December 3: Goodbye, Uncle Erno
December
River Kwai,
Thailand
Strange, isn’t it, how some of us laugh when told something tragic and that’s exactly what I did. I laughed and thought, oh come on. My brother’s not dying. He’s not. He’s a monk in an orange robe at Wat Pah Chatanan. He’s not dying. He’s not.
He can’t.
That’s all I remember of the night they told me.
It was the following day that I learned more. Antony has cancer of the stomach. He’d been diagnosed six months ago but with the treatment he was having, seemed to be coping. He had been having treatment while I was there, but had been so convinced he’d be all right, he hadn’t wanted to tell me. He didn’t come to the River Kwai because he couldn’t miss any of the sessions at the hospital in Ubon. All those visits with the Abbot. All those secret glimpses of a life without me, outside the market in Ubon with the Abbot, the argument with Tikaro at Poo Jom Petch. I’d had no idea what it was I’d been witnessing. Tikaro must have wanted Antony to tell me.
“He’d wanted to come with you,” Tikaro told me. “He thought he would have been well enough, but things started to deteriorate shortly before you arrived.”
To think he’d kept all that from me. The poor man. What had he been dealing with?
An urgency entered my thoughts and I needed to act, to do something, to be with him, to see him. I frantically began hurriedly to find my things and start to pack. I had no plan. I just needed to go. Tikaro stopped me.
“Benedict, slow down,” said Tikaro as he tried to take my arms.
He realised I was in shock. I began to fight him, angry with him for stopping me from keeping busy, angry with him for telling me about my brother. I flailed my arms at him, lost in a fog of fear and finally, once he’d circled me with his arms and had pulled me towards him, I sobbed into his chest, unable to speak anymore, unable to do anything but be held. He slowly guided me towards the edge of the bed and we sat for a long while, no words between us.
Once my tears began to cease and my eyes could again adjust to the world, the first thing that came into focus was Uncle Erno’s casket, still sitting patiently, waiting to be relieved of its fragile cargo. Tikaro, protectively monitoring my every move, saw me looking over at it.
“He knew, y’ know,” he said.
I didn’t understand.
“Your uncle. He knew. About Thanavaro. He knew.”
I still didn’t get it.
“He knew how ill your brother was,” he explained when he saw my uncomprehending face.
“He couldn’t have. He died months ago.”
“Your brother was diagnosed before Erno died. He wrote to Erno and told him but asked him not to tell you. Your uncle died before Thanavaro got a response but he told your solicitor to change his will. He wanted to make sure, whatever happened, that you got to see your brother. Your uncle died soon after”
In that moment, Uncle Erno was with me and I burst into tears. I could feel his presence in the room. Not just his ashes, but him. My kind, fragile, quirky-voiced uncle who’d sent me halfway round the world to scatter his ashes in the very country where he knew my longtime unseen brother was probably going to die.
“Why me?” I’d asked Mr Hollingsworth when he’d told me Uncle Erno had requested that I went to Thailand.
“I don’t know,” he’d replied. “We get the most unusual requests at these times.”
Had everyone known but me?
Erno’s casket wouldn’t let me go. Not just yet.
“I want to scatter my uncle’s ashes. Before we leave. I need to do it before I leave.”
*****
Later, more composed after coffee and able to think, I asked Tikaro, “What happened to you?” Amaro was with us.
“Well, he drawled. “I’d kinda had my fill of life as a monk so I asked the Ajahn if I could leave. He was cool about it, so here I am, with three week’s growth of hair.”
And he smiled widely at me, teeth just edging his bottom lip.
“But I thought you were there for keeps,” I said.
“Don’t seem that way, I guess,” he replied.
“Yeh,” said Amaro, lightly but with an effort in his banter that hadn’t been there before. “Life as a Buddhist monk can get a bit rough if you’re not into reincarnation.”
"Seriously, Tikaro," I laughed, still in shock about my brother and wanting to pretend it wasn’t really happening. "You don't believe in rebirth?"
"I just can't get my head 'round that one," he replied and laughed, a tired, sad laugh, through his short, stubbly beard. “I’m Greg now.”
“Greg with hair,” I teased. “Lots of hair.”
“I guess I’m over compensating a little,” and we all laughed, a wishful laugh, full of the knowledge of what lay ahead for us all.
*****
Wat Pah Chatanan
The Isaan,
N.E. Thailand
Mr Joo took us to the bridge in his truck, after breakfast. It was a brilliantly sunny morning with a crisp, clear blue sky and I sat up front in the cab with Uncle Erno on my knee.
When we arrived at the bridge and pulled up alongside the railway lines, we found Ajaan Sumeno waiting, and smiling. His old kind face looked into mine with a gentleness and grace that went straight to my heart. He bowed to me.
“My child, you have been with me.”
"You knew didn’t you? About my brother,” I asked him and he nodded, seriously.
“It wasn’t my place to tell you,” he said.
“And about the gold leaf in Uncle Erno’s ashes. You knew about that too, didn’t you?”
And again, he nodded.
"The gold is from the rings that belonged to your uncle's friends," he told me. "He vowed to scatter these rings with his ashes. Arthur, your uncle’s friend in the diary, his ring is there and Charlie’s. ”
There was silence as I joined Greg and Amaro who were waiting for me at the start of the bridge. The sun was strong, glancing off the water which was a delicate greeny-turquoise, picking up its hue from the clear blue sky overhead. There were a few tourists around but not too many as it was still early and many of them wouldn’t arrive until the train pulled in later. I hugged Uncle Erno in front of me as I sat down on the dry grassy bank and rested my cheek on the top of the casket.
A few moments to be. For every beginning there is an ending.
Behind us, over towards the buildings running by the railway, I heard movement. Greg too turned to look too and Amaro. Sumeno was stood at the end of the bridge looking over towards the buildings from where a Thai monk emerged, head down, his orange robe glowing in the sunshine, his bare feet silently and carefully being placed one directly in front of the other.
Behind him appeared another monk, his head bowed like the one in front, his feet following his footsteps, his robe wrapped around his body and over his shoulder.
Then, another monk, followed by another, and another, emerging silently, one by one, gracefully heading towards us. They cut a line over to the railway and headed down the centre of the track towards the bridge. Still they kept emerging one by one, monk after monk after monk until there were forty, fifty, sixty monks creating a moving wall of orange robes heading towards the bridge.
We watched in awe-struck silence as they filtered by and I hugged Uncle Erno to my chest.
“Did you know about this?” I asked the boys.
“Not a clue,” said Amaro, quietly. “Not a clue.”
By now the line of holy men stretched halfway across the bridge, their golden robes like a torch flashing its light between the enormous curves of black iron, a beacon shining out from between the girders. One by one I watched them pass as I stood with Amaro and Greg at the start of the bridge. Sumeno joined them and he stopped as he drew level with us. The monks in front walked on, creating space for me and Sumeno smiled as he gestured for me and Amaro to join him.
“Mr Joo called us when he knew you were coming to scatter the ashes,” he told me.
Greg stayed behind but not before he had leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead. No one had explained my role in this ceremony but I let myself be carried forward by the procession, my place given to me by Ajahn Sumeno, Uncle Erno’s casket clutched to me.
When I reached the centre of the bridge, the monks halted, the line now stretching from one side of the river to the next. We were all still for a very long, silent moment. I could here the flow of the water below our feet and there was an incredible reflection of the bridge in the water, its black arches shimmering on the surface, light brushstrokes of bright, golden orange shining on the water.
Sumeno held out his hand, gesturing to me to step forward onto the crow's nest in between the two centre arches. As I did, he began to chant in Pali, the other monks joining in until I was surrounded by a wall of their soft, low voices. I could feel the sun warm on my back and as I lifted the box onto the rail, the breeze dropped and the world went silent around me apart from the steady, lulling vibration of the monks chanting. I opened the box and peeled away the seal. Then, holding the bag tightly inside the casket, I tipped it and let the weight of the ash slowly tip forward. As it left the wooden confines of the casket, the breeze lifted, carrying the freed ash and golden flecks into the air, picking them up and taking them out over the river like crushed autumn leaves being lifted into a beckoning sky.
The gold sparkled in the sunshine, rays glinting as it reflected off the edges of the delicate flakes and as the breeze took hold, the joyful spray of soft pale gold sparkled with bright eyelets of fire spreading into the sky towards the horizon. The chanting of the monks continued as the ash drifted up, up and away until finally, without me noticing exactly when, it was no more, given to the river and taken into eternity.
Uncle Erno had gone.
