Many of you know I often participate in writing and storytelling workshops. Some people like horseback riding, others enjoy sewing. I enjoy writing. I am particularly interested in writing that will be passed down as family history.

Recently, I took a course with Kelly DuMar on writing monologues for the stage. We were a small group of writers, some of us writing dramatically for the first time. We spent four sessions, each working on pieces that would be performed in an online showcase. From the beginning, I knew I wanted to focus my monologue on my brother Gary. His passing in January moved me deeply. Writing this monologue was a way of creatively dealing with my grief. I call it “My Brother’s Light.”

Even though I was drawing on my real experience, I needed to create a way for the monologue to be performed by an actor on stage. My premise became having a woman in a chapel lighting a candle, speaking to her deceased mother about the death of her brother. This allowed me to creatively express my real experience with saying goodbye to my brother.

As you read, I invite you to imagine my monologue being performed on stage.

AT RISE: A woman is in a chapel about to light a votive candle.

JANE
[EYES CLOSED]
Mom, are you here?
[A BEAT]
My heart is heavy. I’m here in the chapel to be with you. I’m lighting this candle for Gary.
[EYES OPEN. LIGHTS THE CANDLE]
It feels good to be with you, Mom. You know why I’m here.
I just need to talk to you. About Gary. His passing. Who else would understand as well as his mother? I always feel that you can see everything . . .how Gary had been in and out of the hospital­­­ with his blood cancer. It was late December. The doctor told Gary he had a choice––he could continue with treatments, even though they weren’t working. Or he could choose hospice and stay at home. Mom, I need to talk about it, even though I know you know. You’ve been watching.

So, Andrea put a hospital bed against the picture window in their living room. Gary’s recliner was nearby. You know how he loved to watch the birds? He could see the two bird feeders outside the window. When I visited New Year’s Day, Gary was in his recliner near the bed. Andrea lovingly covered him with a blanket. He just said, “Jane, I’m choosing Hospice.” That was so Gary, wasn’t it, mom? Always commenting about his life in such a clear, unemotional way. Still––it really caught me by surprise.
[BEAT]
“With Hospice,” he said, “I won’t be eligible to receive any more blood transfusions. I can’t go on this way.” What could I say, Mom? All I said was, “Gary, you know best.” I got up from the stuffed chair across the room and said, “Lots of love to you.” As I walked out I said to Andrea, “Lots of love.” On Saturday morning, January 4th, Andrea invited me to visit. I didn’t bother to shower and dress. I went in my night clothes. Gary was in his bed. He’d had a restless night. The hospice nurse arrived and gave him a morphine shot. He didn’t seem to be conscious. Ryan was there. Laura arrived. I know how much it must have mattered to Gary, to have both of his children with him. After a time, I went next to his bed. I placed my hands lightly on Gary’s hands, his arms, then on his shoulders. Mom, I wanted to say some of those positive things I thought about Gary––my last living sibling. I’ve heard that hearing is the last to go. So, I felt he could hear me.

Gary, I want to tell you what I most admire about you. From the time you were a little boy, integrity was always important to you. I think this is very unusual for a child to be able to recognize this at such a young age. It wasn’t as if a teacher or some adult coached you. Instinctively, you always knew the right thing. You had an amazing ability to keep on going, despite adversity. You were very bright; even though you had a difficult time in school. Now we know about learning disabilities. Back then, you had to struggle without any support. It was amazing that as an adult you overcame your academic disability. You graduated from college and became a voracious reader.
[A BEAT]
Wasn’t he amazing, mom?
[A BEAT]
Gary’s breathing slowed down. His body was more relaxed. His breathing was slower and slower. It was 11:40 am. I was seated in the stuffed armchair to the right of the bed. Mom, the sunlight through the south window became much brighter. It was like a slow-motion flash of light––
[FLASH OF LIGHT]
It was now so quiet. So peaceful.

[BLACKOUT]

Originally published on The Ageless Goddess blog.