Lay your weary head to rest. Baby Bro, 1966 - 2008.
Barry went into hospice care two weeks ago, at home, with me continuing as one of his caretakers. He passed away this past Monday, in his bedroom and surrounded by his own things, at 6:35 AM. I was with him.
I was six when Mama first brought him home from the hospital as a brand new shiny baby. Yep, another BOY to steal my thunder. :-) But unlike with Middle Bro, who had come along when I was three, there was no jealousy. I simply wanted control, like with my dolls, and started trying to rename the poor child right off the bat. "How about Larry?" "No, darling." "Well, Gary? Perry? I really like Perry. Why can't it be Cary?" *whine* "I know--HARRY! Maaaaaaaa--" "His name is BARRY, Stephanie," Mama said in thattone. And that was that. I loved it every time he peed in her face during diaper changes.
At three weeks old, there was no apparent reason why he wouldn't stop crying for more than ten minutes at a time. Mom and Dad baffled. Doctors baffled. Neighborhood hens baffled. Our maternal grandmother came to babysit one night. When Mom and Dad got back home, not only was Barry quiet, he was cooing in his sleep. They asked what magic she'd performed. My indignant southern grandma had cooked up a thick batch of grits, cereal, and milk, cut a bigger hole in the nipple of his bottle, and let him have at it, because "Y'all been starvin' my chile. That's all wrong wid him. The chile's hungry!" The permanent change from baby formula did the trick (do not try this at home; you would probably choke your baby to death and I'm not sure why he didn't. This is probably why Barry grew into a 6'3", 230 pound man.)
At five years old, he slammed Middle Bro in the head with a big yellow Tonka dump truck, out of curiosity. (I laughed my butt off.) When he saw how much having gy-normous plastic tires and a metal scoop embedded in one's skull HURT, he didn't do it again. Curiosity satisfied.
There isn't enough room on LiveJournal for every story, nor would you all be able to handle the way your guts would bust from laughing.
He was an inventor, an artist, a protector of children (though he didn't get the chance to have his own) and boy, did the little ones love him back, a collector of comics and anime, an archer, an explorer, muy thai student, a gentle giant, a ridiculous prankster, a roller-coaster enthusiast, a good samaritan, a loving son, adorable brother, thoughtful husband, the best father to a nephew ignored by his own dad. He made awesome capuccinos (but nothing else--good lord, don't ask him to cook anything, bleeech). And he was a fighter, having kicked the ass of the unknown lymphoma in his torso that tried to kill him from 2004 to the present.
Two months ago, he came over to watch a movie, and I noticed a slight bump on his forehead. There were two more hiding inside his brain. The monster had snuck back up on us, and struck back hard. For the first time ever, there will be an empty seat around Mom and Dad's diningroom table. It's weird--like I'm looking for him, but can't see him because we're simply in a crowd and got separated.
Barry is no longer saddled with pain. His soul can ride the cosmic and heavenly winds for eternity, and touch us every time he passes by. That is my little bit of comfort and somehow it will have to be enough.
Carry on, my wayward son.
For there'll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest--
Now don't you cry no more.
I was six when Mama first brought him home from the hospital as a brand new shiny baby. Yep, another BOY to steal my thunder. :-) But unlike with Middle Bro, who had come along when I was three, there was no jealousy. I simply wanted control, like with my dolls, and started trying to rename the poor child right off the bat. "How about Larry?" "No, darling." "Well, Gary? Perry? I really like Perry. Why can't it be Cary?" *whine* "I know--HARRY! Maaaaaaaa--" "His name is BARRY, Stephanie," Mama said in thattone. And that was that. I loved it every time he peed in her face during diaper changes.
At three weeks old, there was no apparent reason why he wouldn't stop crying for more than ten minutes at a time. Mom and Dad baffled. Doctors baffled. Neighborhood hens baffled. Our maternal grandmother came to babysit one night. When Mom and Dad got back home, not only was Barry quiet, he was cooing in his sleep. They asked what magic she'd performed. My indignant southern grandma had cooked up a thick batch of grits, cereal, and milk, cut a bigger hole in the nipple of his bottle, and let him have at it, because "Y'all been starvin' my chile. That's all wrong wid him. The chile's hungry!" The permanent change from baby formula did the trick (do not try this at home; you would probably choke your baby to death and I'm not sure why he didn't. This is probably why Barry grew into a 6'3", 230 pound man.)
At five years old, he slammed Middle Bro in the head with a big yellow Tonka dump truck, out of curiosity. (I laughed my butt off.) When he saw how much having gy-normous plastic tires and a metal scoop embedded in one's skull HURT, he didn't do it again. Curiosity satisfied.
There isn't enough room on LiveJournal for every story, nor would you all be able to handle the way your guts would bust from laughing.
He was an inventor, an artist, a protector of children (though he didn't get the chance to have his own) and boy, did the little ones love him back, a collector of comics and anime, an archer, an explorer, muy thai student, a gentle giant, a ridiculous prankster, a roller-coaster enthusiast, a good samaritan, a loving son, adorable brother, thoughtful husband, the best father to a nephew ignored by his own dad. He made awesome capuccinos (but nothing else--good lord, don't ask him to cook anything, bleeech). And he was a fighter, having kicked the ass of the unknown lymphoma in his torso that tried to kill him from 2004 to the present.
Two months ago, he came over to watch a movie, and I noticed a slight bump on his forehead. There were two more hiding inside his brain. The monster had snuck back up on us, and struck back hard. For the first time ever, there will be an empty seat around Mom and Dad's diningroom table. It's weird--like I'm looking for him, but can't see him because we're simply in a crowd and got separated.
Barry is no longer saddled with pain. His soul can ride the cosmic and heavenly winds for eternity, and touch us every time he passes by. That is my little bit of comfort and somehow it will have to be enough.
Carry on, my wayward son.
For there'll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest--
Now don't you cry no more.