I stepped down from the rail and as I took the casket and began to gather the polythene in, I found a single gold flake, resting on the lip of the box, resisting flight. I thought of Thanavaro and for a few, fearful moments, my body froze. I knew I would be doing this for him one day soon.
I picked up the delicate gold flake on the tip of my finger and held it up to the breeze. Reluctantly at first, it gradually let its edges be lifted until it too was ready to be released to join the flow of the river. I followed its path as it danced on the breeze, playfully skipping through the air, reflecting the sunshine back as if singing to me, wanting to share its joy. I said goodbye to it just before it magically vanished into the brilliant blue above.
As the chanting reverberated around the bridge I closed my eyes. I hardly noticed when the chanting stopped. Sumeno waited until I was ready before he eventually turned and the monks at the end of the bridge began to filter away as silently and as gracefully as they had appeared. One by one we made our way off the bridge and I stepped aside as I reached the end, to let each of the remaining monks pass.
Greg was waiting on the bank and he came up to give me a huge hug. I leaned my head into his shoulder but I didn’t feel sad, as I’d expected. I’m not sure what it was I felt. But it felt okay. Amaro found us and said he was going to go back to the monastery with the monks and he’d meet us there later. We would pick him up on the way back to Bangkok.
I ate with Greg that night, in silence, and slept as best I could knowing that this was to be my last night on the River Kwai.
Next morning, Amaro and Greg took me to station to catch a train back to Bangkok and to the airport where we caught a plane to Ubon in the evening. The same journey I’d made alone, a couple of months before. But this time when I emerged at the top of the escalator, looking down into the arrival lounge, Antony wasn't there like before. I searched for his face among the many that were looking up at me, but none was his.
The minibus was waiting at the airport and when we arrived at Chatanan, Greg and Amaro sat me at the table in the kitchen. It was dark, not a person in sight and even the faint whisper of the forest seemed to have forgotten to keep us company. They made some noodle soup and put it in a flask for me and then took me to the same kuti where I'd spent my first night.
It was lonely when they left, no orchids on the shrine like before, no candles welcoming home.
They’d explained that Thanavaro now lived in the guest villa. He was more comfortable there. They explained that they had been told that his cancer had spread to the lymphatic system. They explained that he was asleep and that it would be best to wait until morning to see him.
I lay awake in the dark expecting tears but they didn't come. If I cried, that would make it real. While it still wasn’t real, there was nothing to cry about, so I begged the tears not to come.
I couldn't sleep so I lit some candles and sat in my kuti, opening the noodle soup, taking a cupful but I wasn’t able to drink and I tipped it back. Opposite me, sitting peacefully and calmly as if nothing was happening was the small statue of Buddha that had been placed in my room when I first arrived. It was watching me, smugly. We stared each other out for a long few minutes, his expression unchanging and I felt a fire of resentment grow in my chest. My iPod lay unused on the floor beside me and I picked it up and hurled it at the Buddha. It hit the statue, smashing the iPod to pieces and sending Buddha crashing to the wall, leaving an empty space where faith once was. I wanted to scream but I knew if I started, I wouldn't stop and I didn't think the forest was ready to hear just how loud my scream would be.
Then, I thought of Antony.
Sleep visited for only a restless few hours before dawn and I was woken by harsh daylight piercing the shutters and stabbing my eyes. For a fleeting moment, I wasn't there. None of it was there and I was flying up the highway on a Harley after Antony, chasing rainbows, wearing no helmets. But, mercilessly, the weight of pain that rested on my chest dragged me back to Chatanan and my kuti and now.
I heard someone approaching on the path outside and caught the familiar, barely audible sound of a monk's robe being swept over a shoulder. Antony, I thought, he’s come to see me. And then, no, Benedict, no. Get a grip.
When I opened the door to my kuti I found the Abbot of Wat Pah Chatanan and Amaro waiting in the sunshine. My sad welcome party.
"Benedict," said the Ajahn. "This must be a very difficult time for you and I offer the support of all our community and our deepest, deepest love. Please, whatever we can do to help, just ask and it is yours."
I managed a faint smile.
"After the meal, I will take you to see your brother. He has a medical attendant looking after him. And please, “ he said, now pausing to look me directly in the eye. “Stay at Chatanan for as long as you like. Treat it as home."
"I don't think I can eat anything," was all I could find to say.
The Ajahn's presence was very warm and comforting. He was someone older, someone with experience in this stuff and his solidity and centeredness soothed the shaking that had been going on inside me all night.
"Before we go over to the guest house," he continued, "I'd like to explain about Thanavaro's illness. Is now a good time to do this?"
I nodded and he and Amaro sat on the ground in front of my kuti, resting against some rocks in the dry sunshine. I joined them and we sat in circle.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
How was I supposed to answer? I hadn't been aware that I was feeling anything. I looked into this gentle man’s concerned face.
"Scared," I heard myself reply and swallowed hard on the lump that was threatening to grow in my throat. The Ajahn nodded, and after a few moments continued, his calm and confident, reassuring tone.
"Thanavaro has two cancers. It originated in the stomach and has spread to his lymphatic system. I'm afraid, as is common, it wasn't detected in the early stages and Thanavaro's latest symptoms didn't present themselves until very, very recently. He was having chemotherapy in Ubon where there is a very good hospital, but it hasn't stopped the cancer."
He spoke gently and thoughtfully, watching me as I listened, checking for signs of comprehension written in my face.
"He is very ill," he continued. "And very weak."
Amaro sat still beside me, watching the ground. Sadness emanated all around him but he remained stoic, being strong for me.
"Why wasn’t it spotted earlier?" I asked.
Surely they could've done something to stop this thing from growing? What were they all playing at? The Ajahn breathed in slowly, and then out again before he answered, calmly.
"Stomach cancer is very difficult to spot," he explained and added, “Benedict, everything that could have been done, has been done."
I nodded, knowing the anger I was feeling towards him was unjustified, but feeling it nonetheless. It pushed against my temples, burning inside my chest and gripping in my fists. All I could do was hold it in. I also felt a pinprick of anger towards Antony but I pushed it away. I was getting tired of being angry.
"What is he like now?" I wanted to know.
"He's very ill."
"I know that," I insisted. "But what is he like? What does he look like? When you say he's weak, how weak is that?"
The Ajahn nodded gently, acknowledging my need to know more and spoke very steadily.
"He can't move much and he is on very strong medication for the pain which makes him drowsy. “
"Will he recognise me?"
I needed to know what I was going to be walking in on, needed to know if my brother was still with me or if he'd already left.
"Oh yes, and he can still speak,” reassured the Ajahn, "You can still hold a conversation with him. He just tires easily."
As he told me this, we heard the light patter of tiny Thai feet on the path that led to my kuti and the rustle of sarongs. From behind the nearby bathroom came Mae Li and the white haired lady from the kitchen, whose name I still hadn’t caught. Their usually smiling faces were replaced by sombre, sad ones, but they were still filled with generosity and kindness. As soon as they saw the monks, they stopped and knelt, bowing three times. Both were laden with a large bouquet of bright, sunny flowers which they had been carrying in their arms but which now rested on their knees as they placed their palms together to wai towards the monks. The Ajahn spoke to them in Thai and they nodded, silently and then both looked at me. Mae Li said something and the Ajahn turned towards me.
"They have brought you flowers," he explained, "And thought you may wish to have them placed in your brother's room."
And then Mae Li produced a small bottle from inside the folds of her skirt.
"And Mae Li has brought you some water. She asked one of the monks to chant over it. It's to help your brother."
"Help him?"
The Abbot stalled for a moment but decided to tell me.
"To help him on his journey."
And it finally sank in. You really are dying, aren't you Antony.
"They want you to know too,” he continued, “That they will be here for you and that you are part of their family now."
I looked at Mae Li, her eyes connecting with mine and I begged them to shine like before and send their joy rushing through my veins. But her eyes didn't smile. Instead, they were sad and concerned and told me that she knew how difficult this was for me and that she knew that their ways were different from mine and that I was finding this oh so very, very hard.
I got up and walked over to the two kneeling women. Mae Li held her hand out and I crouched in front of them while they both held my hands and each touched my cheek.
"Thank you," I said in English, and tried to smile.
As I got up, I turned to the two monks and told them,
“I'd like to see Antony now.”
It’s difficult to describe what I felt as we walked over to the guest house that morning. The house loomed in the distance, growing so large that it towered over our small bodies, its darkness and danger so threatening that twice I stopped and nearly turned back. The monks waited for me while I silently fought for strength and we continued along the dusty path, past tall dry grasses which ushered me forward and with the rays of the morning sun behind me.
