Spring 2015
from school to university to work to marriage
seems to have been inevitable, with each one
causing the next. School was decided by
geographical location. My degree was
encouraged by a series of chemistry teachers,
who directed me towards a particular course
at a particular university, which led to a
particular job where I met a particular young
lady... It is hard to see how a younger brother
could have deflected this course.
No, the reason I find it hard to imagine
is because I don't know how I, as a person,
could have made room for Richard in my life.
I'm not pretending my life has been such a
whirlwind that the occasional weekend visit
or dinner party was impossible, or that my
contact book was bulging to such an extent
that I could only see friends and family once
in a blue moon. It is my personality that is to
blame. If I were a better communicator, a
more sociable brother, someone more inclined
to include people in my life, then I would be
Three Brothers (The Painter's Children) by Nicolae Tonitza
a very different person. Perhaps I would have
had a different career, or wanted children. I
may have married a different woman, or
remained married to her. The fact is, my single-mindedness (as I call it on good days – it is also known
as stubbornness, selfishness, bloody-mindedness...) has been both a blessing and a curse, and I can't see
a way in which I could have had one without the other.
The upshot of which is, I didn't really get to know my brother until he was no longer there to know.
By which I mean, after his faculties had left him. He went downhill rapidly, as if once diagnosed he
didn't wish to waste any time. Renee had contacted me when the diagnosis was made and, ever the
procrastinator, I dithered over finding the time to visit. Although recently retired, I suddenly had a
number of projects on the go which in hindsight I realise were subconscious attempts to excuse myself
from my duty to Richard. When I finally managed to visit, it was too late. He had no idea who I was.
And I, for all my good mental health and reliable memory, had to admit that I didn't really know who
he was either.
Fortunately, despite everything, we managed to forge a rudimentary friendship in Richard's last
couple of years. I made further visits, having to introduce and explain myself each time. He seemed to
recognise me as an old friend, one he had known for most of his life but not seen for decades. That is
perhaps a more generous description than I deserve. My name was on the tip of his tongue, he always
said. He could picture me at... where was it now? And with that he would vanish into the fog of his
broken mind. But my presence seemed to cheer him up.
In the last few months I was one of a small group of friends and family who stayed at the house
with Renee for a few days at a time, helping with the burden of caring for Richard. He was in the care
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