Bobby, Gamma and Me

I entered this world in the summer of 1970. Both my mother and father came from rich stock. My fraternal great grandfather made millions in the mining industry and the related field of energy. On my mother's side were the "captains of industry" where fortunes were made in manufacturing during the industrial revolution and the earnings parlayed into financial success on Wall Street.

When wealth is generational, certain values are instilled in each new crop of youngsters. My brother Bobby and I were no different. We were taught not to be showy with our money, but always to be generous. We were schooled in the economic principle that quality is always more important than quantity. We were encouraged to be conservative in style and not be flashy. But probably the most important thing we were taught, is that everyone is created equal by God and no matter how much money you have, you cannot change that.

I learned at an early age, that money changes nothing. To truly make change, you have to work hard, you have love like there's no tomorrow, you have to have passion for what you're doing and you have to have a plan. I look back and I see how that childhood training formed my basic character, how it drives me as an adult. Sometimes I wonder how it would have affected Bobby if he had lived into his adulthood. Bobby. His death is also something that has profoundly affected my character.

Bobby and I were less than two years apart. We were closer than brothers really. We were each other's best friend. It was a good thing too. My parents loved to travel and we were always taking trips. Bobby and I would have the best time going off to hike, swim, ski, or whatever kid friendly activities our vacation destination held for us. Our parents always made sure there were fun things for us to do where ever we went. It gave us time to be boys and them time to enjoy adult activities.

The best vacation we ever took was for my 11th birthday. We went to the big island of Hawaii and stayed on a real ranch for an entire week while Mom and Dad enjoyed a spa resort that would have bored us to tears. We rode horses helping to round up the cattle, we camped outside under the stars and ate chuck wagon style. We had the time of our lives. Bobby decided right then and there he wanted to grow up to be a cattle ranching cowboy in the tropical paradise.

When we got back to Chicago, Bobby mercilessly begged for a horse. By that Fall, Dad caved and we both got horses. Gamma insisted that we needed riding lessons so we would "respect the beasts and take proper care of them." Bobby was ecstatic at the prospect. He was so natural on a horse, it was like he was meant to be an equestrian. He hoped to be able to compete the following summer.

He never got the chance. He started getting sick over the holidays that year. Ear infections, strep infections, UTIs, one after another they came. It seemed like mom was taking him to the doctor every other week. The endless parade of infections left him pale and weak. Gamma insisted he needed to get out of the cold Chicago air. We went to Paris for a vacation during Spring Break. Bobby spent most of the trip in the hotel room. He had such terrible pain he didn't feel like doing anything fun. Paris was the last vacation we ever took as a family.

The plane ride home from Paris was scary. Bobby was so nauseous the whole flight. Mom put him in the window seat, but he didn't look out the window at all. He spent the entire flight head down in her lap, his hand wrapped around an airsick bag, quietly whimpering. Mom didn't say anything, but she looked worried. She just kept stroking his sweat drenched hair. I sat across the aisle, next to Dad. He didn't speak much during the flight either, he just sat there slowly drinking his scotch. Time moved so slowly it seemed as if the flight lasted days.

We landed at O'Hare and went straight to the hospital. We sat around for hours while the doctors worked to diagnose Bobby. Finally, two doctors came out and led my parents away to another room. I stayed behind with my grandparents and waited. They were gone a long time and the longer it took, the more nervous my grandparents got. When they finally emerged, I could see my mom had been crying. She sat down on the bench with me as my father took my grandparents away to another room. I wanted to make her feel better and I tried to sneak under her arm and give her a hug, but she was rigid and unyielding. I couldn't get my arms around her. I knew it was bad and I remember getting very frightened at that point. After another long while, my Dad and grandparents came back out. My parents stayed at the hospital and my grandparents took me home.

The ride home was completely silent. I was so scared. When we arrived at their house, Gamma took me into the kitchen and offered to fix me a snack. I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to know what was going on with my brother. I asked her "Bobby is dead isn't he?" She put her hand on mine and explained that Bobby had leukemia and he was very sick, but he was alive. That's as much as my parents or grandparents would ever tell me.