It was very quiet when we reached the house and I could see through the screens that there was no one downstairs and the shutters in the bedrooms were closed. We entered and the Ajahn went upstairs to let the medical attendant know of our arrival.
Silence boomed until Amaro said,
"It means so much to Thanavaro that you are here," and I heard the echo from when Thanavaro himself had said those words to me. If only you’d said why, Thanavaro. If only you’d said why.
I could hear the shutters being opened upstairs and the patter of shoeless feet above our heads and it was some minutes before the Ajahn appeared again.
"Would you like to come, now," he said.
Upstairs, there was a man in a white tunic waiting for me at the bedroom door, my bedroom door where I'd spent happy nights listening to music, reading War and Peace and waiting for the next beautiful sunrise. He smiled and gave me a wai, then showed me into the room. It had all changed. There was now a metal bed, not just a mattress on the floor, and there was a clinical looking table in the far corner with all sorts of medical stuff on it. A shrine had been created in the other corner with a statue of the Buddha overlooking proceedings and the room had the stingy, sharp smell of a hospital. A wind-chime hung up against the far window and every so often it chimed optimistically. The shutters had been opened half-way, letting the daylight in but sheltering the room from the heat of the sun's harsh rays.
The bed was on my left as I stood in the door and I knew that Antony was lying there but I didn't want to look. I needed to postpone the blunt pain of reality for a moment longer. I turned towards him.
He lay there, still and pale and linked up to god knows how many drips, tubes and bags. He was awake and he was waiting for me to look at him. I turned and let my eyes fall on his. They lay me bare as I saw my dying brother for the first time and my chest burst with the tears of half a lifetime. I had so wanted to be strong for him at this moment, so wanted not to cry but the tears crowded my being. My feelings poured into the empty space that had once been between us.
I walked over and bent to hug him, my vision blurred and my body heaving with the sobs I'd been holding at bay for so long. As I put my arms round him, feeling his frail, bony torso close to mine, he carefully shifted in his bed and I finally felt his arms encircle me and his head rest between my shoulder and my neck. He clung to me so tightly breaking all the rules as I sobbed into the pillow and he gripped me so hard that I thought his brittle body would break. I could feel him shaking from inside, a deep, unstoppable, dreadful shudder from within that spoke of unmentionable fear, of a place so dark that it caused faith to falter.
When I drew away from him, I took his fragile, weak hand as I sat down in a chair that the Ajahn had pulled up to the side of the bed. His skin looked so grey and old, almost transparent, and I could see the thin, narrow veins which were still carrying blood around his aching body. Looking up, I saw that he was smiling at me, a smile that defied the condition of his body.
"So, they found you then," he said and I could hardly believe the joy in his weary voice.
"I'm still pissed off you didn't come," I teased, surprised at my own capacity for black humour, and we both laughed.
The Ajahn and Amaro tactfully left, saying they would arrange for some food to be brought over for me after the meal. They left the attendant as chaperone and as soon as they departed I felt another layer of inhibition lift and I sobbed some more, unable to say anything.
"I couldn’t tell you Benedict. I couldn’t do that when we thought there was still hope of me beating it," said Antony. " I didn't want to stop you from carrying out Uncle Erno's wishes, but,” and he paused. “I couldn’t come with you."
"You should have said something, Antony. I could have coped."
"I know,' he said, reticently, closing his eyes and resting for a while, drawing breath. "But I'm not sure I could have coped with telling you."
And he closed his wet eyes, tears crowding the corners of his eyelids, strength abandoning him.
I let Antony rest and watched while he slept. He needed to do that a lot. I sat with the attendant, listening to his breathing, noticing how hard even that had become. He was thin and pale and I knew from that first day that the brother I had known was never coming back. This person was my brother now. This was Thanavaro, the monk.
I stayed with him all day, only leaving for a few minutes to eat something when the Abbot returned. I managed to sleep too, resting in the chair beside Antony’s bed, dozing in the warm, shadowy light. Returning to my kuti at night wasn’t easy. I wanted to stay at the villa, sleep in the next room, just to be close to Antony, just to be near, just in case, but it wasn’t practical.
As soon as dawn broke, I returned. Antony hadn’t woken up and again I sat with the attendant, waiting for the moments when my brother’s illness allowed him enough energy to be with me. He woke in stages. First half opening his eyes, still not aware of where he was, or that I was with him. He fell asleep again and gradually began to stir about half an hour later. I was hoping for a smile when he finally realised I was there and I wasn’t ready for what happened.
He didn’t smile. He’d woken from a place I couldn’t imagine and I could see that to utter even one word demanded a fortress of energy. His eyes were scared as the first thing he said was,
"I'm dying," and he wept, his face crumbling into a thousand pieces as I got up and held him in my arms, cradling his head, his beautiful head, shiny from loss of hair and stubble-free. He sobbed like a fallen child and I learnt then to just hold him, nothing more, no well-meaning words, no self-comforting, just loving silence.
What is there to say to someone who's dying?
After the sobs had ceased, I tried to lift his mood and began to tell him about my visit to the River Kwai.
“I thought of you while I was there,” I said, gently. “Sitting by the river, remembering our trip on the Mekong. Thank god I hadn’t left,” I whispered, knowing how near I had come to leaving Thailand and never seeing my brother ever again.
Antony rested, catching his breath before telling me,
“We knew you hadn’t left. Ajahn Sumeno told us you were still at the river.”
“Amaro is not finding all this easy,” Antony confided, his energy returning for a short while.
"It's hard, Antony."
"How does he think I feel?" he asked, raising his voice and then checking himself and looking over to the Thai attendant who was calmly doing nothing except sitting and waiting over by the shutters. His anger surprised me but it invigorated him temporarily.
"I've felt so lost, Benedict,” he said. “The first drug treatment seemed quite hopeful, that was when you were here and then, just before you left, I started to bleed again and they needed to do more tests. I didn't find out how serious it was until you'd gone and then I thought," he faltered and again closed his eyes, resting before summoning the strength to face his darkness again. "I thought I might never see you again and I asked them to go and look for you."
And then he broke down.
"I'm so sorry, Benedict. I'm so sorry," and he wept into the palms of his hands as he held them to his face and I leant forward and hugged him hard, feeling his brittle bones grate.
I let him rest and then asked,
"Antony, will you answer me something? No one else will tell me."
He nodded.
"How long have you got?"
As he lay there, a cool cotton sheet covering his skeletal torso, he stared me straight in the eye. There were dark shadows under the sockets where sunshine used to play and each time he embarked on the laboured process of blinking, he seemed to lose another ounce of his slowly sapping energy. His skin looked old and the colour was slipping further from him. Even his mole had lost its vigour but his bald head, his beautiful bald head, was gleaming in the sunshine which had crept round the corner of the shutter.
In reply to my question, Antony slowly took my hand in his and said,
"Benedict, I've got all the time in the world."
*****
Antony was in a lot of pain. He had a pump which fed pain medication to him and, when it got really bad, he could squeeze it to get an extra dose. He also had a saline drip and was prone to infections. He caught a chest infection shortly after I arrived and it weakened him a great deal. I visited everyday and stayed with him for most of the day, watching him when he slept, giving him space when he meditated, holding his hand when he rested and listening to him when he wanted to talk.
I got into a routine of attending the morning meal with the rest of the Sanga after Antony had asked me to because he was worried I wasn't looking after myself. It was a good idea as it meant I saw the other monks and wasn’t too cut off from life in the monastery.
The Abbott caught me one morning.
"You know, if you would like to come with me to meditate, I will teach you."
What is it about Buddhist monks that seems to bestow upon them a sixth sense that told them what I wanted before I'd even recognised it myself? I had wanted to try meditation, to see if I could get a glimpse of my brother’s life but I hadn't yet got to the point of asking anyone or doing anything about it.
"If you come with me each day, after half past three, I will explain to you how we meditate."
So I did, every evening for the last few days, sitting in the Outside Sala with the Abbott and a novice, crossed legged for half an hour. Then, as I got used to it, I sat for longer, while Antony slept.
At first it did nothing, absolutely nothing. What was all the fuss about? I just sat there trying to watch my breathe as instructed but instead listening to the creak of my knees and following my thoughts as they wandered from the inane to the very serious. I thought about stiff limbs and how I now knew what Amaro had meant when he talked of Pansa being three months of achy knees. I thought about the meal we had had that morning and how remarkable it is that the villagers manage to make delicious food from the simplest of things like leaves they found in the fields and rice which grows everywhere. I thought of my brother lying in bed, unable to eat anything at all. Then, as instructed, I tried to watch my breath again.
