Losing my brother

“As you lay on your deathbed, I looked into your eyes and knew you were ready for the next chapter, and my sorrow for your departure was eased.” Dr. BLR

 

In a chaotic world, you can never predict what will happen next. Life has a way of surprising us. Yet at some point, you have to expect the unexpected. Earlier this year, I lost my twin brother, Aaron Keith Royster. It hurts to write these words because I am still grieving, and I hope that writing this will help with the process.

I don’t think there’s a stronger bond than being a twin, whether identical or fraternal. My brother and I were born about four minutes apart. I wanted to stay in my mother’s womb a little longer, so I kicked him out for my special entrance. Our bond lasted for the next sixty years.

My earliest memory of being a twin is from when I was around three or four years old, when my father was trying to teach us how to box. He rewarded us afterward with colorful licorice candy. Unfortunately, not long after, my father left our family and abandoned us, leaving us without that masculine figure who was supposed to teach us how to be young men. I’ve never really stressed about it because I always had my brother.

We grew up in a loving home with our two older sisters, Sharon and Denita, and our mother. Though times were tough, Mom did whatever it took to provide for her children. I don’t ever remember a time when we had to do without.

Early on, the one difference I recall between us was that I was more prone to getting into trouble, while he stayed back. In retrospect, I believe it was because I was taller and heavier, although in later years he’d catch up. 

I stole from Drake’s Cake factory and split the loot, as long as he kept quiet, which he did. I then stole from cargo trains in Weequahic Park and almost got caught by the Conrail Police. That park was also where we collected garter snakes and played football and basketball. For the record, we were both good athletes, but he was far more athletic. He was faster and could dunk a basketball. I was lucky if I could touch the rim, and that was on a good day.

Growing up and attending school were always interesting. In grade school, for some reason, Aaron always wanted to be the “class clown.” He would provoke his teachers, who would then call our Mom, and he would get in trouble. This pattern continued for a few years until he realized it was unproductive. I found his behavior hilarious. I didn’t know anyone else who could make me double over with laughter. I will definitely miss this side of his personality. 

Because I was a little bigger, I felt compelled to protect him when the neighborhood bullies tried to fight him. I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him, even though he ran his mouth all the time. I guess they didn’t appreciate his humor. 

After we graduated from Maple Avenue School in eighth grade, we decided to follow our cousin Vincent (may he rest in peace), who attended Irvington Technical High School in Irvington. The local high school was about five blocks away, but with rising crime in our neighborhood, we thought it would be safer to go elsewhere. We stayed for two years before the bus fare became too high, so we transferred to Weequahic High School, where most of our friends attended.

Our junior and senior years were, for all intents and purposes, uneventful. For two unmotivated young men, we graduated and had never been caught up in the criminal justice system. This was definitely a win for my Mom, who raised two Black young men in an inner city.

After high school, we looked for jobs that would put money in our pockets. I worked at a local pizzeria, and he worked at the Famous Amos cookie factory. On weekends, we enjoyed partying at clubs. He loved going to the Paradise Garage in New York City, and I enjoyed going to Club Zanzibar in downtown Newark. Although we developed separate friendships, we remained close.

Once we moved past the partying phase, law enforcement called. In 1986, I joined the New Jersey State Police; he followed in 1988, joining the New Jersey Department of Corrections. It was a proud moment for my family. 

Although our jobs were completely different, we made time to socialize with colleagues and go on “boys” trips. With a group of state troopers and corrections officers, we traveled to Acapulco, Cancun, and the Bahamas. I can’t describe the fun, because whatever we did in those places stayed there. I can say this: we paid a lot of money to local corrupt police officers to turn a blind eye to our drunken shenanigans. This was a bond we talked about over the years.

We also found time to hang out at local bars with our colleagues and, again, do stupid shit we would never discuss. It was one of those fun, sibling joys I will cherish. Fortunately, we never told our mother, or she would’ve been pissed. We went all those years without getting locked up, but the stuff we pulled came close. I rationalized it as being young and having a lot of perceived power. Lessons learned.

