I wrote this several years back, but I love this story of my brother George’s last day. My brother approached death with such grace that it is awe-inspiring.

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Twenty-two years ago this month, my brother George passed away. He was 54 years old.

George called on the evening of May 2, 2004, and told me that death was coming soon. I said, “Can you hold on until tomorrow? I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

His response: “I’ll try.”

Thanks to my husband, Ray, who called the airlines and reserved a rental car for me while I rushed upstairs to pack a bag, I was at LAX in a little over an hour and soon on an overnight flight to Dallas.

I arrived right at dawn on May 3 and drove the back roads to little Leonard, Texas, where my brother lived with his wife Sandra and their daughters, Leslie, Katie, and Mahlon.

On the drive, I watched the sun come up and prayed that George was still alive. It was too early to call and besides, whatever the situation, I was heading straight for my brother’s house, no matter what.

I was listening to songs by Alan Jackson and George Strait on a country radio station while I drove the two-lane roads winding through the countryside from Dallas to that little North Texas town.

The fields were green, the bluebonnets in full bloom, and the sky streaked with orange and pink as the sun rose.

I’m not sure the day could have been more beautiful.

The line between vibrant life and peaceful death seemed to hover right there in the air.

George had esophageal cancer that had metastasized to his lungs and had been given sixteen months to live. He was now on month eighteen and we all knew that every day was becoming tougher on him.

He had spent those eighteen months at home with his wife and children, attending basketball games, school programs, and family gatherings. He had also stayed in close contact with his daughter from his first marriage, Casey. He sought out second and third opinions and every doctor said the same thing: terminal cancer with no treatment available.

The day he told me his diagnosis, I was upstairs in my bedroom talking with him on the phone.

“Sixteen months,” he said. “That’s all they’ll say.”

After that conversation, I curled into the fetal position on my bed.

This was my closest sibling in age and my oldest friend. I had already lost my two older brothers to AIDS, and my mother had died four years earlier.

All I could think as I lay there was: Not George. How will I make it without George?

So there I was on that beautiful spring day heading to my brother’s house, either to say goodbye or to find him already gone.

It was a very sad place to find myself.

When I drove up to the house, everything looked exactly like it always had: the trampoline in the backyard, the cars in the driveway, the dogs running up and barking at the car.

I tried the front door and it was locked, then went around back and turned the knob there. It opened.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning and the house was quiet.

I walked upstairs to George and Sandra’s room, dreading what I might find. I tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the open doorway.

There they sat on the edge of the bed, Sandra with her arm around George’s thin shoulders.

George looked over, saw me, and said in a weak voice, “Here’s Len!”

I could see he was happy I had made it.

My brother Sam had arrived the day before, and my sister Leslie was on her way.

George hugged me and lay back down in bed.

He soon lapsed into a deep coma.

The hospice nurse came and checked on him. She said it was unlikely he would awaken and that from here he would simply drift away.

By late afternoon, my sister Leslie arrived.

We explained the situation. George had been in a coma for at least six hours.

We all went into the bedroom so Leslie could see him.

She leaned over, kissed him, and spoke softly.

Within seconds, he began moving his legs and slowly roused himself from that deep sleep.

He didn’t speak, but he clearly wanted to get out of bed.

He pushed himself upright and tottered to the edge of the bed. He walked stiff-legged to the doorway and pointed that he wanted to go downstairs.

We all protested that he needed to get back into bed, but he walked to the stairs and sat down as if he intended to scoot himself downstairs if we refused.

My brother Sam helped him navigate the stairs while Sandra, Leslie, and I followed behind.

George had recently installed new carpet and tile in the living room and kitchen.

He clearly wanted us all to see how nice they looked.

We sat on couches and chairs while he tottered over and leaned against the kitchen cabinet.

He was straining to breathe.

While I think George wanted us to admire the new carpet and tile, I soon realized there might be more behind his motivation.

We were all so terribly sad about his dying. None of us wanted to say goodbye.

In those ten minutes of listening to him gulp for air and wheeze, everyone in that room understood that his body was no longer capable of sustaining any quality of life.

It was as though George had brought us downstairs for one final lesson.

We all came to the same realization at the same moment:

It was time for George to die.

Sam picked him up and carried him upstairs.

George made Sam put him down in the hallway and pointed toward the doors of his girls’ bedrooms.

Sandra called for them to come out.

George went from one daughter to the next and hugged them.

Then he turned and hugged each of us, one at a time.

We helped him back into bed, where he immediately lapsed into a coma.

He died a few hours later.

I have been at the deathbeds of several people over the years, but I have never seen anyone die with as much awareness as George.

He not only announced that the time was near, but waited until everyone was there and personally said goodbye.

I sometimes think George didn’t so much die as transcend.

It was as though he accepted that life was over and needed to move on to whatever was waiting on the other side.

I know he grieved leaving Sandra and the girls, but by that third day of May in 2004, he had moved into acceptance.

He was at peace.

As for me, I’ve learned that my brother is never far away.

The love we shared is still very much alive.

I have also come to see that I can indeed make it without him, though I would still much prefer he were here.

I miss him.

I always will.

My faith teaches that I will see him again someday.

I am a believer.

And I look forward to that day.

Here is a picture of Sam, George, and me a few months before George died.