Closed-door meeting
Brother Love: Has something come between me and my brother Phil--something beyond his locked apartment door?
Welcome to the latest installment of Brother Love — an occasional series about my relationship with my brother Phil. To read any of the 15-plus previous installments, starting with this one just over a year ago, type “Brother Love” in the search box.
“Knock, and it will be opened to you.”
~Matthew 7:7b
I believe that verse—about a Christian’s relationship with Jesus Christ—with all my heart. But in the context of me and my brother Phil, it’s proven far more complicated.
On Thursday evening I found myself standing outside his sixth-floor apartment door. I hoped he’d be glad to see me, but feared he may pick up from where we left off four weeks ago.
That’s when his parting words, after an erratic two hours, inspired the following headline (for that evening’s account, click “Read full story” below):
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I’ve not seen Phil in a month, which feels like far too long; that’s why this is the third time in 72 hours that I’ve actively tried.
Mucking up matters is that he’s gone eight months without a cell phone—by far the longest stretch of communication isolation since he moved to Chicago over 12 years ago. He says he’s been trying to get a cell phone all that time, but he also says how much of a hassle it is to secure one.
The net effect, for me, is that I am left guessing as to his whereabouts at any given time. And worrying—the worry that never goes away when you have a loved one whose every step is dogged by severe drug addiction, alcoholism and mental health troubles.
When I reach his place, it’s a little past 9:30 p.m. I put my ear to his door and begin to knock. Lightly at first, then a bit harder. Pause a bit. Resume, rapping my knuckles along different portions of the door—almost as if there’s a special spot that will spark Phil’s attention.
For six minutes, in short bursts while calling out his name, I rap my knuckles against his dented and dinged door. I try the “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits” routine—until I looked it up last night, I didn’t even know what that sequence was called.
This is all an encore from Monday evening. That time, I figured he was fast asleep, then slid a birthday card from our other brother under Phil’s door.
Tonight, though, I hear faint noises, including what sounds like the retrieval of a $2 bill that I’ve tucked under the door. Phil is well aware of my $2 bill eccentricity, so if nothing else cries out “Matt was here!” then that Thomas Jefferson will do the job.
On the verge of leaving, I hear Phil’s voice, laced with annoyance and anger.
“[Twelve-word expletive]!! You’re waking me up—get out of here…what the f*&%!! My hours are backwards, man. When I get a phone, I’ll call you. Leave me alone…just go, you can’t come in here anymore.”
The door remains closed. In our Brother Love variation on the Bible’s door-knocking verse, let’s call Phil’s salty remarks Matthew & Philip 5:9 (the date).
In addition to my fruitless Monday evening visit, on Wednesday toward sunset I see if I might find him at the intersection that’s been his go-to panhandling spot for over three years.
It’s later than his customary time, but I figure it’s worth the short walk from the store where I’m shopping. Drawing close, I don’t see anyone—neither Phil nor any of his panhandling colleagues—out there.
The next evening, aware my presence might not be welcomed, my larger focus is checking in on him. He turned 58 on the last day of April—his first anniversary in this apartment—and the last time I spent time with him, he’d talked about trying to wean himself of his heroin/fentanyl addiction.
From my years coming alongside Phil, including dropping him off at four treatment facilities in a four-year span, I am acutely aware how extraordinarily difficult breaking free from his chemical demons has become.
Phil’s painted himself into a terrible corner—stopping his drug use is riddled with dope-sick withdrawal agony, and continuing to use drugs is misery of another stripe.
Moments after our through-the-door dialogue starts, I hear Phil buzzing his intercom to the front desk and telling the security guard not to let me in anymore.
With one last-ditch effort, I ask, “Can I come in for two minutes, at least?”
No reply.
“OK, Phil, I’ll see you,” I call out. “Or maybe not.”
What else could I say? What else can I do?
There is nothing else you can do, Matt. The stark reality is that Phil has the mental equivalent of a metastatic cancer and everything that analogy implies. There is only so much doctors or caring family like you, can do. His course is set. There is only hope.
So hard. So sad. But at least you know he's alive.