My brother’s last word

My brother Dan didn't waver on his commitment to model his choice for how to die

Mary and her brother Dan before diagnosis / Photo provided by Berg

Light reflected off the white sheets of Dan’s hospital bed while medical equipment hummed in the background. I’d driven four hours north to spend time at my oldest brother’s bedside. His cancer diagnosis had arrived six years earlier. Following surgery and months of radiation, Dan thrived. He traveled south in the winter, planted huge gardens in the summer, rode four-wheelers, and enjoyed family activities. He stayed active in his church, hunted deer on his wooded property, and fished in local lakes. The cancer returned, however, metastasized to his bones. Pain escalated, hospitalizations became frequent, and talk of death followed.

On that November day in 2017, I stood close to him, next to the pillows that propped him up and provided some cushion for his aching bones. A part of me wanted Dan to be the same as he had always been, strong in voice and body. But prostate cancer had weakened his once powerful body. He looked frail and wracked with pain. Dan had worked at a seed company for over forty years. He’d moved, stacked, and loaded hundred-pound bags of alfalfa, corn, oats, rye, and barley from farmer’s trucks into the seed company’s sheds. He no longer had a young man’s body. Instead, he relied on blood transfusions and pain medications.

While his wife chatted at the far end of the room, I moved closer. I had a hard time hearing Dan’s voice. In addition to working at the seed company, he’d been a part-time school bus driver. During my elementary and high school years, my big brother had driven the bus I rode. When kids refused to stay in their seats, we could hear his voice at the back of the bus. If kids got into fights, he wouldn’t hesitated to stop the bus, walk to the back, and get our attention in a closer fashion. But now, as he spoke from his sickbed, I had a hard time hearing him, even though he was less than a few feet away.

Dan asked, “Did I ever tell you about one of our childhood neighbors?”

“No – well – it depends on the neighbor.” Dan proceeded to tell me the story about a man I’ll call Bill.

“Bill, too, was diagnosed with prostate cancer.” Dan said. “He knew the agony that a cancer death can bring. When the pain became too great, Bill rigged up his shotgun in the garage, pulled the trigger, and ended his own life.”

“Oh, I kind of remember that,” I searched in vain for something more to say.

“Years later,” Dan continued, “his son did the same thing.”

I gasped, then leaned in further, straining to hear his words. “When I was diagnosed, I knew I couldn’t do that. I knew I needed to set a good example for the rest of my family on how to die.”

My breath caught. Tears welled in my eyes. “Oh, Dan, you’ve set the standard for us your whole life. You’ve been the best big brother ever.”

He demurred. As the oldest of ten, Dan must have been told on multiple occasions, “Your younger brothers and sisters are watching you.” Dan had many perks as a firstborn: the first years with all of Mom’s attention, the first graduation, the first wedding, the first grandchild. Along with those perks, I could see that he also carried the responsibility to be a role model, weightier than any feed sack.

Our conversation ended when the nurse came back to help him to the bathroom. I didn’t want to see Dan in a skimpy hospital gown. I didn’t want to see his backside covered with a small adult diaper; his butt skinnier than my own. At that time, of our ten siblings, he and I were the only ones to have been diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t want to think about a similar ending. I moved out into the hall, cried the tears I’d held back in his room, and eventually wiped them away.

Dan was very clear: he wasn’t choosing suicide. He owned hunting rifles. He had the same guns and shooting experience as our former neighbor. Perhaps he’d heard the statistics that committing suicide increases the risk by 65% that a friend or family member will do the same. I doubt that he and his minister had a conversation. I know he didn’t talk to me or any of our siblings. Maybe Bill and his son were all the proof Dan needed to come to his own conclusion. What I do know is that while cancer encroached on his body, his strength of charactered increased.

Dan didn’t waver on his commitment to model his choice for how to die. He knew nothing could be done to reverse the cancer. On the day that I visited, he decided to refuse additional blood transfusions and life-extending medications. At this news, family, loved ones, and friends began to make the pilgrimage to his bedside to say their goodbyes. He’d guided us in the art of living, and now he mentored us in the final mortal act of dying. All of the photos taken with him in those last few weeks show him smiling. If they didn’t, he’d say, “We can do better than that,” and a new photo would be taken.

At some time in his final weeks, Dan decided to quit eating and drinking. He asked his wife, one of our brothers, his minister, and God to help him stay committed to that resolve. I wasn’t with him when he left this Earth. However, what I’ve heard happened stays with me and gives me courage with my own mortality. As his minister finished a prayer, my oldest brother’s quiet voice spoke volumes. Dan took his last breath and whispered his last word, “Amen.”


Mary Berg is a retired associate professor of clinical education, a resume writer, published author, and poet. Her first poetry collection, A Mystic in the Mystery: Poems of Spirit, Seasons, and Self was released in 2024. Her website is: marybergresumewriter.com.

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