Today, my brother passed away. As I reflect, I am deeply grateful for the time we had together in his final weeks. Death that you see coming is a revealing thing. None of us know the hour, but what if we could choose the timeframe? When he entered hospice, he didn’t know exactly when, but he knew it was imminent. That knowing made our conversations more urgent, more real.
One of the things he asked was why, in his final weeks, he had so many more visitors than when he was in the nursing home. I couldn’t answer for anyone else, but I shared my truth: it was hard for me to see him there. It was hard because each time I visited, I relived his choice to stop trying—to stop living. And that was painful. It wasn’t a justification, just an explanation.
I think he understood. His lament was that he hadn’t heeded my advice. I had told him years ago, "They may have taken your ability to walk or use your limbs, but they didn’t take your mind. You’re smart—use your mind." I was 19 or 20. He was 17 or 18.
His response, all these years later, was raw: "I couldn’t see past the pain."
That moment stays with me. Because pain clouds vision. And sometimes, when someone is hurting, it takes everything just to endure the moment they’re in.