Today is the day my brother was scheduled to have 10 teeth extracted, gums sewn up and temporary dentures put in. Can you imagine? Who, in their right mind, at any age, would go for that? Yet for nearly 2 months I was recommending my 88 year-old brother do just that in my desperate attempt to keep him alive forever.

Over the last six months, since he lost his wife of 60 years, most of my energy has been spent comforting and supporting him. Yet as the months passed, in spite of my joy at having him back in my life, I felt increasingly exhausted.

Last week we took him away for a couple of days to our favourite country inn where we ate large amounts of fabulous food, walked in the walled garden and sat by the woodstove reading while he dozed on and off. It was his first time away from home in almost 15 years, having been his wife’s sole caregiver for most of that time. Those of you who read my last essay will know that my brother was the first love of my life; that he was my childhood hero. And it was he, 25 years ago, who walked me down the aisle of Tuscan cypress trees between which Joel and I married. Before he escorted me, he put an English penny from 1946 – the year of my birth – in my little wedding bag. Two months after I was born his parents adopted me and he became my brother.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my little wooden shed which was built this spring courtesy of the sale of a piece of my art. Situated in a corner of our London garden, its little window in front of my work bench looks out to the now sun-dappled garden bejewelled by raindrops from a late afternoon shower. Last week, my brother and I walked the many rows of veggies, berries, herbs, shrubs and flowers in the walled garden pointing out and naming this and that. Later, over afternoon tea, we talked of our shared love of gardening, remarking on our childhood garden being one of the rare gifts from our parents. We said how that garden and our explorations of the surrounding countryside was our only source of adventure and fun; two elements which our parents were lacking.

Each evening, when we talk on the phone, he tells me what, in spite of bad knees, he’s achieved in his garden: trimming the hedge by hand, tying up the raspberry canes, dead-heading the roses, mowing the lawn. And I report on the planting of two climbing roses, pots of basil and filling in some gaps in the borders with annuals.

At the end of our stay in the inn, we took my brother back to his house and then we caught the train back to London. The train left from Bristol Temple Meads, the station that my brother would drive me to after one of the few visits I made over the decades. In the early years he’d accompany me to the platform, reaching through the open carriage window to hold my hand as the train pulled away, telling me to look after myself. This time, as the train left the station I began to cry. Over the preceding two days I had come to realise that not only can I not fix my brother, but he doesn’t want to be fixed. He is old and frail and grieving. Yes, he is also courageous and at times quite spirited, but he’s not up for living forever. He just needs to be loved and supported. We cancelled the dental surgery and instead arranged for him the have regular hygiene appointments, just to keep what’s left as healthy as possible.

When I was a little girl, I used to tell my friends I was going to marry my brother when I grew up. I remember the day I found out that was illegal…devastating news. Although one of my little friend’s Dad was the chief of police so she said he’d fix it. In a way, I did end up marrying my brother. Joel and he are one month apart in age, both of them kind, loving men with long legs and a good sense of humour. Neither of them are in need of fixing. What a relief to let go of yet another thing beyond my control. All I have to do is love and be loved.

TO LOVE AND BE LOVED

HOMAGE TO LOVE