Over time, the half-hour went faster and I followed what arrived in my head. Not so much thoughts and images, but sensations. Then something else clicked into place. I can't really describe it other than my mind was able to transfer from the here and now into a place it'd never travelled before. A small door had been opened and I'd allowed myself to walk through into a new arena and a new way to be.
Antony still meditated. He'd spend hours lying still and I'd know not to disturb him until he opened his eyes. I was so grateful to the Abbott for showing me a glimpse of something my brother saw in those last few days.
"Sing to me," Antony said one afternoon.
He was tired, his face drained, his eyes closed.
"What, here?" I asked.
"Where else, stupid," he teased.
"What would you like me to sing?"
And he waited as I picked up on the poignancy of this moment. I realised we were about to go on a journey filled with memories long since buried and Antony was the one who was going to hold my hand and guide me through.
"That one Mum used to sing to us. You know, the one about the stars shining."
Slowly my mind traced the years back to the time he was talking about. Mum, singing us to sleep as we lay in our bunk beds, me on the bottom bunk because I wasn’t big enough to climb the ladder, Antony listening from above and Mum sat by me, stroking my hair. Mum, who died of stomach cancer as I stood watching her sideways from next to the bed.
"Antony, I don't think I can."
"'Course you can," he said, knowing where I’d just gone and I felt a faint pressure on my hand as he squeezed my palm.
I don't know from where I found the strength to sing to him but somehow it came to me and I sang quietly as he lay with his eyes closed and a smile on his calm, slowly dying face. The Mamas and Papas from years ago, finding us.
Stars shining bright above you.
Stars fading but I will linger on dear, still craving your kiss.
Antony wanted to talk a lot about our childhood. He wanted to hear of the times we'd spent playing in the fields behind our house when Mum was still alive, how she'd call us in for tea by clattering a wooden spoon on an old tin tray, how we'd fight over whose turn it was to use the tape recorder. We remembered when we’d each got a brand new bicycle for Christmas and how I fell off mine, splitting my head open so Dad had had to rush me to the doctor for stitches, and the time when Antony had got his first 125cc motorbike and rolled it into the garage wall because he hadn’t worked out how to use the foot brake.
Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end.
I enjoyed the reminiscing while I could still see the pleasure it brought Antony but I'm not sure he ever felt the growing ache that I could feel in my heart as our precious time together ticked away.
I still had things to learn from my brother. I learnt that the tradition of monks shaving their eyebrows wasn’t, as I’d thought, something to do with sacrificing their identity or following the Buddha’s example. It started only three hundred years ago when Burmese spies would disguise themselves as monks and the only way their enemies could tell the real monks from the fake ones, was to shave the monks’ eyebrows. Any man found later with half-grown hedgehog eyebrows was deemed to be spy. It had nothing at all to do with anything spiritual.
I learnt that included in the vows my brother had taken when he got ordained was a vow to the Sanga, the community and that the way of life here would disintegrate if individual people didn’t make a commitment to those with whom they shared that life.
I learnt that key to a Buddhist spiritual life, is gaining an understanding of our emotional life and that the two are irretrievably linked. The more we get to know our emotions, the closer we can get to our spiritual self. I didn’t have to feel bad about feeling angry, resentful or sad anymore, I just needed to accept that I did and try to understand it.
I learnt too that the monks didn’t believe that theirs was the only way to live a spiritual life or that it was the best way, just that it was a good way and for now, even if it wasn’t perfect, it was as good a path to follow as any.
It made me think of Amaro and what he’d said to me in the early days of being at Wat Pah Chatanan. Here, all anybody is trying to be, is a good person. Nothing more, just good, and I realised I wanted to be a good person, especially now, for my brother.
Antony wanted to prepare a living will. I didn’t know what he meant until he explained he wanted to tell everyone his wishes so it was there for us all to see should he become too weak to explain. I slept badly the night he told me, not wanting to wake and have to transcribe such a stark reminder that he was going to die. A reminder from the very person who was doing the dying. But as with most things during those last weeks, a strength found me from somewhere, given in part, I know, by Uncle Erno.
Antony wanted to die here, at Chatanan. He didn't want to go to hospital. He didn't want to be resuscitated at any time and he refused any form of artificial feeding. And he wanted me to scatter his ashes. I wrote it all down in long hand and we kept it by his bed.
"I'm frightened, Benedict," he said as I was with him, holding his hand. "But I'm not supposed to be."
"How are you supposed to be?” I asked him.
The room that day was darkened to try and keep it cool. Temperatures outside had begun to soar so there was no way the shutters could have been opened. The heat from the light would have been too much for Antony. It could be a bit strange sometimes, stuck in a dark room for days when the sun was shining brightly outside. Time no longer had much meaning. Daytime, night time, it was all time with Antony and that was all I cared about.
"I'm supposed to accept this as part of life's cycle,” Antony told me. “Death's a part of life, not an end, not even a beginning, just a part of an ongoing process."
"So?"
"So I shouldn't be frightened."
"Antony, there's no right or wrong way to do this,"
"No, don't you see? If my faith was strong enough, I wouldn't be frightened. It would take all the fear away."
"Your faith can't ever take away you being human," I said, trying to comfort him but not sure if I was. "You haven't failed just because you're frightened," and I kept hold of his delicate hand as he drifted into silence, his eyes losing focus and finally closing into sleep.
He wasn’t the only one who was frightened.
The time he could spend talking lessened with each day. He grew tired very quickly and the pain became much worse. He weakened to the point where he could no longer administer his own pain relief.
Greg came to visit a few times. He was living in the monastery now, having stopped talking of any plans to leave for the time being. He didn't need to mention it, but we both knew he was waiting until after my brother had passed away.
"He looks so happy when he's asleep," he said one afternoon when he'd joined us. And then, to me, "He's a good man your brother, a very good man."
Greg had changed. He was the same, lanky, goofy American I'd met when I arrived but once out of his robe he was more comfortable, more confident. His hair had also grown considerably, his eyebrows no longer looked like crew-cut hairy caterpillar but he’d shaved the beard off.
"What will you do after . . . ," I began to ask but I couldn't finish the sentence.
"When I go back?" he offered, helpfully. "I'm not sure. Visit my folks first, I guess. We've got a heap of catching up to do. I'm thinking of calling in at the San Francisco monastery, up there in the redwood forests. I'd kinda like to see it and ease back into the States. Then I guess I'll have to fly home and find me a job and, who knows, maybe even a woman?" And he smiled, a relaxed man.
Amaro wasn't such easy company. He was finding it all very difficult and, since Antony had worsened, hadn't been to visit. I met him one afternoon in the Outside Sala.
"I know I should visit," he said, "But I can't. I can't face it."
He looked so stressed, the strain of whatever was going on for him having taken its toll in his once calm, happy face. Gone was his flippancy. Gone were the gesticulating arms and the boyish grin. He was sitting restlessly on the floor of the Sala, unable to get comfortable, shifting from one haunch to another, continually wringing his hands or driving a fist into the floor.
I just sat and, unlike before, let him do all the talking. A complete role reversal.
"I know I should try to be different, but I don't seem able. It tests you, all this,” he wanted to explain. “Thanavaro shouldn't die. He's young, he's fit, he's full of life," and he looked over at me as if I didn’t know what he meant. "He's my friend, and I want him here, with me, helping me through my dark days, sitting next to me at the meal."
He paused for a short moment as if only by putting his feelings into words did they begin to make sense.
"D'you know what's hardest of all?" he said, close to tears, his firm, toned face crumbling. "Realising that I'm angry. I'm angry at Thanavaro! I'm angry at him for getting ill!” And he hit the wooden floor with his fist. “For chrissakes, how about that, Benedict? And I'm angry at the world and it scares me."
Watching him struggle to come to terms with the reality of his friend and mentor dying, strengthened me. I now knew more than ever, that for Antony’s sake, I needed to help Amaro.
"I've been angry too, Amaro," I told him. "I've felt all of what you're feeling. Nobody expects you to find this easy, but there isn't much time left. Antony is young, yes, but he's no longer fit, no longer full of life like you said. He's dying."
There, I’d said it, and as the words left my mouth, I marvelled at how easy it had become.
“No one can force you to see him,” I said. “But I know he'd like it. And, more than that Amaro, I think he's waiting for you."
