My Brother Tony

Tony was older than me by seven years. Our relationship was not particularly close but, like Jo, he made me laugh. He’d been married twice, had one son and at the time of his death, was in a close relationship with his live-in girlfriend. He was a partner in a firm of solicitors and had been an extraordinarily successful musician since his teens. He played keyboard, saxophone (alto and contralto) and clarinet.

As with Jo, I knew nothing about his cancer until I received a letter from him with the bad news. Later, visiting the UK, he described how one day he’d felt a hardness in his side and had been pleased because he’d spent some time working out and he thought it was having a effect. A few weeks later, he peed blood and soon after was diagnosed with very advanced cancer of the kidney.

Like Jo, Tony refused to acknowledge that he was dying, continuing to go to work everyday and lead an otherwise normal life. This superhuman determination is probably what led to Tony surviving at least a year and a half beyond the year the doctors' had predicted. The last time I spoke to him was about a fortnight before he died. It was clear that the cancer had already metastasized to his lungs as he tried to fit as many words as possible into each exhaled breath. He was looking forward to the new millenium but died a mere 16 days before it.

A few weeks before my own cancer diagnosis, I’d thought how ironic it was that I, the bratty little sister, living in a country beset by the dangers of war and terrorism, was still alive while my sister and brother were not.