Brothers

Michael was always the stronger of us, even though I was a year older. Not quite Irish twins, but almost. As soon as he could walk, he pretty much got his way around the house. A toy? His. The biggest ear of corn? His. And there was never a question about who rode shotgun. Either he beat me out of it, or mom and dad put him in the back seat. He was a master at concealing his rather tyrannical nature from them – they thought we got along swimmingly.

I was 43 years old when I got the call. It was Mirasol. “Michael has kidney disease and needs a new kidney.” At that point, I hadn’t spoken to Michael in about 5 years — since we read dad’s will. After growing up with such a tyrant, I was always a little reluctant to confront the bully, let alone get terribly engrossed in his life. Lets just say we grew apart.

I had met Mirasol once before the wedding, at the annual family Passover meal that my ex-wife and I used to host. Michael brought Mirasol to dinner. She certainly was cute, had one of those delightful Cuban accents, and seemed pretty smart. But my brother-in-law, Wally, who still seemed to be stuck in the 60’s, pretty much ended all conversation when he asked whether Michael thought it was a good idea to marry the domestic help. That night, that dinner, was the beginning of the end of my marriage.

Wally was such an asshole and for a long time I wondered how Tracy avoided that trap. But she could only avoid herself for so long, and the last three years of our marriage were a series of sharp, angry periods interspersed with time away from each other. She was Wally’s sister, and frankly, I’m glad the divorce swept lots of that away. Every family has a black sheep, and I hoped that Wally was our representative to their society, but in reality, I was the oddball of this bunch.

Anyhow, Mirasol was asking if I could go get tested to see if I was a match for Michael. I hesitated for a second – she heard that and started welling up. I relented.

Turns out that Michael should have played the lottery that day – my tests came down as a 95% match. More than simply “compatible.” There was a chance that I could save my brother’s life.

The transplant surgery went well for both of us, I was at work in two days, and Michael got out a week later. For a while, we talked every day, then three times a week, then every Sunday… It finally petered out and we went back to living our parallel lives.

About two years later, I find Mirasol on the other end of the telephone again, this time crying. “Michael’s dead” she said. It hit me like a rock. My brother – my younger brother – the one with my kidney in him – has passed. I went to the funeral, not sure if I was saying goodbye to Michael or to my kidney… as I now had only one.

Now, ten years after that first call, I find myself in the hospital, ill with advanced kidney disease. Unlike Michael, I have no one backing me up. I’m on the transplant list, but unlike Michael, I don’t have a brother to cover for me. And it turns out that, while our organs matched each other, our blood type is very rare.

As my remaining kidney fails and the dialysis machine keeps me from poisoning myself too quickly I realize that, once again, Michael got the last laugh again. I guess I’ll see him again soon.