*****
River Kwai,
Thailand
Strange, isn’t it, how some of us laugh when told something tragic and that’s exactly what I did. I laughed and thought, oh come on. My brother’s not dying. He’s not. He’s a monk in an orange robe at Wat Pah Chatanan. He’s not dying. He’s not.
He can’t.
That’s all I remember of the night they told me.
It was the following day that I learned more. Antony has cancer of the stomach. He’d been diagnosed six months ago but with the treatment he was having, seemed to be coping. He had been having treatment while I was there, but had been so convinced he’d be all right, he hadn’t wanted to tell me. He didn’t come to the River Kwai because he couldn’t miss any of the sessions at the hospital in Ubon. All those visits with the Abbot. All those secret glimpses of a life without me, outside the market in Ubon with the Abbot, the argument with Tikaro at Poo Jom Petch. I’d had no idea what it was I’d been witnessing. Tikaro must have wanted Antony to tell me.
“He’d wanted to come with you,” Tikaro told me. “He thought he would have been well enough, but things started to deteriorate shortly before you arrived.”
To think he’d kept all that from me. The poor man. What had he been dealing with?
An urgency entered my thoughts and I needed to act, to do something, to be with him, to see him. I frantically began hurriedly to find my things and start to pack. I had no plan. I just needed to go. Tikaro stopped me.
“Benedict, slow down,” said Tikaro as he tried to take my arms.
He realised I was in shock. I began to fight him, angry with him for stopping me from keeping busy, angry with him for telling me about my brother. I flailed my arms at him, lost in a fog of fear and finally, once he’d circled me with his arms and had pulled me towards him, I sobbed into his chest, unable to speak anymore, unable to do anything but be held. He slowly guided me towards the edge of the bed and we sat for a long while, no words between us.
Once my tears began to cease and my eyes could again adjust to the world, the first thing that came into focus was Uncle Erno’s casket, still sitting patiently, waiting to be relieved of its fragile cargo. Tikaro, protectively monitoring my every move, saw me looking over at it.
“He knew, y’ know,” he said.
I didn’t understand.
“Your uncle. He knew. About Thanavaro. He knew.”
I still didn’t get it.
“He knew how ill your brother was,” he explained when he saw my uncomprehending face.
“He couldn’t have. He died months ago.”
“Your brother was diagnosed before Erno died. He wrote to Erno and told him but asked him not to tell you. Your uncle died before Thanavaro got a response but he told your solicitor to change his will. He wanted to make sure, whatever happened, that you got to see your brother. Your uncle died soon after”
In that moment, Uncle Erno was with me and I burst into tears. I could feel his presence in the room. Not just his ashes, but him. My kind, fragile, quirky-voiced uncle who’d sent me halfway round the world to scatter his ashes in the very country where he knew my longtime unseen brother was probably going to die.
“Why me?” I’d asked Mr Hollingsworth when he’d told me Uncle Erno had requested that I went to Thailand.
“I don’t know,” he’d replied. “We get the most unusual requests at these times.”
Had everyone known but me?
Erno’s casket wouldn’t let me go. Not just yet.
“I want to scatter my uncle’s ashes. Before we leave. I need to do it before I leave.”
*****
Later, more composed after coffee and able to think, I asked Tikaro, “What happened to you?” Amaro was with us.
“Well, he drawled. “I’d kinda had my fill of life as a monk so I asked the Ajahn if I could leave. He was cool about it, so here I am, with three week’s growth of hair.”
And he smiled widely at me, teeth just edging his bottom lip.
“But I thought you were there for keeps,” I said.
“Don’t seem that way, I guess,” he replied.
“Yeh,” said Amaro, lightly but with an effort in his banter that hadn’t been there before. “Life as a Buddhist monk can get a bit rough if you’re not into reincarnation.”
"Seriously, Tikaro," I laughed, still in shock about my brother and wanting to pretend it wasn’t really happening. "You don't believe in rebirth?"
"I just can't get my head 'round that one," he replied and laughed, a tired, sad laugh, through his short, stubbly beard. “I’m Greg now.”
“Greg with hair,” I teased. “Lots of hair.”
“I guess I’m over compensating a little,” and we all laughed, a wishful laugh, full of the knowledge of what lay ahead for us all.
*****
Wat Pah Chatanan
The Isaan,
N.E. Thailand
Mr Joo took us to the bridge in his truck, after breakfast. It was a brilliantly sunny morning with a crisp, clear blue sky and I sat up front in the cab with Uncle Erno on my knee.
When we arrived at the bridge and pulled up alongside the railway lines, we found Ajaan Sumeno waiting, and smiling. His old kind face looked into mine with a gentleness and grace that went straight to my heart. He bowed to me.
“My child, you have been with me.”
"You knew didn’t you? About my brother,” I asked him and he nodded, seriously.
“It wasn’t my place to tell you,” he said.
“And about the gold leaf in Uncle Erno’s ashes. You knew about that too, didn’t you?”
And again, he nodded.
"The gold is from the rings that belonged to your uncle's friends," he told me. "He vowed to scatter these rings with his ashes. Arthur, your uncle’s friend in the diary, his ring is there and Charlie’s. ”
There was silence as I joined Greg and Amaro who were waiting for me at the start of the bridge. The sun was strong, glancing off the water which was a delicate greeny-turquoise, picking up its hue from the clear blue sky overhead. There were a few tourists around but not too many as it was still early and many of them wouldn’t arrive until the train pulled in later. I hugged Uncle Erno in front of me as I sat down on the dry grassy bank and rested my cheek on the top of the casket.
A few moments to be. For every beginning there is an ending.
Behind us, over towards the buildings running by the railway, I heard movement. Greg too turned to look too and Amaro. Sumeno was stood at the end of the bridge looking over towards the buildings from where a Thai monk emerged, head down, his orange robe glowing in the sunshine, his bare feet silently and carefully being placed one directly in front of the other.
Behind him appeared another monk, his head bowed like the one in front, his feet following his footsteps, his robe wrapped around his body and over his shoulder.
Then, another monk, followed by another, and another, emerging silently, one by one, gracefully heading towards us. They cut a line over to the railway and headed down the centre of the track towards the bridge. Still they kept emerging one by one, monk after monk after monk until there were forty, fifty, sixty monks creating a moving wall of orange robes heading towards the bridge.
We watched in awe-struck silence as they filtered by and I hugged Uncle Erno to my chest.
“Did you know about this?” I asked the boys.
“Not a clue,” said Amaro, quietly. “Not a clue.”
By now the line of holy men stretched halfway across the bridge, their golden robes like a torch flashing its light between the enormous curves of black iron, a beacon shining out from between the girders. One by one I watched them pass as I stood with Amaro and Greg at the start of the bridge. Sumeno joined them and he stopped as he drew level with us. The monks in front walked on, creating space for me and Sumeno smiled as he gestured for me and Amaro to join him.
“Mr Joo called us when he knew you were coming to scatter the ashes,” he told me.
Greg stayed behind but not before he had leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead. No one had explained my role in this ceremony but I let myself be carried forward by the procession, my place given to me by Ajahn Sumeno, Uncle Erno’s casket clutched to me.
When I reached the centre of the bridge, the monks halted, the line now stretching from one side of the river to the next. We were all still for a very long, silent moment. I could here the flow of the water below our feet and there was an incredible reflection of the bridge in the water, its black arches shimmering on the surface, light brushstrokes of bright, golden orange shining on the water.
Sumeno held out his hand, gesturing to me to step forward onto the crow's nest in between the two centre arches. As I did, he began to chant in Pali, the other monks joining in until I was surrounded by a wall of their soft, low voices. I could feel the sun warm on my back and as I lifted the box onto the rail, the breeze dropped and the world went silent around me apart from the steady, lulling vibration of the monks chanting. I opened the box and peeled away the seal. Then, holding the bag tightly inside the casket, I tipped it and let the weight of the ash slowly tip forward. As it left the wooden confines of the casket, the breeze lifted, carrying the freed ash and golden flecks into the air, picking them up and taking them out over the river like crushed autumn leaves being lifted into a beckoning sky.
The gold sparkled in the sunshine, rays glinting as it reflected off the edges of the delicate flakes and as the breeze took hold, the joyful spray of soft pale gold sparkled with bright eyelets of fire spreading into the sky towards the horizon. The chanting of the monks continued as the ash drifted up, up and away until finally, without me noticing exactly when, it was no more, given to the river and taken into eternity.
Uncle Erno had gone.
I stepped down from the rail and as I took the casket and began to gather the polythene in, I found a single gold flake, resting on the lip of the box, resisting flight. I thought of Thanavaro and for a few, fearful moments, my body froze. I knew I would be doing this for him one day soon.
