I can never again call to say Hi!
(Not that I was ever really good at that.)
My brother, Ron, died in the wee hours of April 23, 2015. He was ill for two-plus years, so it was no surprise. From our words, we siblings accepted, even blessed his death. His battle with ALS was done. Regardless of our love, we could not and would not hold him back, because; well, we do love him.
Still, acceptance does not wipe out sorrow. Our brother is no longer with us.
Through the following five days I wondered how the finality of Ron’s death would over-take me. Things went fairly well, but I knew more would come. As a 70-year-old A.D.D. adult I had learned to manage my emotions relatively well, but was I really doing so well then? I generally “manage” to check my emotions so as not to vent on others. Of course, that’s not a hard-and-fast rule.
Monday, April 27 at 5:04 PM was the final stop on our journey to Ron’s funeral the next day. We checked into our hotel, and as usual Deanna, my wife, wanted to take the stairs to our room. I impatiently insisted that she get on the elevator with me. I didn’t want to climb stairs and I didn’t want to take that elevator ride alone. Even in my impatience, I questioned myself on why I was treating her so. I knew she deserves better.
When we got to our room she wanted to go back to the car for something. I was OK with that. I wanted to sit in the quiet for a bit. Immediately, I was overwhelmed and wept bitterly. I couldn’t explain it then, but since, I’ve put a name on that finality.
I was in Ron’s town, and I couldn’t pick up the phone to say, “Hi! We’re here.” I suspect that as each of the family arrived something similar occurred, but for me it’s a bit more complicated.
I’ve said that I am an Adult A.D.D. That’s not a disease; not even a “disorder” as the final word in “Attention Deficit Disorder” puts it. Neither is it deficient “Attention.” It’s more like I’m over attentive to stimuli, and it’s genetic. A.D.D. people are hard-wired that way. Perhaps the “deficit” for us is in how our “condition” is handled by others. Until recently, we were seen as flawed. Most people, including therapists, believe in medications to alter our moods and help us learn to manage life. It comes across that we needed to be “fixed;”something that cannot happen. For me, meds never worked, and early-on most professionals categorically denied that A.D.D. could exist in adults.
What does that have to do with my grief at Ron’s death? Please stay with me as I set the scene.
I started Kindergarten in September, 1949, when the so-called “Humane Mental Health Movement” was barely underway, and graduated High School in 1962. Few professionals ever heard of A.D.D. until well into the 60’s. Teachers knew good kids, bad kids and kids who wouldn’t apply themselves. I was in the Fifth Grade when I first heard of mental retardation. I wasn’t one of that group. I was a bright kid, but with my volatile temper I was in trouble a lot. If there was a black eye on campus, it seemed that I was either wearing it, or I had administered it.
You may rightly deduce that I wasn’t treated well by other kids. I felt unaccepted and on the outside of everything. With few exceptions, even with most teachers I stood alone. As time passed, even as an adult I came to expect and wait for “the other shoe to drop.”
I protected myself by pulling ever further away. As a result, at my 50-Year High School Reunion, one of my classmates commented, “Jack, I remember you as a quiet boy.” Little did he know that despite being quite talkative I had no one to talk to.
I told him, “The only reason I kept quiet was, if I didn’t someone would be there to knock me down.”
A few years later other classmates would comment to the effect that, “I’m afraid we didn’t treat you very nicely in school.”
Even in my family of origin, I seldom felt secure. I remember little beyond conflict. If it wasn’t my dad getting into it with me or one of my older brothers, it was two older brothers fighting. It matters little where the onus for that conflict may have lain. That is just how I experienced life, despite the fact that as a toddler I was doted on by my older brothers and sisters. I just didn’t feel unconditionally loved, and I pulled away even from family. I decided that some of my family really didn’t like me; especially Ron. I “saw signs that proved” my belief.
With time I came to avoid contact with him. If I was traveling on business, passing within a mile of his house, I made a point not to “disturb” him. It hurt at first, but since I reasoned that was the way he wanted things I began to “reconcile” myself to what I thought was reality.
Well, wouldn’t you know it? Just when I think I’ve “set the scene,” it starts to break down.
When our High School in Bethany, Oklahoma, held a special 100 year celebration, I avoided checking to see if Ron was going. Since I was “reconciled” to my old classmates I thought it didn’t matter if he went or not. Someone did say they saw him there, and I was struggling with my response. Should I just maintain the status quo and not try to find him? To my surprise he looked me up in the crowd and gave me a warm, loving hug.
My inner response? “I didn’t know!”
From that time, I began to be “reconciled” to Ron. I would make special arrangements to stop for lunch with him as I drove past, and I hoped that in time, and without fanfare, I would be able to put things such as I’ve written here well into the past.
Then, a couple of weeks before Ron died, I had a visit with his best friend, Glen; whom I consider a part of our family.
He told me of when they first met in the Eighth Grade (paraphrased for brevity).
“Jack, I don’t know if you know this, but when Ron and I were becoming friends he knew you were treated badly at school. He made a point to tell me, ‘We’re going to be friends, Glen, but you need to know that Jack’s a part of the package, and that’s the way it will stay.’”
Glen told me he had seen many times when someone had treated me badly and Ron followed up later, confronting the offenders and telling them to stop.
He finished, “You may not know it, Jack, but Ron always had your back.”
I never knew, and that’s “the rest of the story.”
I began planning a stop at Junction City on May 2, a planned visit to the State Capitol. I wanted to find a way to say, “Thank you for looking out for me even though I never understood.”
That’s my real sense of finality in our relationship.
I can never again call my brother.
I can never again visit him; or write him.
I can never say, “Thanks, Ron.”