The rest of Bobby's life was spent in and out of the hospital for treatments in the futile attempt to save his life. Even when he was home, he wasn't feeling normal, so I knew something was wrong. We talked about his leukemia. Mom kept telling him he'd get better, that he'd be able to ride his horse again soon, he'd be able to ride in competition and do all the fun things he wanted to do. But he knew differently. He let me in on his secret. He told me that Mom had to pretend like that so she can deal with it, but he knew he wasn't going to get better. The doctors told him the cancer would get worse. I remember being surprised by the cancer word. Up until that point, leukemia was just the name of his disease. No one told me it was a kind of cancer. Now we both had to pretend he was going to get better, for mom's sake.

Bobby celebrated his 10th and final birthday in the hospital. I remember the party we had for him. It was attended by other cancer kids at the hospital, his doctors and nurses and of course, our family. The doctors always told Mom and Dad what was going on, but no one ever took the time to explain things to me and I had to help Bobby pretend, so I couldn't ask. I just watched my brother get sicker and weaker and it became scarier and scarier for me as the leukemia ravaged more and more of his body. At that party though, one of the doctors took the time to sit and talk with me. Dr. Thomas let me ask all the questions I wanted answers to and he explained things in a way that I could understand. He let me talk about what I felt and he actually listened. He put his arm around my young shoulders and told me the days ahead would be rough, my brother was going to go through some really tough treatments and that he would need me to be strong for him.

This man made a lasting impression on me. As the days and weeks went by and Bobby's condition continued to spiral down, I would remember his words of encouragement. Whenever he saw me at the hospital, he would put his arm around my shoulders and ask me how it was going. He comforted me in a way my parents and grandparents were too busy to do. His willingness to step outside his responsibility and make sure I was coping both impressed and inspired me. To this day, I give him credit for the motivation to become a doctor and practice medicine the way I do.

My 12th birthday came and went without acknowledgement. It was the first of many that would pass that way. This year though, it was because Bobby was critically ill, near death. No one felt like celebrating, especially me. I was losing my brother and now I knew it. Birthdays would never be something I looked forward to again. Birthdays always felt empty and hollow without my brother and best friend, so I was never inclined to bring it up. Even now, in my adulthood, I don't make any kind of fuss over my birthday and generally let the day pass like any other.

As the summer of '82 wore on, Bobby's health continued to decline, and my parents, especially my mother, became more and more emotionally distant. One of the last things Bobby did in his life, was make me promise to love Mom enough for both us, so she wouldn't feel bad that he was missing. The next day, he slipped into a coma and a few days later, he lost his battle with leukemia.

Bobby's death was particularly hard on me. The grief of losing my brother and best friend was unbearable. To add to the devastation I felt, my mother shut down emotionally and took my father with her. In essence, I lost my parents along with my brother. Life went on, but it was never the same. I tried to honor my promise to Bobby. I kept taking riding lessons, I even competed in equestrian events until I entered medical school. I managed to win some competitions, but I can't help but wonder how many more Bobby would have won. He was the real rider; the one that was born to be on a horse.

After Bobby's death, Mom couldn't take living in our house so we moved in with Gamma and Gampa. I guess even that was difficult for her because she was seldom home. She would go off to Europe for months at a time, come home for a month and then be off to the Caribbean. She'd be gone for a month or two before coming home and before I knew it, she'd be off again. Whenever Dad could get away, he'd join her. Needless to say, my grandparents stepped in and parented me through my teens.

The best memories I have from my childhood after Bobby died are of sitting in the kitchen with Gamma talking. She was always there to lift me up when my day had been too much, she was there to laugh with me when something funny happened, and she was there to rejoice with me when I succeeded at something. She was there for all my equestrian competitions, she was there for every play I did in high school and college, she was there for my high school, college and med school graduations. She threw a party to celebrate when I passed my MCATs and she threw another one when I got accepted into the surgical program. She was there for me when I got stabbed, and she worried about me when I went through my drug addiction. Even though we didn't always see eye to eye and there were some rough patches over the years, I was far closer to her than my own mother. She is the woman who raised me.