Your Long Journey

Vocals: Robert Plant & Alison Krauss from "Raising Sand" 2007

The Illusion of Permanence

Again from T.J. Wray's book

"Because siblings are united by a common bond forged in childhood, we live with the expectation that we'll somehow always be together as we journey through life. Oh we may divert from the common family path from time to time to pursue our own callings, but only our brothers and sisters know the way back to the original road where, together, we began our odyssey. In an uncertain world that is ever changing, chances are that your brother or sister has been a constant in your life, all your life. Losing a sibling, then, destroys the illusion of permanence in a more profound way than other deaths. Indeed, we take for granted that our siblings will be there to help us cope with the death of our parents, and we assume that our siblings, who are usually close to us in age, will grow old alongside us. Naturally, we feel abandoned when this assumption is decimated by death. Of course, abandonment issues are particularly difficult when you've lost your only sibling."

Forgetting How to Breathe

From "Surviving the Death of a Sibling" by T.J. Wray

"The year my brother died, I forgot how to breathe. Often it would catch me unaware, that terrible feeling that I was suffocating—at work, at home, sometimes at night, as I tried to sleep. As if I had drawn a breath but simply forgotten how to exhale. ... The year my brother died, I forgot how to breathe, and no one seemed to notice. Oh, they might have noticed a bit at first, but after a few weeks I could be walking around with my face turning blue and no one would say a word. After all, it was only my brother; I should get over it. My brother. In the stillness of the early mornings when I have the house all to myself. I can recall his face and the sound of his voice so clearly that I'm often surprised, when I wake from my reverie, by his palpable absence."

"The sibling relationship is more complex than nearly any other, a mixture of affection and ambivalence, camaraderie and competition. Aside from your parents, there is simply no one else on earth who knows you better, because, like your parents, your brothers and sisters have been beside you from the very beginning. Unlike your parents, however, your siblings are people you assume will be part of your life for the rest of your life too. In terms of the span of time, the intimacy, and the shared experience of childhood, no other relationship rivals the connection we have with our adult brothers or sisters. From schoolyard bullies to teenage broken hearts, from careers to marriage to dreams unfulfilled, our siblings have been there through it all, life partners in our journey through time. They are the keepers of secrets, perennial rivals for our parents' affections, and a secure and familiar constant in an often precarious and uncertain world."

"Although each child is an individual member of a family, he or she is also part of a larger circle—a circle that helps to define who we are and provides a link to our shared past. Losing a sibling, then, can also mean losing a part of yourself, part of that special connection to the past. How do we learn to live with the broken circle that is now our family?"

Photo: Judi and Jimmy circa 1972.

In Loving Memory
James Robert Marventano
May 28, 1969 to September 17, 2007

On September 13th, 2006 cancer overtook our lives like a tsunami overtakes the shore. It came without warning. It consumed us. For the past year, we struggled to keep our heads above water, holding on to Jim for dear life. When the waters finally receded, the landscape of our lives was forever changed. In its wake, cancer had left dashed hopes, unanswered prayers, shaken faith, deep sadness, heart-wrenching pain, and an emptiness that can’t be filled. But my brother hated being defined by his cancer. He hated everything about it – the hospitals, the medicines, the routine of a chemotherapy patient. He just wanted to be “Jim” and he wanted his life back. For a few minutes, I’d like you to put aside your grief and remember with me “Just Jim” and his life.

May 28th, 1969 – 4 years and 14 days into my comfy life as an only child, James Robert Marventano, my little brother, was born. Early pictures show a “dissatisfied with my new situation puss.” I cried for what I believed I lost by having a new baby join my family. But even at a very young age, Jimmy had an infectious smile that engulfed everyone around him. It was a smile that came from his soul and lit up the room. He won me over and I settled into my role as the bossy, protective, older sister.

As a little guy, Jimmy showed us that he inherited more than his middle name from our Uncle Bob – he inherited a phenomenal sense of humor and a propensity for mischief that his wife Kate called “Jim being naughty.” Jimmy perfected his skill for teasing on poor Uncle John. Jimmy was either so sly or so well-loved, that Aunt Shirley never saw Jimmy’s part in the shenanigans – only yelling at JT for his part in the hijinks. This made Jimmy sparkle even more, knowing he’d once again pulled off the perfect caper. Bennet Alfred Cerf said “The person who can bring the spirit of laughter into a room is indeed blessed.” That was certainly true of Jimmy. He wasn’t one of those people who tried to be funny. He just was. When Jimmy was in the room, I would often end up laughing so hard that my sides hurt and I cried. Even towards the end, with serious conversations, he made it a point to make me laugh. As we were waiting together for what would be the news he needed a blood transfusion, he said to me “Jude, you’ve been such a great sister. So much help to me and Kate. I don’t think if the tables were turned, I would’ve been as much help to you.” With tears in my eyes, I told him I was sure he would have been great. In true Jimmy form, a twinkle came to his eyes, he smiled, and said “Nope. I’m pretty sure I would’ve gotten off the phone with you, turned to Kate and said “Man, my sister’s screwed. Can you get me a bowl of ice cream?” To which we both immediately burst with laughter and I replied “You ass.” Jimmy had once again turned what could have been a sad memory for me into one of laughter.

