`I’m proud of you, Phil.’

My brother's drug and alcohol struggles obscure his resilience and generosity: he looks out for others who, like him, scrape by and are barely hanging on.

Between October 2020 and February 2023, I wrote about a dozen columns on my experiences with my brother Phil. The focus was how he’d navigate his homelessness, drug addiction and alcoholism—with an added layer of how we’ve navigated our relationship with one another over the years.

For me, the act of reflecting on and recounting these stories was therapeutic yet difficult, revealing yet painful.

I never knew if or when I’d ever share them with anyone beyond our two siblings and a few close friends.

Clarity came after I began this Substack nine months ago. Between Phil giving the go-ahead to share our stories publicly and my sense that these accounts could be helpful to a wider audience, in May I decided to begin publishing these pieces.

The first one, The Other Side of the Tracks, was published on May 3^rd. The most recent one, The Brother Love Shopping Spree Extravaganza, was published November 15^th. (You can find the other pieces by typing “Brother Love” into the search box.)

There could be more stories to come—I most recently visited Phil at his apartment two weeks ago and to the best of my knowledge he’s still residing there—but today brings the last of those pre-Substack-era writings.

`I’m proud of you, Phil.’

Monday, February 6, 2023

On this day, it hits me--I'm proud of Phil.

Not for every aspect of his life, but for his generosity and kindness in supporting other people who are struggling. For his resilience and perseverance in making it day to day, even in the face of some really bad choices that are poisoning his body. 

This thought comes upon me in the car, several minutes after I pick him up –- to his surprise and delight -- at his workplace Oak Brook intersection. I had seen him two hours earlier as I drove to a client appointment two miles to the west.

Heading back home, I wondered if he’d still be there. And there he was, trudging along the median in his usual panhandling mode.

After gathering his stuff and getting inside the car, Phil practically tackles me for joy. Soon thereafter, the conversation turns, for the umpteenth time, on how down-on-their-luck folks come up to him on a regular basis, usually on the train.

They know his name and express thanks for some past kindness he has shown them: maybe a buck, a cigarette, something that made a difference in an interaction Phil has long since forgotten weeks, months or years ago. 

Yes, he's a prisoner of his own addictions and shame and self-loathing. But he's also a Good Samaritan who looks out for others scraping by and hanging on. Both can be true.

My brother has been in the wilderness for so long -- perpetual intoxication, heroin/fentanyl addiction, publicly “humiliating myself” with panhandling, as he puts it – that I am too prone to see only those painful scars on the surface. They do a really good job of obscuring his other, admirable qualities.

On this day, though, that new feeling of pride grips me. I utter the words with sincerity and conviction: “I’m proud of you, Phil.” Every time I see him, and most every time I speak with him on the phone, I let Phil know that I love him. But this declaration is something new.

He begins to cry quietly; his tears are about the only thing that halt his steady, near-manic patter. That’s how his silence serves as the first clue that my remark has pierced an emotional chord.

Phil fumbles for a tissue in his coat, comes up empty, and asks if I have one. I pull out a few spare Chipotle napkins that I had stuffed in my coat pocket the last time I dined there. "I wasn't planning on crying today," Phil explains.

A few minutes later, I shift into administrator mode, placing a call first to an attorney who has been helping Phil go through the process of applying for disability benefits. After leaving a message, I call the dental office where Phil got his dentures five years ago. He's eligible to get free dentures again -- he's been without his last set for well over three years -- and the first step is to get an X-ray.

When the scheduler says there is an opening in three weeks, Phil pushes back. His tone lowers to a growl and he does his best to convey that he doesn't want to wait that long. I can hear the scheduler tell Phil that she is having a hard time understanding him.

He’s especially slurry, even by his own standards, so I take the phone as we cruise along the Eisenhower Expressway. I explain who I am to the scheduler, but then Phil begins bellowing – he’s going to call another dental place, he’s waited five years and doesn’t want to wait any more, and so forth.

I try to shush him. He ignores me. “Shut up!” I yell. "Phil, shut up, so I can schedule a time for you!"

The poor woman puts me on hold, then comes back a few moments later. In the interim, she has magically discovered an opening in only three days. I quickly assure her that Phil will be there. After I hang up, Phil laughs -- he'd just pulled off a pressure campaign to land the earlier appointment.

"Oh, man!” I blurt out. “So we were playing good cop, bad cop? Crazy like a fox."

Impishly grinning, Phil gives me a fist bump. The process wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

A short time later, at the Forest Park liquor store he patronizes regularly, Phil introduces me once again to the cashier as he plunks down his daily diet of booze: three bottles of Western Son vodka.

I have accompanied him here a few other times in recent months and this has become an integral part of his routine, making sure they know that this other guy with him is his little brother.

The cashier is usually a bit ornery, according to Phil, but this time she mixes in a dash of good humor. During her give-and-take with him, he apologizes for the messy, pocket-emptying way that he’s conducting the transaction. 

"As long as it's green," she says, referring to the cash he's fishing out of his clothing, mostly in $1 increments that he’d just obtained in Oak Brook. We walk out and commenting on her sunnier-than-usual demeanor, Phil murmurs, "That's because you were there."

Before dropping him off at the train station, I tell Phil that I'll drive him to the dental appointment we’d just teamed up to secure. He counters that he can take the #302 bus. No way, I think.

A few weeks earlier, I was with him when he had made an appointment. But he missed it – and if I have any say in the matter, that won’t happen again.

In January 2018, when he got his first pair of dentures, I witnessed how his self-confidence soared. I had taken him to appointments back then and was there that capstone day, taking a photo as he stood outside the office with a broad smile.

The dentures not only transformed his appearance, but they buoyed his self-image.

A few months after getting dentures in early 2018, Phil celebrates his 52nd birthday. Below, I snapped the photo during our meal at Panda Express, as Phil spoke with our mom.

I want him to experience that again, as soon as possible. Somewhere in me is a flicker of hope. Could dentures set off a chain reaction that results in other improvements in his lifestyle? Maybe this could be a milestone in his path toward sobriety?

A brother can hope.

Even if overcoming his addictions is not in Phil’s future, a decent set of choppers really ought to be.¹

With that in mind, it’s not difficult to craft an air-tight argument to ensure Phil will cooperate with my transportation offer. In response to his claim that he can take the bus to the dentist, I point to his recent generosity in purchasing food for my family with his Link card.

"The way you insisted on buying me groceries, right? Same thing -- I insist on taking you to the dentist."

Phil nods, then comes a muffled noise from his throat. Oh boy, he’s starting to tear up again. I drop him off a few minutes later at the train station.

After our farewell hug, I get back in the car, lower the passenger window, and holler, “I’m so glad we connected.”

As usual, Phil gets in the final word: "You have no idea!”

1. Unfortunately, after getting Phil to that initial appointment, he lost his appetite for going to the additional appointments necessary. At least, so far. I still hold out hope—that he will once again get dentures, and that he will get free from the grip of drugs and alcohol.