Nothing But Iron: A Brother’s Tribute June 13, 2008 by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. Editor’s Preface: My sister died three weeks ago after a long struggle with, well . . . life. As children she and I were subject to the distance of gender and 8 years in the birth order, and for much of our adult lives we were also separated by vast physical distance–she lived in the Southwest, I in the Midwest. For these reasons, and because I had little desire to step into Mary’s often-destructive path, I neglected to be the big brother that I could have been, should have been, and lately tried to be. Ironically it was not until the point of our maximal separation–her three-year sentence in an Arizona prison–that we became close. I don’t remember why it happened, but we started writing letters to each other. A couple years later Mary was paroled, and I decided to help her financially to save her from homelessness and to ease the burden on my mom, who bore the greatest personal expense of repeatedly trying to catch Mary in free fall. Even with my assistance Mary’s was still a meager existence, but at least she had food, medical care, an apartment and later on, two dogs, who buoyed her through as many tribulations as any human did. I shipped her one of our old computers so we could exchange e-mails. Using the internet and weekly phone calls we developed a sibling bond that had eluded us so many years. I grew to like Mary, and considered her a friend, which to this minute remains a pleasant surprise to me. On May 25th we held a memorial service in Arizona. It was as meaningful a send off as I have seen. Twenty years ago, in a fit of rage, Mary had removed her hand-drawn portrait and ripped it to shreds. For reasons of a mother’s intuition Mom saved the pieces in an envelope. It was Mom’s idea to open the tribute by each family member replacing a piece of the portrait to reconstruct Mary’s image–symbolic, perhaps, that she was whole again. For my part in the ceremony, I decided to write my sister one final e-mail, which is copied below. I have to caution you that I did a credible Brett Favre retirement imitation while reading it, but I thought you might appreciate what my sister meant to me and what I learned in the better part of the decade it took me to finally be a big brother to my little sister. As a related aside, when I die, I would be completely thrilled, or at least as much as a dead person can be thrilled, with a celebration like Mary’s. If it has to be a gathering of grand scale, that would be fine, as long as there is a sporting event involved, and no, I am not kidding about that. I am respectful–or perhaps just tolerant–of the practice of wakes and funerals and caskets and burials and headstones, but my own belief, as it would apply to dead me, is that such practices are monumentally (pun accepted) wasteful and I want them like I want Vikings fans at Lambeau Field. I especially don’t want a wake–which, by the way, is a comical misnomer–where uncomfortable onlookers stare at an undertaker’s rendition of what will have was once been my body, rendered totally useless to nature through the science of chemical preservation–while thinking Dude, glad that ain’t me in there. If you go against my wishes and give me a wake anyway, you will regret it, because I will find a way to haunt you, like semi-transparent Patrick Swayze in the movie Ghost. So if you are standing or kneeling at my wake and you feel as if someone has kicked you in the genitalia, that would be me, if I can learn fast enough how ghosts do that, which I probably will because I saw Ghost at least twice, but only once on purpose. Cremation would be far better than embalming, but I suspect that contributes to greenhouse gasses. I am embarrassed enough for the carbon footprint of my living existence that I would gladly take a greener after-life option if one could be found. I would be most happy, for example, after any needed organs or parts are harvested for the gift of recycling to other living human beings, to let the earth reclaim my remaining carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, calcium and smattering of other atomic building blocks in a manner wholly analogous to that which occurs with the defunct vegetation in my garden’s compost pile. In other words, if you must put me in a box, please, please, please make it, not to mention me, biodegradable. Gross you say? Naw. Natural. Lastly, when I die, I give you permission to actually say that I died. You don’t have to try to mask the obviousness of the occurrence by saying things like I passed on or away or I am no longer with us or I could not be saved or I had the ultimate shitty day. I do not fear death–O.K., I lie a little bit–but I definitely do not fear the use of words directly derived from the word death to describe my plight, which may not be a plight at all, because it could turn out to be something really cool. For sure these views are nontraditional, but for sure they are mine, and I thank you in advance for helping defend them. My Last E-mail to Mary May 25, 2008 by Steve Lagman Dear Sis, Today we are gathering to celebrate the end of your pain. It’s the kind of gathering you hated with lots of people and lots