Linn, of all people

This is the true story of two brothers.

They need not be identified, (although calling one Linn, short for Lincoln, will make the pronouns easier.)

Their story is not so different from that of an estimated 4.5 million Americans and their families, when the diagnosis was Alzheimer’s disease.

They had a rather unusual relationship growing up. Or was it unusual? What do brothers do as kids? Hate each other? Play cruel tricks on each other? Throw ice-balls at their older sister? Spy on her?

She hated them. They hated her. They hated each other. As kids.

Now the brothers are 74 and 72 and in generally good health. The younger does a set of exercises every morning; the elder walks daily and eats carefully. Cholesterol, you know. The younger used to be reed-thin, eats whatever he pleases.

The older brother reads voraciously, loves classical music, and has learned to use the Internet. Linn does none of the above.

Someone noted that at one time the older brother was so introverted he walked almost pigeon-toed. The younger, whose engaging smile and sparkling eyes lit up a room, strutted, his toes pointing out. He loved playing the suave debonair man-about-town.

He was a born wiseacre. The brothers’ favorite joke was to point out some really bent-over, wrinkled old man and say, “There goes Dad in 20 years.” Their dad never took it as a joke, and could be depended on to scold the sons roundly, a measure that never failed to rouse their hilarity.

They are very different, have never been close. When the older brother finished his four years in San Antonio with the Air Force, during the “Korean Conflict,” the younger checked in, in Denver where he met his future wife. Both men married in 1956, and are still married. One raised two sons, the other three daughters.

When their families were still young, the older brother vacationed at their mother’s home which happened to be in the same town where Linn’s home was, and they enjoyed each others’ companionship. The kids especially loved swimming with their cousins in Nana’s screened-in pool. Between dunking games, racing, and pushing kids around on an inner-tube, laughter rang out.

For their 25th anniversary, the two couples took a Caribbean cruise and vowed to do so again. They never did.

As they grew older, they grew somewhat closer, at least on the telephone. But despite the advent of cell phones and virtually unlimited hours nights and weekends, they rarely called each other. There were calls for birthdays or unusual weather, but no mention of a daughter’s illness or a wife’s throat cancer.

One wife did call the other recently, just because it’s the only way to get the brothers to talk to each other. This time it was the weather, Katrina: “You two haven’t blown away, have you?” Normally they’d chat for a few minutes and then hand off their phones to their husbands. And they would talk for an hour at a time, and get to laughing and telling each other lies. “Remember the time….?”

This time, however, it was different. Linn’s wife poured out the sad story: He was losing weight he couldn’t afford to lose and responding to questions or situations inappropriately. Could not answer five basic questions, such as, What county do you live in? An MRI found that his brain had actually shrunk.

It’s Alzheimer’s. And he knows it.

Linn’s wife is scared to death of what she’s facing, eventually alone. They have few friends, no support group, no church, not a lot of money. They have two devoted sons who will help as best they can, but they have careers that don’t leave a lot of time.

The older of the brothers often wondered how Linn would manage if a life-crisis came along, and used to grumble about how involved his own wife has been with that committee or those groups. Now he truly values their circle of close friends and, of course, the church. He and his wife feel supported by a wonderfully woven fabric of friendship.

Friendship, not family, all these years, although Linn did come up to attend the memorial service for his brother’s daughter.

A few days after the phone call, the older brother spent several nights pondering these questions. Why have the two families never been close? There’s never been a “falling out,” just distance. Geography has had a lot to do with it, or was geography just an excuse? Was he feeling guilty because his life has been more comfortable than Linn’s? Was he worried about his own future?

His wife is determined to get the brothers together as soon as possible, if for no better reason than the fact that they can still make each other laugh. Alzheimer’s does that to some people, you know, awakening some of its victim’s oldest memories.

What a waste of years not to have built more memories together. How much time is left to draw out the brothers’ raucous laughter and irreverent humor?

One has Alzheimer’s.

Linn, of all people.