe on the card how Jeff was such an exceptional person.”
The conversation flows. We share a drink and talk about other memories. Niece, Erin, comments on Jeff’s approach when she faced some tension with a life-long friend. Erin wanted to get into the weeds – review the accuracy and legitimacy of each perceived slight.
Jeff had no time for it. “Don’t overthink it. Just apologize, forgive, and move on,” he said.
“Maybe there’s a lesson in there for us,” I suggest to Erin. “Maybe Jeff understood – in his bones – the importance of special friendships. That sometimes you need not bother with calculations and contemplations. I know that I tend to mull things over much more than he ever did.”
Erin seems unconvinced.
The next morning I’m off to a pre-Christmas visit with Bernie at his Long-Term Care home. Technically, he’s the father, but functionally it’s something else. I’m not really sure what to call it.
Jeff has been Bernie’s primary caregiver. For the past couple of decades, he was the go-to fixer. And Bernie’s pretty well always been in need of fixing. Somehow, through a busy family schedule and running his own business, Jeff made time to visit Bernie and advocate on his behalf.
One of Bernie’s issues used to be called melancholia. As a youngster, I overheard whispers of Manic Depression. These days, Bernie’s main course is Bipolar disorder – with a generous side dish of “wet brain.” (You can look it up.) Thankfully, the Doc’s at his LTC dispense a daily cocktail that mostly dampens the rage (unless he’s on the prowl for chocolate) and keeps him social – if not a little gregarious.
Jeff was neither sentimental nor apt to overthink things – at all. He saw Bernie in his brokenness, knew he was unable to care for himself, and stepped up with never a hint of self-pity or self-satisfaction. And I think Bernie’s survival instinct was strong enough for him to realize his good fortune.
Upon my arrival at the LTC, I provide proof of three jabs and check a dozen CYA boxes on a greasy iPad. Bernie’s sitting – head down – on a sofa in a common room. Everyone else is masked – except him. I think about it for a second but quickly conclude he’s not an anti-masker. Just forgetful.
Bernie’s a specimen. Not so much how he looks for his age, although he’s got a full head of hair – and no grey whatsoever. It’s more the mileage on his vessel. Few chassis hold up after so many years of reckless off-roading with little-to-no preventative maintenance. (Sadly, Jeff and I did not inherit his constitution.)
I’m masked – but Bernie recognizes me instantly. My peace offering – a chocolate Wagon Wheel – sets the tone and our visit begins. I look deep in his eyes and can tell right away. He’s all here.
As some folks age, their conversation topics atrophy. You may still go deep on a given subject – but the playlist has dwindled. They stick to their greatest hits.
With Bernie, however, it’s something completely different. It’s the working memory that’s shot – his RAM has been acid-washed. We live and relive a Groundhog Day snippet every 20 or 30 seconds.
But, as the conversation flows from topic to topic or person to person, his mind dances along. It’s not so much a dialogue – he’s not interested in that – more a saucy stand-up performance. Like all great improvisors, Bernie swings in real time with quick wit, one-liners, and sarcastic banter – returning my lob balls and verbal volleys with spikes and backhands.
He knows he’s on fire and decides to break out in spontaneous song. Decades of du Maurier, 5-Star, Old Vienna, and Percocet have not hampered the vocal cords. It’s hauntingly beautiful. His singing comes from somewhere else – not so much deep inside – more far, far away. It’s the only time I know I’m getting the authentic, emotionally-honest Bernie – a glimpse from the alternate world where his spirit had not been stunted by whatever unexplored trauma. But it’s only a glimpse.
We each have a perspective on family dynamics.
As a young kid, I judged Bernie and he knew it. For reasons that were unfathomable at the time, he looked at me with terror in his eyes. Later, my interventions (finding his stash and dumping out bottles) only enhanced Bernie’s paranoia.
We lock into the iris of each other’s eyes. This is the fabric of our relationship – the palpable tension we feel as he polishes off the Wagon Wheel. For all Bernie’s cognitive issues, in this moment, he knows. We both know. It’s always been there. It always will be.
I’ve spent enough time getting into the weeds of this relationship – contemplating and calculating. I break our gaze, lean back, cover my face with my hands, and then I hear it. It’s my brother’s voice.
“Don’t overthink it. Do your duty and move on.”
I look up and see Bernie through Jeff’s eyes.
Nothing sentimental. It’s simple, actually.
Jeff put charity before contemplation.
And I think I’ll continue unwrapping my brother’s latest Christmas gift for some time.