of noise and fuss. Had you been given a choice, you would probably have declined to attend, but we felt we needed to be together to recognize you and talk about your life and what it meant. I think you’ll find you meant more to us than you realized. I am sad that our earthly, tangible relationship is over–it seems like it just began–but I am not sad that your pain is gone, and in my heart I believe it is. Most of us, at one time or another, were intimate with the relentlessness of your emotional pain, one that society and medicine labeled as bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder and other things I am sure. I am not sure all of us knew of your physical pain–that it took you two hours to get out of the bathtub, that you could no longer do your own laundry or even put on your support stockings by yourself. A simple trip to the grocery store was measured by a long series of excruciating steps and pauses to catch your breath. As an aside, I remember how you insisted you would never ever ride the scooter shopping cart. That matter of pride was non-negotiable. Your pain gripped you in ways that we would not wish on our worst enemies. I will not miss your pain, nor will I miss the incomplete nature of the only remedies I could offer to treat it: understanding, acknowledgment and empathy. When someone dies we try to find meaning in their lives. The meaning that I find in yours has its source in the many lessons I learned from being your brother. You may find it silly that I, the one of so many years of formal education could learn from you, but my time with you was an education that is not available in stores. I learned that one person can make a difference. In fact, I now believe that a difference always starts with one person. I learned that "f--- you" (and pardon the expression, but it’s a direct quote) has many translations. Most commonly we attribute it to anger or hatred, but I think more often it means "I am scared or anxious" or "I am sad" or "I am hurt". I learned that a person is not just one thing, but many different things. What I mean by this is that so-called bad people often have a good side, sad people, a happy side, and so on. The hidden sides must sometimes be coaxed out of seclusion, but with patience and understanding they can be found. Said another way, there is beauty to be found even in the withering flower, if one looks for it. I learned that helping another person is therapeutic. It is hard to feel too down when you give happiness or comfort or peace to another person. I learned that I should simplify my life while I am still alive, first by getting rid of as many useless possessions as possible, lest I curse my survivors with the task. I learned that some people just need help. It is easy for the fortunate amongst us to claim that we control the entirety of our own destinies, but the truth is that we are all just a genetic aberration or catastrophic event away from an existence like yours. I learned that not all battles are worth fighting. I learned that in order to be heard, you must first learn to listen. I learned that it is good to let the other person be right sometimes. I learned that there is always someone worse off. That’s actually you talking, Mary. You used these very words on many occasions. I was amazed by your perspective, living in poverty and embarrassment, inside a body that betrayed you in so many ways, that you could see someone worse off than you. I learned that people can change. Before I became the brother that I had not been for the first thirty years of your existence, I used to think of you as impatient, spoiled and ungrateful. The Mary I got to know was infinitely grateful. I could not begin to count the times you thanked me for my help. The Mary I knew was frugal. You did not need designer this or that. The second-hand fan or used clothing or cheap vacuum cleaner was just fine. The Mary I knew was patient–not always, but with encouragement it was there. The Mary I knew was kind-hearted and generous, often giving to others when you didn’t have enough for yourself. I learned that any kindness has the potential to start a chain reaction of kindness that, conceivably could extend on into infinity. We had a agreement that the only payback I wanted for the help I provided you, was that you found ways–even simple ways–to help others. There were many examples of that magnified this return on my investment. Your friends and neighbors and some of your former cell mates know what I mean by that. They may call me your mentor, Sis, but it is I who thank you for teaching me. What happens after this life is a mystery, and I like the mystery because its opens up a lot of possibilities. If I would pick a wish to come true for you I imagine this one: You are walking down a long country road on a cool day. Your dogs surge ahead, sniffing intrigue in the breeze. They pull hard on their leashes. You quicken your pace, effortlessly, painlessly to accommodate their zeal. And you smile the smile of a happy person. Love always, Brother, S ___________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur publication about sports and life.  This issue is dedicated to my sister, Mary Frances Lagman, October 17, 1968-May 16, 2008.