I picked up the delicate gold flake on the tip of my finger and held it up to the breeze. Reluctantly at first, it gradually let its edges be lifted until it too was ready to be released to join the flow of the river. I followed its path as it danced on the breeze, playfully skipping through the air, reflecting the sunshine back as if singing to me, wanting to share its joy. I said goodbye to it just before it magically vanished into the brilliant blue above.
As the chanting reverberated around the bridge I closed my eyes. I hardly noticed when the chanting stopped. Sumeno waited until I was ready before he eventually turned and the monks at the end of the bridge began to filter away as silently and as gracefully as they had appeared. One by one we made our way off the bridge and I stepped aside as I reached the end, to let each of the remaining monks pass.
Greg was waiting on the bank and he came up to give me a huge hug. I leaned my head into his shoulder but I didn’t feel sad, as I’d expected. I’m not sure what it was I felt. But it felt okay. Amaro found us and said he was going to go back to the monastery with the monks and he’d meet us there later. We would pick him up on the way back to Bangkok.
I ate with Greg that night, in silence, and slept as best I could knowing that this was to be my last night on the River Kwai.
Next morning, Amaro and Greg took me to station to catch a train back to Bangkok and to the airport where we caught a plane to Ubon in the evening. The same journey I’d made alone, a couple of months before. But this time when I emerged at the top of the escalator, looking down into the arrival lounge, Antony wasn't there like before. I searched for his face among the many that were looking up at me, but none was his.
The minibus was waiting at the airport and when we arrived at Chatanan, Greg and Amaro sat me at the table in the kitchen. It was dark, not a person in sight and even the faint whisper of the forest seemed to have forgotten to keep us company. They made some noodle soup and put it in a flask for me and then took me to the same kuti where I'd spent my first night.
It was lonely when they left, no orchids on the shrine like before, no candles welcoming home.
They’d explained that Thanavaro now lived in the guest villa. He was more comfortable there. They explained that they had been told that his cancer had spread to the lymphatic system. They explained that he was asleep and that it would be best to wait until morning to see him.
I lay awake in the dark expecting tears but they didn't come. If I cried, that would make it real. While it still wasn’t real, there was nothing to cry about, so I begged the tears not to come.
I couldn't sleep so I lit some candles and sat in my kuti, opening the noodle soup, taking a cupful but I wasn’t able to drink and I tipped it back. Opposite me, sitting peacefully and calmly as if nothing was happening was the small statue of Buddha that had been placed in my room when I first arrived. It was watching me, smugly. We stared each other out for a long few minutes, his expression unchanging and I felt a fire of resentment grow in my chest. My iPod lay unused on the floor beside me and I picked it up and hurled it at the Buddha. It hit the statue, smashing the iPod to pieces and sending Buddha crashing to the wall, leaving an empty space where faith once was. I wanted to scream but I knew if I started, I wouldn't stop and I didn't think the forest was ready to hear just how loud my scream would be.
Then, I thought of Antony.
Sleep visited for only a restless few hours before dawn and I was woken by harsh daylight piercing the shutters and stabbing my eyes. For a fleeting moment, I wasn't there. None of it was there and I was flying up the highway on a Harley after Antony, chasing rainbows, wearing no helmets. But, mercilessly, the weight of pain that rested on my chest dragged me back to Chatanan and my kuti and now.
I heard someone approaching on the path outside and caught the familiar, barely audible sound of a monk's robe being swept over a shoulder. Antony, I thought, he’s come to see me. And then, no, Benedict, no. Get a grip.
When I opened the door to my kuti I found the Abbot of Wat Pah Chatanan and Amaro waiting in the sunshine. My sad welcome party.
"Benedict," said the Ajahn. "This must be a very difficult time for you and I offer the support of all our community and our deepest, deepest love. Please, whatever we can do to help, just ask and it is yours."
I managed a faint smile.
"After the meal, I will take you to see your brother. He has a medical attendant looking after him. And please, “ he said, now pausing to look me directly in the eye. “Stay at Chatanan for as long as you like. Treat it as home."
"I don't think I can eat anything," was all I could find to say.
The Ajahn's presence was very warm and comforting. He was someone older, someone with experience in this stuff and his solidity and centeredness soothed the shaking that had been going on inside me all night.
"Before we go over to the guest house," he continued, "I'd like to explain about Thanavaro's illness. Is now a good time to do this?"
I nodded and he and Amaro sat on the ground in front of my kuti, resting against some rocks in the dry sunshine. I joined them and we sat in circle.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
How was I supposed to answer? I hadn't been aware that I was feeling anything. I looked into this gentle man’s concerned face.
"Scared," I heard myself reply and swallowed hard on the lump that was threatening to grow in my throat. The Ajahn nodded, and after a few moments continued, his calm and confident, reassuring tone.
"Thanavaro has two cancers. It originated in the stomach and has spread to his lymphatic system. I'm afraid, as is common, it wasn't detected in the early stages and Thanavaro's latest symptoms didn't present themselves until very, very recently. He was having chemotherapy in Ubon where there is a very good hospital, but it hasn't stopped the cancer."
He spoke gently and thoughtfully, watching me as I listened, checking for signs of comprehension written in my face.
"He is very ill," he continued. "And very weak."
Amaro sat still beside me, watching the ground. Sadness emanated all around him but he remained stoic, being strong for me.
"Why wasn’t it spotted earlier?" I asked.
Surely they could've done something to stop this thing from growing? What were they all playing at? The Ajahn breathed in slowly, and then out again before he answered, calmly.
"Stomach cancer is very difficult to spot," he explained and added, “Benedict, everything that could have been done, has been done."
I nodded, knowing the anger I was feeling towards him was unjustified, but feeling it nonetheless. It pushed against my temples, burning inside my chest and gripping in my fists. All I could do was hold it in. I also felt a pinprick of anger towards Antony but I pushed it away. I was getting tired of being angry.
"What is he like now?" I wanted to know.
"He's very ill."
"I know that," I insisted. "But what is he like? What does he look like? When you say he's weak, how weak is that?"
The Ajahn nodded gently, acknowledging my need to know more and spoke very steadily.
"He can't move much and he is on very strong medication for the pain which makes him drowsy. “
"Will he recognise me?"
I needed to know what I was going to be walking in on, needed to know if my brother was still with me or if he'd already left.
"Oh yes, and he can still speak,” reassured the Ajahn, "You can still hold a conversation with him. He just tires easily."
As he told me this, we heard the light patter of tiny Thai feet on the path that led to my kuti and the rustle of sarongs. From behind the nearby bathroom came Mae Li and the white haired lady from the kitchen, whose name I still hadn’t caught. Their usually smiling faces were replaced by sombre, sad ones, but they were still filled with generosity and kindness. As soon as they saw the monks, they stopped and knelt, bowing three times. Both were laden with a large bouquet of bright, sunny flowers which they had been carrying in their arms but which now rested on their knees as they placed their palms together to wai towards the monks. The Ajahn spoke to them in Thai and they nodded, silently and then both looked at me. Mae Li said something and the Ajahn turned towards me.
"They have brought you flowers," he explained, "And thought you may wish to have them placed in your brother's room."
And then Mae Li produced a small bottle from inside the folds of her skirt.
"And Mae Li has brought you some water. She asked one of the monks to chant over it. It's to help your brother."
"Help him?"
The Abbot stalled for a moment but decided to tell me.
"To help him on his journey."
And it finally sank in. You really are dying, aren't you Antony.
"They want you to know too,” he continued, “That they will be here for you and that you are part of their family now."
I looked at Mae Li, her eyes connecting with mine and I begged them to shine like before and send their joy rushing through my veins. But her eyes didn't smile. Instead, they were sad and concerned and told me that she knew how difficult this was for me and that she knew that their ways were different from mine and that I was finding this oh so very, very hard.
I got up and walked over to the two kneeling women. Mae Li held her hand out and I crouched in front of them while they both held my hands and each touched my cheek.
"Thank you," I said in English, and tried to smile.
As I got up, I turned to the two monks and told them,
“I'd like to see Antony now.”
It’s difficult to describe what I felt as we walked over to the guest house that morning. The house loomed in the distance, growing so large that it towered over our small bodies, its darkness and danger so threatening that twice I stopped and nearly turned back. The monks waited for me while I silently fought for strength and we continued along the dusty path, past tall dry grasses which ushered me forward and with the rays of the morning sun behind me.
