I have a brother Bill who is a year younger than me. I was born small so as toddlers we were the same size. Strangers often mistook us for twins. I remember clearly one evening when I was around four years old, and Bill was three. We were hanging out with my dad at a Chinese restaurant, waiting for our take-out order to be ready. Another customer commented how we were adorable twins. I didn't get it then, but looking at pictures later I could see it.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
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