Palliative
Is it palliative?
What? I didn’t understand, but my daughter said yes to the nurse.
Of all, this is what weighs and hurts me the most until today.
I came to make this post as so many here teach, with beautiful photos, quality photos, to draw attention and possible clapping.
I erased everything. It didn’t fit with the respect to my brother and to my feelings.
No pictures then, just one that I saved in the first I wrote, that’s not a quality photo; it has profound meaning to me, and moves me every occasion I see it.
The just before and the after have already been, at great cost, digested, understood I believe; even with small passages that were happy, amusing or at least funny.
Palliative was and is still too much.
The just before and the after have already been, at great cost, digested, understood I believe; even with small passages that were happy, amusing or at least funny.
Palliative was and is still too much.
He is the presence that has always been and will always be, the little bro, rogue, always up to something, always kid, fickle dreamer, but worker yes, my little brother, my almost alter ego; I was and am a bit like that too.
Sooner or a little earlier I was moved by him brushing his teeth and telling me how good this was, the pinch we then used to have, him leaning against the window.
The mentalization I made, holding his hands or running my hand over his body, telling the tumour cells to turn into autophagic eaters of the others…
Brother, all of this was still good, there was always a thread, tenuous, improbable, but there was in me, in all of us, hope for the miracle.
“Palliative” broke up with me! Broke and broke me to this day.
Soon after his entrance, every moment I could, I was by him, kissed him, hugged him, and hand in hand we both dreamed of travelling on a beautiful sailboat, much better than the one that his little sister did everything to give him. She, my wife, who hasn’t had another brother like that, and him that never had a sister, loved each other, and my wife told me yes, his sailboat is beautiful!
Images of you very little, sitting on the pot, hating the smell of your own poop, little hands covering your nose with the scented handkerchief your mother used to give you, saying “Wait mom, there’s still a little in my head.”
You and your half-cousin, little ones at our house’s doorstep, sitting her and you on the knees, pretending to be amputees, offering old comics to bypassers to buy.
You that I carried, you on my back, my middle brother dragged by my hand, drunk as both of you filled the wine bottles of the Dominican friars, you who fell head over heels doing gymnastics at the gate, which led the divinatory mother, still in the hospital, to call everyone to find out from you.
You, rogue, who skipped classes at Santo Agostinho to party with your namesake. That filled the family’s conversations and concerns at your disdain at the university course that you never finished.
Who battled as a track attendant at São Paulo’s airport, then a commercial attendant in Recife, where you met the wonderful girl you married, Teresa.
You, back to São Paulo, entrepreneur, created your company buying and selling scrap to steel mills, mainly to Cofavi, my then steel mill.
You, crazy, buying your boats and sailboats, which were swallowed up with the end of Cofavi and your company.
You who always, till the end, dearly loved your wife, was caught in a damned love, even if soon abandoned one of the reasons of your death, and in a beautiful dream of love, that was so wispy…
You, dear that left to me so much and so little,
I can’t stand it, I’ll never accustom myself to, have to endure, this terrible word,
Palliative.