It was very quiet when we reached the house and I could see through the screens that there was no one downstairs and the shutters in the bedrooms were closed. We entered and the Ajahn went upstairs to let the medical attendant know of our arrival.
Silence boomed until Amaro said,
"It means so much to Thanavaro that you are here," and I heard the echo from when Thanavaro himself had said those words to me. If only you’d said why, Thanavaro. If only you’d said why.
I could hear the shutters being opened upstairs and the patter of shoeless feet above our heads and it was some minutes before the Ajahn appeared again.
"Would you like to come, now," he said.
Upstairs, there was a man in a white tunic waiting for me at the bedroom door, my bedroom door where I'd spent happy nights listening to music, reading War and Peace and waiting for the next beautiful sunrise. He smiled and gave me a wai, then showed me into the room. It had all changed. There was now a metal bed, not just a mattress on the floor, and there was a clinical looking table in the far corner with all sorts of medical stuff on it. A shrine had been created in the other corner with a statue of the Buddha overlooking proceedings and the room had the stingy, sharp smell of a hospital. A wind-chime hung up against the far window and every so often it chimed optimistically. The shutters had been opened half-way, letting the daylight in but sheltering the room from the heat of the sun's harsh rays.
The bed was on my left as I stood in the door and I knew that Antony was lying there but I didn't want to look. I needed to postpone the blunt pain of reality for a moment longer. I turned towards him.
He lay there, still and pale and linked up to god knows how many drips, tubes and bags. He was awake and he was waiting for me to look at him. I turned and let my eyes fall on his. They lay me bare as I saw my dying brother for the first time and my chest burst with the tears of half a lifetime. I had so wanted to be strong for him at this moment, so wanted not to cry but the tears crowded my being. My feelings poured into the empty space that had once been between us.
I walked over and bent to hug him, my vision blurred and my body heaving with the sobs I'd been holding at bay for so long. As I put my arms round him, feeling his frail, bony torso close to mine, he carefully shifted in his bed and I finally felt his arms encircle me and his head rest between my shoulder and my neck. He clung to me so tightly breaking all the rules as I sobbed into the pillow and he gripped me so hard that I thought his brittle body would break. I could feel him shaking from inside, a deep, unstoppable, dreadful shudder from within that spoke of unmentionable fear, of a place so dark that it caused faith to falter.
When I drew away from him, I took his fragile, weak hand as I sat down in a chair that the Ajahn had pulled up to the side of the bed. His skin looked so grey and old, almost transparent, and I could see the thin, narrow veins which were still carrying blood around his aching body. Looking up, I saw that he was smiling at me, a smile that defied the condition of his body.
"So, they found you then," he said and I could hardly believe the joy in his weary voice.
"I'm still pissed off you didn't come," I teased, surprised at my own capacity for black humour, and we both laughed.
The Ajahn and Amaro tactfully left, saying they would arrange for some food to be brought over for me after the meal. They left the attendant as chaperone and as soon as they departed I felt another layer of inhibition lift and I sobbed some more, unable to say anything.
"I couldn’t tell you Benedict. I couldn’t do that when we thought there was still hope of me beating it," said Antony. " I didn't want to stop you from carrying out Uncle Erno's wishes, but,” and he paused. “I couldn’t come with you."
"You should have said something, Antony. I could have coped."
"I know,' he said, reticently, closing his eyes and resting for a while, drawing breath. "But I'm not sure I could have coped with telling you."
And he closed his wet eyes, tears crowding the corners of his eyelids, strength abandoning him.
I let Antony rest and watched while he slept. He needed to do that a lot. I sat with the attendant, listening to his breathing, noticing how hard even that had become. He was thin and pale and I knew from that first day that the brother I had known was never coming back. This person was my brother now. This was Thanavaro, the monk.
I stayed with him all day, only leaving for a few minutes to eat something when the Abbot returned. I managed to sleep too, resting in the chair beside Antony’s bed, dozing in the warm, shadowy light. Returning to my kuti at night wasn’t easy. I wanted to stay at the villa, sleep in the next room, just to be close to Antony, just to be near, just in case, but it wasn’t practical.
As soon as dawn broke, I returned. Antony hadn’t woken up and again I sat with the attendant, waiting for the moments when my brother’s illness allowed him enough energy to be with me. He woke in stages. First half opening his eyes, still not aware of where he was, or that I was with him. He fell asleep again and gradually began to stir about half an hour later. I was hoping for a smile when he finally realised I was there and I wasn’t ready for what happened.
He didn’t smile. He’d woken from a place I couldn’t imagine and I could see that to utter even one word demanded a fortress of energy. His eyes were scared as the first thing he said was,
"I'm dying," and he wept, his face crumbling into a thousand pieces as I got up and held him in my arms, cradling his head, his beautiful head, shiny from loss of hair and stubble-free. He sobbed like a fallen child and I learnt then to just hold him, nothing more, no well-meaning words, no self-comforting, just loving silence.
What is there to say to someone who's dying?
After the sobs had ceased, I tried to lift his mood and began to tell him about my visit to the River Kwai.
“I thought of you while I was there,” I said, gently. “Sitting by the river, remembering our trip on the Mekong. Thank god I hadn’t left,” I whispered, knowing how near I had come to leaving Thailand and never seeing my brother ever again.
Antony rested, catching his breath before telling me,
“We knew you hadn’t left. Ajahn Sumeno told us you were still at the river.”
“Amaro is not finding all this easy,” Antony confided, his energy returning for a short while.
"It's hard, Antony."
"How does he think I feel?" he asked, raising his voice and then checking himself and looking over to the Thai attendant who was calmly doing nothing except sitting and waiting over by the shutters. His anger surprised me but it invigorated him temporarily.
"I've felt so lost, Benedict,” he said. “The first drug treatment seemed quite hopeful, that was when you were here and then, just before you left, I started to bleed again and they needed to do more tests. I didn't find out how serious it was until you'd gone and then I thought," he faltered and again closed his eyes, resting before summoning the strength to face his darkness again. "I thought I might never see you again and I asked them to go and look for you."
And then he broke down.
"I'm so sorry, Benedict. I'm so sorry," and he wept into the palms of his hands as he held them to his face and I leant forward and hugged him hard, feeling his brittle bones grate.
I let him rest and then asked,
"Antony, will you answer me something? No one else will tell me."
He nodded.
"How long have you got?"
As he lay there, a cool cotton sheet covering his skeletal torso, he stared me straight in the eye. There were dark shadows under the sockets where sunshine used to play and each time he embarked on the laboured process of blinking, he seemed to lose another ounce of his slowly sapping energy. His skin looked old and the colour was slipping further from him. Even his mole had lost its vigour but his bald head, his beautiful bald head, was gleaming in the sunshine which had crept round the corner of the shutter.
In reply to my question, Antony slowly took my hand in his and said,
"Benedict, I've got all the time in the world."
*****
Antony was in a lot of pain. He had a pump which fed pain medication to him and, when it got really bad, he could squeeze it to get an extra dose. He also had a saline drip and was prone to infections. He caught a chest infection shortly after I arrived and it weakened him a great deal. I visited everyday and stayed with him for most of the day, watching him when he slept, giving him space when he meditated, holding his hand when he rested and listening to him when he wanted to talk.
I got into a routine of attending the morning meal with the rest of the Sanga after Antony had asked me to because he was worried I wasn't looking after myself. It was a good idea as it meant I saw the other monks and wasn’t too cut off from life in the monastery.
The Abbott caught me one morning.
"You know, if you would like to come with me to meditate, I will teach you."
What is it about Buddhist monks that seems to bestow upon them a sixth sense that told them what I wanted before I'd even recognised it myself? I had wanted to try meditation, to see if I could get a glimpse of my brother’s life but I hadn't yet got to the point of asking anyone or doing anything about it.
"If you come with me each day, after half past three, I will explain to you how we meditate."
So I did, every evening for the last few days, sitting in the Outside Sala with the Abbott and a novice, crossed legged for half an hour. Then, as I got used to it, I sat for longer, while Antony slept.
At first it did nothing, absolutely nothing. What was all the fuss about? I just sat there trying to watch my breathe as instructed but instead listening to the creak of my knees and following my thoughts as they wandered from the inane to the very serious. I thought about stiff limbs and how I now knew what Amaro had meant when he talked of Pansa being three months of achy knees. I thought about the meal we had had that morning and how remarkable it is that the villagers manage to make delicious food from the simplest of things like leaves they found in the fields and rice which grows everywhere. I thought of my brother lying in bed, unable to eat anything at all. Then, as instructed, I tried to watch my breath again.
