My brother Jim was supposed to die a few years back.

Jim thought he might have a problem when he noticed he was huffing and puffing as he crossed a street.

The doctors told him he was desperately ill, that he was dying and needed a heart transplant or he would be dead in three months.

We were all surprised!

We rushed him over to my house and the family had a healing circle for him. We sat on a ring of chairs and held hands and thought about, brought in and threw the Good Energy at him. Some of us spoke about what we were seeing and some of us shouted “Hallaluja!” (That would be me.)

Suddenly, a shaft of intense sunlight shot through one of my skylights and banged Jim square on his chest. My brother squeezed his eyes shut, threw his head back and hollered, “I’m healed! I’m healed!”

I looked over at him and thought, “Oh, you booby, it’s just the sun coming through the skylight!” But, I didn’t say it, because I didn’t want to cast cold water or disbelief on his ‘healing.’

The next time he saw a new cardiologist about his heart,  the man said, “Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m dyin!’” Jim said. “That’s why I’m here.”

The doctor looked at Jim and said, “Your heart is perfect. There’s nothing wrong with it. You need to stop thinking that your heart is bad. Give it up. I have other patients who are really sick.”

We were all surprised.

Today, at this very moment, my brother is over at my mother’s house, running nimbly over the top of her roof. He is fifty-five and looks like a tanned god. He has beautiful white hair and a small beard and goatee. He’s finely muscled with not an ounce of fat on him. The ladies swoon.

“Gee Jim,” I say when I go to see my mother. “What happened to you? You were a dead man and now you are a handsome god who looks like you are in your 30’s or 40’s.”

I am saying this as Jim rips up Mother’s flooring, yanks nails from the sideboards, carts off the old rusted air conditioner and shoves a bookcase filled with raggedy books and spiders, out her back door.

I am languid, on the couch.

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Nope,” Jim says, “I feel stronger and better than I have ever felt! I never hurt in my muscles or joints, either.”

I glance over at our mother who is going through 60 year old boxes of books, rat shit, tax returns from the 50’s, cob webs and flattened silver fish.

Our 87 year old mother is Terminal, you know.

The doctors have said so. She has lung cancer that has spread. They want her to see an oncologist who will outline her future, describe the horrific cancerous things to expect and rely on, but our mother demurres. Why bother? she says. She also turns down their tepid offers of abundant chemo and flashy radiation.

“Mother,” I say, “why don’t you come over here and rest a minute? Keep me company.”

I reach out for her old blue, cotton stuffed, cat-haired chair and swing it around towards me.

“Come. Sit.” I command.

“Oh, alright…” Mom says. “But, I really have to go through all this stuff because I know Jim is likely to throw it out.”

Mom plops back into her chair with a loud ‘Thawumpft!’ as her butt hits the fabric.

She looks at me. She’s pensive.

“So…” she says with a big question in her voice. “How terminal can I be when I feel this good?”

I grin. I’m remembering how I took her shopping yesterday. As we were pushing the grocery cart across the parking lot, we were chatting about Medicare. Mother said, “It’s a good thing I don’t have anything seriously wrong with me…”

I yanked the cart to a halt.

“Mom!” I yelped,  with my mouth wide open. Then I laughed. “Moooomm….you have lung cancer and you’re terminal!”

“Oh, that,” Mother said. She thought a  moment. “We’re all terminal.”

Now, in Mom’s living room, I’m on my back on the couch with my legs slung over one of it’s arms. I’m thinking how when we were all little kids, my six year old sister Polly was in the hospital for a year and was supposed to die.

All these years later, she’s not dead yet, but lots of other people are.

And, my father. When he was sick he tried to die for years. He kept demanding, “Why can’t I die!? Everybody else can.” He wanted an answer.

When I mentioned this one day, to an old man who lives across the fence from my land and who knew my dad, he was shocked.

“A man as fine as your father!” he shouted, “Should be able to die anytime he wants to!”

I passed the message on to my dad, but it didn’t help. He just kept living.

And then there is my brother Arthur. He should have been dead in the fall of last year. Acute leukemia slapped him hard and slammed him to the ground. If he hadn’t been rushed to the hospital with an ambulance and screaming siren, he would have been dead the next day. Now, go figure…almost a year later, he’s in remission, smelling the sweetness of the air and feeling fine.

Putting aside the young people and the saintly ones who die and shouldn’t, according to us….Why is it that some people just can’t die and other people just can’t live? By that, I mean that some of us are supposedly living but we aren’t really living. We are just passing the time while we are here.

But, others of us, even while complaining, seem to be living so hard and deep and throughly that we just can’t die. Perhaps the roots and threads to life are just too rich and ripe to let us go…to let us leave this world before the clock ticks out our measured time.

I suppose the only lesson is…to just live until we die, with as much enthusiasm as we can muster.

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