Speech for Camarillo Hospice memorial 6-10-10

I have been in a street fight with grief since my 60 year old brother was diagnosed with cancer in 2008.  It has been a gritty, dirty, no holds barred, all weapons allowed, grudge match and I was bloody after the first punch.  I've survived, but so far grief has won most of the rounds.

My immediate reaction when I learned Tom had a brain tumor was to jump inside my computer and try to find every single piece of information available about his disease. I wanted him to try every possible treatment, at the world's best treatment centers.
 
But my brother had other plans for his death. 
 
He accepted it. 

He was curious what he would learn, and he set out to show as much love to his family and friends as he had the energy to give.  There was a sign in his art studio that said, "Turn soft and lovely any time you have a chance," and that is exactly what he did. He made jokes about dying, and even wrote his own obituary, which was poignant, witty and moving.  His diagnosis seemed to have released him from all of the worries, stress, battles and anxieties of this life, and he settled into a peaceful relationship with his fate.

Not so for me.  I was furious... with the universe, God, even him.  How could he be so happy about leaving all of us behind?  What kind of a God would take him away and expect the rest of us to live on without him?  I was fighting, grasping, crying, struggling.... but none of it kept him here.  All of that frantic activity, done mostly out of his sight, just served to keep me from flying apart, disintegrating, melting away in sorrow.
 
After his death, I started reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead.  It said that death can be the most exhilarating and glorious experience you will ever have, but you have to prepare for it.  And how do you prepare? By learning to love more, give more, stand apart from judgments and look at all of life with acceptance, joy and curiosity.
 
That is exactly what my brother did all of his life, and especially in his last year.  He embraced his death with grace and gentleness, complete and calm acceptance.  Here is what he wrote in his obituary:
 
"P.S. I'm Dead....
 
This is to let you know I died of brain cancer on July 19, 2009.  Really.  I was diagnosed in June 2008 and have been having an interesting relationship (not one of those heroic battles) with it since.  But finally the
cancer won and I died.  And because cancers are incredibly stupid, so did it. (Note to scientists: work on a smarter cancer with a broader understanding of the implications of its actions.)
 
Since I wrote this before I died I don’t know the details but I’m sure my death was inspiring, noble, and loving.  Or not.  I really don’t know.  Nor does it matter once you’re dead, I suspect.
 
I’m sorry to have left those who loved me so well my whole life: my wife; my sister; my mother and my truly wonderful children and delightful grandchildren.  I love them beyond words and wish them the best.  
 
I was also blessed with beautiful and loving friends. More, I realized through this process, than I truly realized. In fact, there was much that I learned and I feel blessed. I have had a wonderful life. I wish you the same."
 

I will probably never reach the level of contented self- awareness that Tom achieved.  I imagine that I will be what I've always been - a fighter, warrior.  No 'going softly into that good night' for me.  What I'm hoping, though, is that before my time does come, Tom will have visited me in my dreams.  He will whisper the secrets that he learned throughout his life, gently turn me toward what I need to learn and know.
 
Maybe then I too will be able to "turn soft and lovely" and meet him in that explosion of light that leads from this life to the next.