Over time, the half-hour went faster and I followed what arrived in my head. Not so much thoughts and images, but sensations. Then something else clicked into place. I can't really describe it other than my mind was able to transfer from the here and now into a place it'd never travelled before. A small door had been opened and I'd allowed myself to walk through into a new arena and a new way to be.
Antony still meditated. He'd spend hours lying still and I'd know not to disturb him until he opened his eyes. I was so grateful to the Abbott for showing me a glimpse of something my brother saw in those last few days.
"Sing to me," Antony said one afternoon.
He was tired, his face drained, his eyes closed.
"What, here?" I asked.
"Where else, stupid," he teased.
"What would you like me to sing?"
And he waited as I picked up on the poignancy of this moment. I realised we were about to go on a journey filled with memories long since buried and Antony was the one who was going to hold my hand and guide me through.
"That one Mum used to sing to us. You know, the one about the stars shining."
Slowly my mind traced the years back to the time he was talking about. Mum, singing us to sleep as we lay in our bunk beds, me on the bottom bunk because I wasn’t big enough to climb the ladder, Antony listening from above and Mum sat by me, stroking my hair. Mum, who died of stomach cancer as I stood watching her sideways from next to the bed.
"Antony, I don't think I can."
"'Course you can," he said, knowing where I’d just gone and I felt a faint pressure on my hand as he squeezed my palm.
I don't know from where I found the strength to sing to him but somehow it came to me and I sang quietly as he lay with his eyes closed and a smile on his calm, slowly dying face. The Mamas and Papas from years ago, finding us.
Stars shining bright above you.
Stars fading but I will linger on dear, still craving your kiss.
Antony wanted to talk a lot about our childhood. He wanted to hear of the times we'd spent playing in the fields behind our house when Mum was still alive, how she'd call us in for tea by clattering a wooden spoon on an old tin tray, how we'd fight over whose turn it was to use the tape recorder. We remembered when we’d each got a brand new bicycle for Christmas and how I fell off mine, splitting my head open so Dad had had to rush me to the doctor for stitches, and the time when Antony had got his first 125cc motorbike and rolled it into the garage wall because he hadn’t worked out how to use the foot brake.
Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end.
I enjoyed the reminiscing while I could still see the pleasure it brought Antony but I'm not sure he ever felt the growing ache that I could feel in my heart as our precious time together ticked away.
I still had things to learn from my brother. I learnt that the tradition of monks shaving their eyebrows wasn’t, as I’d thought, something to do with sacrificing their identity or following the Buddha’s example. It started only three hundred years ago when Burmese spies would disguise themselves as monks and the only way their enemies could tell the real monks from the fake ones, was to shave the monks’ eyebrows. Any man found later with half-grown hedgehog eyebrows was deemed to be spy. It had nothing at all to do with anything spiritual.
I learnt that included in the vows my brother had taken when he got ordained was a vow to the Sanga, the community and that the way of life here would disintegrate if individual people didn’t make a commitment to those with whom they shared that life.
I learnt that key to a Buddhist spiritual life, is gaining an understanding of our emotional life and that the two are irretrievably linked. The more we get to know our emotions, the closer we can get to our spiritual self. I didn’t have to feel bad about feeling angry, resentful or sad anymore, I just needed to accept that I did and try to understand it.
I learnt too that the monks didn’t believe that theirs was the only way to live a spiritual life or that it was the best way, just that it was a good way and for now, even if it wasn’t perfect, it was as good a path to follow as any.
It made me think of Amaro and what he’d said to me in the early days of being at Wat Pah Chatanan. Here, all anybody is trying to be, is a good person. Nothing more, just good, and I realised I wanted to be a good person, especially now, for my brother.
Antony wanted to prepare a living will. I didn’t know what he meant until he explained he wanted to tell everyone his wishes so it was there for us all to see should he become too weak to explain. I slept badly the night he told me, not wanting to wake and have to transcribe such a stark reminder that he was going to die. A reminder from the very person who was doing the dying. But as with most things during those last weeks, a strength found me from somewhere, given in part, I know, by Uncle Erno.
Antony wanted to die here, at Chatanan. He didn't want to go to hospital. He didn't want to be resuscitated at any time and he refused any form of artificial feeding. And he wanted me to scatter his ashes. I wrote it all down in long hand and we kept it by his bed.
"I'm frightened, Benedict," he said as I was with him, holding his hand. "But I'm not supposed to be."
"How are you supposed to be?” I asked him.
The room that day was darkened to try and keep it cool. Temperatures outside had begun to soar so there was no way the shutters could have been opened. The heat from the light would have been too much for Antony. It could be a bit strange sometimes, stuck in a dark room for days when the sun was shining brightly outside. Time no longer had much meaning. Daytime, night time, it was all time with Antony and that was all I cared about.
"I'm supposed to accept this as part of life's cycle,” Antony told me. “Death's a part of life, not an end, not even a beginning, just a part of an ongoing process."
"So?"
"So I shouldn't be frightened."
"Antony, there's no right or wrong way to do this,"
"No, don't you see? If my faith was strong enough, I wouldn't be frightened. It would take all the fear away."
"Your faith can't ever take away you being human," I said, trying to comfort him but not sure if I was. "You haven't failed just because you're frightened," and I kept hold of his delicate hand as he drifted into silence, his eyes losing focus and finally closing into sleep.
He wasn’t the only one who was frightened.
The time he could spend talking lessened with each day. He grew tired very quickly and the pain became much worse. He weakened to the point where he could no longer administer his own pain relief.
Greg came to visit a few times. He was living in the monastery now, having stopped talking of any plans to leave for the time being. He didn't need to mention it, but we both knew he was waiting until after my brother had passed away.
"He looks so happy when he's asleep," he said one afternoon when he'd joined us. And then, to me, "He's a good man your brother, a very good man."
Greg had changed. He was the same, lanky, goofy American I'd met when I arrived but once out of his robe he was more comfortable, more confident. His hair had also grown considerably, his eyebrows no longer looked like crew-cut hairy caterpillar but he’d shaved the beard off.
"What will you do after . . . ," I began to ask but I couldn't finish the sentence.
"When I go back?" he offered, helpfully. "I'm not sure. Visit my folks first, I guess. We've got a heap of catching up to do. I'm thinking of calling in at the San Francisco monastery, up there in the redwood forests. I'd kinda like to see it and ease back into the States. Then I guess I'll have to fly home and find me a job and, who knows, maybe even a woman?" And he smiled, a relaxed man.
Amaro wasn't such easy company. He was finding it all very difficult and, since Antony had worsened, hadn't been to visit. I met him one afternoon in the Outside Sala.
"I know I should visit," he said, "But I can't. I can't face it."
He looked so stressed, the strain of whatever was going on for him having taken its toll in his once calm, happy face. Gone was his flippancy. Gone were the gesticulating arms and the boyish grin. He was sitting restlessly on the floor of the Sala, unable to get comfortable, shifting from one haunch to another, continually wringing his hands or driving a fist into the floor.
I just sat and, unlike before, let him do all the talking. A complete role reversal.
"I know I should try to be different, but I don't seem able. It tests you, all this,” he wanted to explain. “Thanavaro shouldn't die. He's young, he's fit, he's full of life," and he looked over at me as if I didn’t know what he meant. "He's my friend, and I want him here, with me, helping me through my dark days, sitting next to me at the meal."
He paused for a short moment as if only by putting his feelings into words did they begin to make sense.
"D'you know what's hardest of all?" he said, close to tears, his firm, toned face crumbling. "Realising that I'm angry. I'm angry at Thanavaro! I'm angry at him for getting ill!” And he hit the wooden floor with his fist. “For chrissakes, how about that, Benedict? And I'm angry at the world and it scares me."
Watching him struggle to come to terms with the reality of his friend and mentor dying, strengthened me. I now knew more than ever, that for Antony’s sake, I needed to help Amaro.
"I've been angry too, Amaro," I told him. "I've felt all of what you're feeling. Nobody expects you to find this easy, but there isn't much time left. Antony is young, yes, but he's no longer fit, no longer full of life like you said. He's dying."
There, I’d said it, and as the words left my mouth, I marvelled at how easy it had become.
“No one can force you to see him,” I said. “But I know he'd like it. And, more than that Amaro, I think he's waiting for you."
*****
posted by tricia walker at 11:36 AM
1 Comments:
Dear Benedict,
Feel very sad to hear about your brother. Did not know so much have changed since I last read and posted on your blog.
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