If you had a chance to look at the photo boards of Jimmy’s life, you can tell he loved the outdoors. Whether it was out in the state lands near Owasco hunting and fishing with our uncles and cousin Drew, or up on the lake at his in-laws in Wisconsin, Jim was in his element. He was thrilled when Kate’s dad, Tom, asked him to join the Musky Marauders, and he proudly wore his Marauder moniker – Ojibwa Jim – on coats, hats, and whatever else could be printed up. He nurtured a love of nature in his daughter, Rachel. Jim was just as proud of his daughter’s first fish as he was of his own (and I quote) “just ½” shy of Marauder prize-winning Musky.” Jimmy’s other passion was woodworking. A skill he learned from our dad, who in turn had learned it from his. As we were preparing for this service, Reverend Josephson smiled when we told her of Jim’s phenomenal woodworking skills. She told us that as she heard about Jim’s skill, she saw, in her mind’s eye, a picture of Jimmy, our granddad, and one of the Bible’s original builders – Noah – side-by-side in Heaven, sawing and hammering. If so, I have to believe Jim’s pretty happy.

But there was another side to Jim – like our mom, he was thoughtful and caring in an easy-going, nonchalant way. He was a guardian soul – appearing as if out of nowhere when people needed him most. He truly cared about others and we’ve heard so many stories from people who knew Jim throughout his 38 years of how he looked out for them. As a senior in high school, he was the great protector of quite a few freshmen. In college, Jim comforted a girlfriend’s roommate when her mother died of ovarian cancer. He rushed to the hospital to be one of the very first people to hold my daughter, Kirsten, when she was born – immediately claiming his new status as an awesome uncle. Everyone has a story, many times more than one, of how he was “Just Jim” and he made them feel special and not alone.

I’d love to be able to say that Jim and I were two peas in a pod, joined at the hip, best friends. But the reality is we were brother and sister – our lives like sine and cosine waves drifting apart and coming back together. Tied to the same axis, I always knew Jim wasn’t far away and he knew the same was true of me. As kids, we’d been brought up in the company and love of an extended family that went out farther than the root structure of an old oak tree. We appreciated and enjoyed the times when our lives intersected.

Jim’s best friend was his wife Kate. I knew she was something pretty special when at Easter 1994, Jimmy gathered up his 2-year-old, chicken-pox-laden, niece on his lap and said “Come on Kate – get in the picture!” She saw how Jimmy and Kirsten adored one another, so she bravely put on a tentative smile, and hovered behind the two of them for the photo op – careful not to make any physical contact. Kirsten approved and Kate became a favorite just like Uncle Jim. The wave of my brother’s life soon included Kate as his wife, the best sister-in-law I could ask for. Jim’s uncle status grew to include a nephew, Sean. Never one to let an opportunity pass him by, Jimmy encouraged his nephew in all things football and groomed Sean since almost birth to be the next generation Jets fan.

Jim was happy. But happiness wasn’t done with Jim just yet and on August 13th, 2003, his own daughter, Rachel Eileen was born. Rach was the apple of Jim’s eye, his own ray of sunshine. Kate and I often teased him about his little-old-lady-like overprotectiveness, but the reality is, he was the best parent I’ve ever seen. Rach and Jim were two peas in a pod – totally inseparable. Three years later, Jim and Kate were blessed again, this time with a son – Jake Thomas. I came to visit them after Jake was born and Jim was just bursting with happiness. During that visit we realized how much we missed one another and we were happy our lives had intersected again. We made plans to do some fun trips – trips to bring our kids together as cousins, just as we’d been brought up with ours. Unfortunately, three months later, we learned cancer had other plans for us.

Jim’s fight this past year was pure Jim – on his own terms with as much humor as he could muster. He must’ve been scared stiff each time Kate and I, with our newly-minted Google medical oncology degrees, discussed his next set of treatment options, but he didn’t let on. I guess he figured Dr. Haid would intervene if we decided to ship him off to Bora Bora for snake-bite acupuncture. Which, believe me, if Kate and I thought it would’ve cured him, he would’ve been on the first fast boat out into the Pacific Ocean. But cancer doesn’t care who loves you, who you love, or how much. It doesn’t care about the dreams you have for your future. And so, on September 17, 2007 – 38 years, 3 months, and 19 days after I became a bossy, protective, older sister, my not-so-little-anymore brother, quietly passed away. The waters of our own personal tsunami receded much more quietly than they came in. Today I cry again, this time not for what I believed I lost, but for what I know I did.

The Koran states “He deserves paradise who makes his companions laugh.” I hope that is true and Jimmy has his paradise.