Staring Compassion in the Face by Linda Ross Swanson Compassion is the true name for our breakthrough, the true art that we are to give birth to. We are to become — as God the Creator is — an artist of compassion." — Matthew Fox The 14th century theologian and mystic Meister Eckhart once said, "Compassion is shown in two ways: in giving and in forgiving...We therefore are compassionate like the Father when we are compassionate not from passion, not from impulse, but from deliberate choice and reasonable decision. For Psalm 84 says: 'Compassion and truth meet one another,' that is, passion and reason." I knew that the highest cause before me in December 1996 meant forgiving my absentee brother for abandoning his children some twenty years ago, and for his having lived a reclusive and secret alcoholic life away from his parents and siblings for even longer. When my sister, Gail, called to inform me that Gary was suffering from lung cancer and was currently in the Veteran's Administration Hospital in Portland, Oregon, all my past resentments fell away. I consciously decided then and there to midwife him through his illness and ultimate death; the cancer by now was chasing time as it moved, serpentine, through his body, urging its way to his brain. When a person faces death, or watches as a loved one dies, his or her perspective is automatically changed. I soon discovered that the shame I'd felt regarding my brother had disappeared. Over time, I wouldn't notice his toothless mouth or his emaciated and wrinkled body, brought about by his self-destructive behavior and intensified now by the rages of disease. I would stand by him, even though he'd been absent from my life for years. Donning the cloak of compassion, perhaps my caring would bring some light to his seemingly dark existence. From this experience, I would learn the gifts forgiveness offers. When I was a young girl, my heart belonged to my big brother. To me, Gary was as handsome as the young Tony Curtis, as svelte as Frankie Avalon. He was blessed with a voice that toppled me in swoons, especially when he belted out " 'O Sole Mio" — my brother, my idol. The feelings were not, however, mutual. He looked upon me as a scrawny, whining, four-eyed pest who always wanted his attention. When he wasn't around, I'd strap on his accordion and pretended to play, pushing the little round buttons with my left hand, the black and white keyboard with my right, while simultaneously pumping the huge instrument's lungs. Only a coordinated person can play an accordion. It squealed in unbelievable protest. I was tone-deaf. Still, I enjoyed the weightiness of the accordion. The secure way it wrapped me up in its shoulder holsters felt like the hug I didn't get from Gary. On other occasions, I'd open his after-shave bottles and dab myself with each fragrance so he'd feel near. I longed for cleats on my shoes just like the ones that capped the heels and toes of his English brogues, but Mama refused to comply. "You'll slip and fall, break your neck. You'll dent the linoleum." Mama didn't understand my need to be near my brother in any way possible. An age span of nine years separated us, a seemingly insurmountable chasm. Most of my life, Gary has been absent, first because of the Coast Guard, then because he lived in California, and finally because he lost himself to the bottle. Shortly before Mama died, he returned to Portland, but I rarely heard from him and he declined invitations. I wanted to find my hero again before he died. The accordion was long gone, and I felt certain an accumulation of real hugs awaited me. I went to collect. Released from the hospital, he resided in a convalescent center in Vancouver, Washington. Everything that could be done for him had been done. It was only a matter of time. I prayed for his healing, but more so for the opportunity to share quality time with him, to renew my love, and to minister to and comfort him. When I arrived, Gary attempted to convince me that his back pain was arthritis. I didn't bite. After all, for years he'd treated his undiagnosed lung tumor with an over-the-counter inhaler, claiming it was asthma. When I offered to be his advocate, to walk with him during this process, he wept. "I didn't want to lay this on you, Linda, after taking care of Mama for so many years." I appreciated his concern, but I was available; the others weren't. "Gary, it's a gift to me to be with you. Maybe we can make up for lost time. Thirty years is a long time to be separated." The task became unimaginable. When his nose bled from the blood thinners, I tried to clean him up only to start over again moments later. When his clothes became soiled, I struggled to loose him from them, gasping in horror at his skeletal body. I administered sponge baths, rubbed his back, applied therapeutic touch, and assisted him in going to the bathroom. With ineluctable pain, I watched nurses insert darning needle shunts into his skinny arms to administer transfusions. Most days, he sat on the side of his bed curled in a "C" shape, head in his lap. There were days I collapsed in sorrow thinking of Gary's lost potential, wondering what happened to the singer, the artist, and angry at both alcohol and cancer. Yet always, in my heart, I expressed gratitude for this rare opportunity to share with my brother. What better way to reach the depths of compassion I sought than by observing death, by attempting to alleviate suffering? Gary wanted to visit my house, if only for an hour. In the past, he always refused invitations. Weekend after weekend I prayed he'd be well enough to make the trek from Vancouver to Portland. It never happened. The last night of his life, I sat by his bed reciting prayers. His misery was so great now, I feared that touching him might keep him anchored to the earth. I wanted his freedom from pain. I wanted him to die, for it to be over for him. I remember thinking that I might be driving him crazy with my chants of "A A Ha Sha Sa Ma" and "Peace, Peace, Peace." He was a captive audience and too weak to tell me to stop, even if he wanted to. If he could talk, would he tell me to shut up and get the hell out of there so he could die in peace? I spent the night in the empty bed next to his. Unable to sleep, I wrote this poem: I know that I know Nothing, And In that unknowing, The salvation of Pure acceptance Blossoms. In ignorance I find that Which is empty. I become the interior Of the vessel — Shatterless. Suffocation is a slow process, agonizing to watch, but this is the way he would die, his lungs no longer useful. In the morning I'd decided to go home and shower, change clothes and take a nap. Earlier, an image had visited me of my son as a small boy. I witnessed him sitting on his potty chair. I stood, arms crossed, leaning against the bathroom wall, lording over his attempts to poo-poo. Finally, he lifted his eyes and said emphatically, "Get out of here!" The fight of awareness dawns late sometimes. This flashback wove its way back into Gary's room. I realized then that he wished the privacy to die alone. "His life folded up like a weaver who severs the last thread." — Isaiah 38:10-14. Gary passed away at 2:45 p.m. on February 15, 1997. His ashes were buried in Willamette National Cemetery, but for a while he finally came home with me: his urn rested on my altar until after the memorial. The day of his death, I startled at the blooming of a cactus in my kitchen. The plant belonged to Mama and had never bloomed. I'd rescued it from her room at the foster home after she died. It's a Christmas cactus, innately blooming only in late November and December. I seemed to hear my brother's laughter as I fingered the delicate white blossoms. "So, it's only February? You asked for a sign, didn't you, Linny?" Daily I pray for the increase of compassion in my life and the release of judgment. I've come to learn that it is a day-to-day, moment-by-moment experience. Administering to the dying is a dramatic way to practice compassion; more common are the little day-to-day, moment-by-moment opportunities. May we all have the eyes to see them, and the initiative to take action. Compassion is about deeds. As Jesus said in Matthew 25:31-46, "I tell you solemnly, insofar as you did this to one of the least of my brothers, you did it to me." Note: Much of this essay is excerpted from my book, Beheading the Hydrangea, which awaits publication. It is a book of humorous and poignant memoirs about life with my manic-depressive mother, ending with my brother Gary's death.