Wrapping My Head Around . . .

Reach out before it is too late.

My heart wavers between the joy of life and the sorrow of death. The leaves on the orange tree outside my shed are bright green. A few oranges remain caught in the tangle of limbs high in the tree. The breeze wraps me in a comforting hug. Flowering bushes line our yard which is a mixture of green and brown. Anything green, we call grass. The bougainvillea is bright pink, balancing the pale colors of the oleander.

I am listening to music, imprinting it on my brain for future performances. Misha is in the house cooking up a storm, Mike at the computer computing, Mowgli away in his room. All is well, or seems to be. Having spent a few days with a dying cousin, I am wrestling with Death, or Life, or relationships, or, what?

In the mid 1900s the two youngest children of Louis and Emma Pfeiff of Iowa found jobs in East Moline, Illinois, and built houses across the street from each other in Moline. There were six Pfeiff kids of 8^th Avenue, sequentially and alternately approximately two years apart, except Baby Bro who surprised the heck out of everyone arriving seven years after my Baby Sis. Cousin Jay (name changed for privacy) led the pack, smart, good-looking, and able to get into and out of trouble with calm bullshitting. We all followed, not with the bullshitting but doing well in school and avoiding major scrabbles. Jay left home after college, eventually settling in the Northeast and setting up a medical practice. All of us followed by leaving home, none to the Northeast or into medicine.

Jay was four years ahead of me, close enough to be aware of his presence but distant enough to have only a superficial relationship. He was friends with my Big Bro; I hung out with his sister two years behind me. The relationship was not always positive. I will never forgive him for waving a snake in my face at our neighbor’s house, I swinging frantically to escape him. Over the years, we saw each other rarely but stayed in touch by word of mouth as my Big Bro shared news. I looked forward to seeing him at the family reunion last September. He and his wife had the flight tickets and the rooms booked when he began having trouble with an old hip replacement.

You know where this is going. Encumbered by rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune disorder, he could not conquer the infection. Following excruciating surgeries and treatment, he agreed to palliative care at home. To say that I decided to see him one more time is inaccurate. Something compelled me.

When I entered his room, I saw an unfamiliar man in a bed. I expected this; no one looks good in a hospital bed. This man was elderly, thin, definitely approaching the Jordan River. I leaned over to greet him. He smiled. And there was Jay, in the eyes and in the smile, not as broad as before but there. The deep dimples had disappeared, the hair gray and thin. But this was Jay.

I was there for two and a half days. Jay was no longer eating, sipping small amounts of liquid, and speaking in a whisper. But he was alert much of the time and able to converse in short bursts. He seemed genuinely happy that I was there.

I have a lot of cousins. The generations are skewed so we don’t distinguish between first, second, removed, or half cousins. Once married into the family, you remain a cousin even if you become an ex. Many of these cousins have died. But Jay is my first cousin and grew up across the street from me. We ran in and out of each other’s houses freely. Our fathers were best friends. We attended the same schools through high school. Had many of the same teachers. Attended the same church. We celebrated holidays together. His love of science inspired us to fabricate “chemistry sets” from an old lunch box and kitchen ingredients, marveling that baking soda makes liquids fizz. He set the standard. And now he is leading us through the end of life.

I started this essay confused, questioning why his passing is affecting me in ways different from other family deaths. I struggled to wrap my head around the meaning of Death, Life, or relationship. In a moment of silence, I realized I am decrying missed opportunities. We carry our childhood roles into adulthood, falling into patterns developed when we were the oldest daughter, the baby sister, the goofy cousin. Aside from the snake incident, there was no reason to expect rejection or derision in this relationship, but fear often drives me away from people. I was compelled to visit Jay to close the divide as much as I could, too late.

Jay is married to an angel. I would not have been aware if I had not spent time in their home this week. Hopefully this woman, who will forever be considered a cousin having married into this cult, and I will continue in friendship.  I remind myself to make Life about living, not about dying, before it is too late.

P. S. Jay passed away quietly in his home on April 25, 2026. May he rest in peace.