John Ganshaw

When Death Calls

The eve of my sixty-second birthday has been so surreal. A talk with a doctor in the hospital, regarding my oldest living brother, resulted in being told that there is nothing more they can do for him. His days will be numbered by quality, not quantity. At this same time, I learned that a poem I wrote, “Don’t Give Up,” will soon be published. At first, it didn’t strike me, but after a few hours, I realized how poignant it is that such excellent and devastating news should arrive almost simultaneously. My seventy-eight–year-old brother is battling the results of smoking four packs of cigarettes a day for most of his life. For the last eighteen years, he has been living with COPD and emphysema. Although he quit when he learned the news, it was too late, and the damage had already been done. Today, his lungs are just smoky mists of thin membrane, barely able to utter a breath without a struggle, as if he is drowning in an ocean and his lungs are reaching tirelessly to break the surface. 

In these trying times, he still exhales the narcissism he has maintained his entire life; his dedication to micromanaging all that surrounds him has never faltered. No detail is too small for him to direct, morphing into a maestro conducting a renowned orchestra. He is never afraid to call out anyone for the most minuscule of mistakes. Even at his age, remnants of his handsome youth remain. He was utterly charming and witty, for most of his admirers were blind to his true nature. Many didn’t see his murderous personality that hid just under his skin. Only my father and sister could unleash such dynamic cruelty from their vicious tongue. In a group setting, my brother could vindictively destroy you while simultaneously having others laughing in hysterics. Many times, I was on the receiving end of those attacks, yet for some reason, perhaps due to his charm, I never learned my lesson and always went back to let it happen again. My entire family has taught me to be quite astute, with the ability to forgive but never forget.

There is the old saying that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I look at three of my siblings, and this is very true. I, being the youngest, and my oldest brother, who was the first to pass, landed in another orchard somehow. For a reason I still don’t understand, it was the two of us that my father despised the most, the two who were belittled at every opportunity. My other three siblings could do no wrong. I learned this at a very early age, and I fought through it. My oldest brother died, wondering what he did to cause our father to deny him the love he constantly desired and needed. 

Since hearing the news from the doctor, I have been trying to reconcile family dynamics. Like a lot of my gay friends, it seems that it is the homosexual who is called upon to manage family crises, and also to be the caregiver when needed. For as long as I can remember, I was the butt of family jokes, made fun of, disparaged, and even more. Yet, in times of hardship or when a caregiver is needed, all that is forgotten, and I am the first called. Perhaps being a gay man, it is easier for me to assume the role required. An actor who has trained their entire life for this role, to be on stage and perform, hoping that the end will grant accolades, the curtain will come down, and you will have achieved great status, admiration, and acceptance. I haven’t yet determined how many people must die or how many times I must give this performance to gain the acceptance mentioned above. I can say that it is north of six, I guess. I don’t mind playing this role, but I do mind that it is expected. Expected because I am single, and the presumption is that if one is single, one can give up or put one’s life on hold to benefit others and suppress their guilt for not doing it themselves. I have learned through the times I have performed in this role that going through the final days, weeks, or months with someone whose outcome is death is a beautiful experience of sharing. I look back on the moments I have etched in my memory, and I would not trade one of them for anything different. Perhaps it is the act of selflessness, the necessity of being relied on, the person who matters for their further existence, and a chance for you to prove to yourself that you do matter, that you exist.