Brotherly Love: The Sibling Bond
- 4 hours ago
- 4 min read
By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, N.Y.
The sibling bond is something my former Time magazine colleague Jeffrey Kluger discussed brilliantly in a TED talk that I first watched 15 years ago. He said, “Our parents leave us too early, our spouse and our children come along too late. Our siblings are the only ones who are with us for the entire ride.”
That sibling bond runs through my veins. Several years after we adopted our son Nate, who has autism, I had this conversation with my late husband Fred:
Me: “I really want to adopt another baby.”
Fred: “What if he or she has special needs?”
Me: “Then we’ll be experts!”
I then said something that sealed the deal and led to our welcoming Joey into our lives three years later:
“I want Nate to have a sibling. I cannot imagine my life without my brother.”
In the case of Jeff, my older brother, and me, our parents didn’t exactly leave us, but neither were they always present. We never doubted they loved us, but my dad Jerry was often on the road and when he was home, weekends belonged to him. While I eventually figured out the way to spend time with him was by watching sports together, that came later.
Growing up, he never said things like, “Get in the car, kids, let’s go on a picnic!” That kind of picnic-going dad drove a station wagon. Jerry favored Cadillacs or Thunderbirds (including a two-seater which he backed into a tree, ripping the door off.) And a picnic would have taken place on a weekend, when Jerry played golf or gin with the guys at the club. One of Jeff’s earliest memories was of Jerry taking him when he was 4 to Coney Island. And then plopping him in the sand when Jerry went to play handball nearby.
My mom Emily and I never cooked together or did mani-pedis, which is what I assumed girls did with their moms. I recall my parents taking us to exactly two movies when I was growing up. The first was The Vikings, the film where a hawk gouges out Kirk Douglas’ eye and Tony Curtis gets his hand cut off. I was six. And the other was West Side Story, rife with knife fights, shootings, and a sexual assault which still haunts me. I was nine.
But luckily, those grown-up movie memories were drowned out by the countless TV hours I spent every Saturday night when my brother Jeff babysat me. We would watch non-scary fare like Lawrence Welk and Have Gun–Will Travel. I was just so content to be with Jeff. I so wanted to be like him! To this day I eat left-handed. Why? Because Jeff is a lefty. (On hearing that, I recall my therapist scribbling furiously.)
Throughout the years, it has always been Jeff I called during dark times, including the darkest night of my life. On a night in June 27 years ago, as my husband Fred lay beside me, he yelled out loud once and then was silent. I later learned a heart attack is what led to his lapsing into a coma. Ten-week-old Joey was in his bassinet at the foot of our bed, and 5-year-old Nate was asleep in his room.
After frantically calling 911, I called Jeff. He took the next plane from Chicago to New York to be with me. And the next night as Fred lie in a hospital bed, Jeff and I were in the next- door room, stretched out on couches. “Fred can’t die,” I sobbed to Jeff. “Who will give Nate his injections? And I don’t know where he stores the Christmas ornaments.”
Fred died that night. And at his service that Sunday, on Father’s Day, I never let go of my brother’s arm. My parents were there but I only remember holding tight to Jeff.
And today, I see that fierce bond between my sons Joey and Nate. In all the years after Fred died, I had to give so much more to Nate because of his special needs. Joey could have resented Nate, and I would have understood that. But I’ve never seen anything but pure love flow between them. Though Joey never knew his dad, there’s a kind of dad-like instinct in him. When Joey was 8, and Nate 14, I remember taking them once to buy shoes. Before we got to the store, Joey said to me, “If Nate has a tantrum, I can handle him. I’m better at handling tantrums than you. No offense.”
None taken. He was absolutely right.
In a favorite photo when Jeff was around 6 and I was 3, Jeff is tightly holding my hand and I’m standing as close as possible to him, my head touching his arm. My big brother, watching over me.
In another favorite photo, 6-year-old Nate is closely clasping toddler Joey. The big brother, guardian of his little brother. Only of course the opposite is true between them.
But both those photos tell the same story. An unrivaled loving bond with the only one with us for the entire ride.
Amy Lennard Goehner has always had Lady Luck on her side in landing dream jobs — in Korea as a Peace Corps volunteer. and then as a GED instructor to soldiers on a U.S. Army base, and years later as a reporter at Sports Illustrated, covering boxing and horse racing. That luck continued with reporting jobs at Sports Illustrated for Kids and at Time magazine. She is currently a contributing writer to AARP’s Livable Communities, writing about people who make life better in their communities. Amy lives in Hudson in upstate N.Y. with her husband Rick Remington and their collection of permanent and on-loan dogs.
Comments