And so our pleasantries began.
Without me inquiring, the three men cheerfully offered they had just been to see their dad who lives up on floor three.
"You're all brothers then?" I asked. The resemblance was indisputable.
Like a mischievous trio of school boys, they laughed and nodded.
"Yes mam! We sure are," said one of the middle-aged brothers.
"Nothing we can do about it now," chimed in another.
More laughter.
I chuckled a bit too. "Brothers!" I thought to myself.
Three middle-aged men with arms full of photo books and faces full of mixed emotions. That is what had climbed into the elevator with mom and me. And we all stood there tightly together waiting for the doors to close. My hands wrapped around the wheelchair handles. My mom quietly taking it all in--Probably watching them closely lest they attempt to snatch her pocket book which she no longer carries.
Our slightly awkward conversation continued as we all stared earnestly at the gaping opening of our elevator. Minutes ticked by.
It's probably a universal thing in assisted living communities, but the elevator doors at mom's apartment are the slowest closing doors in the state of Georgia. For obvious reasons, I suppose. Normally, when I get on the elevator, I am quick to push the "door close" button, but I was definitely too tucked away in the back of this elevator box and to do so would have required even more awkward and possibly uncomfortable contact with these men. And chatty or not, my mother would have wanted to remind me: they were strangers.
And so I resisted.
And so we waited.
It felt like we stood there ten minutes making small talk and hoping for those heavy mechanical doors to finally meet in the middle and signify movement.
In those minutes (hours?) of waiting, I couldn't help but notice that lovely, jovial ease of brotherhood between them. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised had one brother punched the arm of another as they bantered back and forth.
Having a couple of boys of my own it is something with which I am quite familiar. And, even more so, something for which I am immensely grateful. Their goofy grappling and guffawing can get my boys through pretty much anything. Nothing is off limits. Nothing too sacred or serious for a little brotherly braying. There is almost no thing which can't be solved or at least lightened a little with some horsing around and, on occasion, some unsavory sorts of humor. Trust me on this.
The doors finally closed and down we went. Our elevator ride was over and I didn't know much more about these brothers. I didn't know how old their father or how ill or how long he's been living here. I didn't ask. It didn't matter though. I had all the information I needed by the time we reached the ground floor and parted company. I watched them hug each other and then head out the doors and off to their own vehicles.
I pushed my mom's chair down the hall and what I did know with every turn of her wheels is those men-boys--those siblings--they had each other. And without knowing anything more about them--who they were or what their story might be--I knew, as brothers, they weren't alone. They were in this together.
And that is everything.
It's everything in this new season of navigating a parent aging and needing more assistance. There is so much. So many discussions. So many decisions. So much for which to solve or plan or process. So many worries or what nexts.
We are in the throes of this new stage in my own family. We've been here for a good bit especially since moving our mom into assisted living 18 months ago. We've made some mistakes. We've also learned a million lessons. What to do. What not to do. Maybe what we've learned the most is the impossibility of doing any of this without one another. I cannot imagine this particular journey without my three siblings. I think of that often.
I don't always have them in the elevator with me. But I have them. They are always there. Just a phone call away. I have climbed into this very same [slow] elevator and made the immediate call to one of them. For answers. For feedback. For support. For someone just to listen to my story or talk me off the ledge or comfort me in my tears.
Someone who knows me and knows us and knows all the details, history, idiosyncrasies, and difficulties.
Even the dearest of friends can't always be that person. It takes a brother or a sister. Someone who also calls my mother by the very same name--"mom."
I have thought a million times how grateful I am there are four of us doing this very hard-holy thing together. It is brutal. It is necessary. It is not at all what we imagined.
And that was what my encounter today with the three men in the tiny elevator reminded me of---The indescribable gift in sharing life with siblings. The beautiful, joyful, wonderful. But, even more so, the very hard, the holy, the holding on.
I never got the names of the three elevator brothers or their father on floor three.
I don't need to know their names.
I know they are all of us.
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