As time passed, our family endured a heartbreaking loss. Our oldest sister, Sharon, who had an autoimmune disease called Lupus, was hospitalized after years of fighting it. She lived in Maryland with her husband, so we traveled there for several weeks, hoping she would get better. She fought hard to stay with us, but it became too difficult, and she passed away in September 1993. She was our role model in many ways. I miss her dearly.

We dealt with her loss as best we could and understood it was part of the circle of life, but we were now down to three siblings. My sister, Denita, had been struggling with internal demons and was estranged from the family for several years afterward until she was able to get back on track.  

In later years, Aaron became a father, welcoming his daughter, Taryn. He left corrections and moved to Pennsylvania, a few years after Denita had settled there. He took a supervisory position at a boys' youth facility while I wound down my career in the state police. We made several trips back and forth to stay in touch. I would eventually retire and start a second career teaching. 

Everything was going smoothly until early January 2012, when our mother, a lifelong smoker, developed bladder cancer. While my brother and sister lived in Pennsylvania, I took her to her doctors and back. The treatment seemed to be working until her health suddenly declined. Mom eventually succumbed to the disease and passed away in May 2012. She lived long enough to be surrounded by her children on Mother’s Day and to celebrate her 75^th birthday. No child can ever be prepared for losing a parent, but my siblings and I had to face it. Mom was the person who brought everyone together, and now she was no longer with us.

Over the years, I saw Aaron and Denita only on special occasions because the trip from New Jersey to Pennsylvania took about four hours if I stayed within the speed limit. Still, Aaron and I would text or call to catch up. He had made a name for himself at his job and had taken up the elitist sport of golf. He had many friends who played golf, and I often called him the “Fake Tiger Woods.” He enjoyed staying active, but like many men, he didn’t pay enough attention to his health. He developed kidney problems and was taking medication to manage them. He was hospitalized a few times, and I visited him to urge him to take his health more seriously. I felt somewhat reassured because Denita lived nearby and could check on him. 

In 2015 and 2017, I welcomed my children, Lucas and Leeani. The increase in our family size was a welcome surprise to my siblings, since I had never considered having children of my own. I was fine being an uncle, but after Mom passed, I knew I needed to leave my own legacy. My siblings were happy for me because now they could dote on them as well. 

Aaron and I FaceTimed often because, as my kids got older, they enjoyed talking to one another. I enjoyed listening to them act silly because I was always the funny uncle; now it was his turn. The love my kids had for him was memorable. 

In 2020, the global COVID-19 pandemic upended everyone’s lives and triggered shutdowns across many societies, catching the world by surprise. Being locked down was meant to save lives. However, many wouldn’t be so lucky. In July 2020, Denita passed away in her sleep. The medical professionals deemed it a natural death, so we couldn’t dispute their diagnosis. Denita had gone through so much in her life, but I couldn’t be mad because she didn’t have to endure any pain. Aaron and I had lost our last sister, and we’d have to lean on each other. 

I no longer had that go-to person to make sure he was taking care of himself. However, over the years, I kept checking in on him, though I couldn’t trust that all was well. After a few years, I had to lean on Taryn to be my eyes and ears. I convinced her to move to Pennsylvania to live with him. For a while, everything was going well, but they had a falling-out, and she moved out. She later got married and welcomed her daughter, Denali. 

With no one to make sure he was taking care of himself, I made a point of FaceTiming more often. When I asked about his health, he’d always say he was fine, but at this point, he was undergoing dialysis a few times a week. I had to take him at his word because he was a grown man. At first glance, he appeared normal, but I never got to see him up close because he kept his distance from the camera. Still, each time we ended the call, I told him I loved him. 

In October 2024, I received an alarming Facebook message from Aaron’s friend saying he was in the hospital. I had no way to reach Aaron, so I contacted Taryn, who was able to visit him. As suspected, he wasn’t doing a good job of maintaining his health, and it had deteriorated. Within a few weeks, I visited him in the hospital and was shocked to see how poorly he looked. My heart was broken. I kissed him on the forehead and asked why he hadn’t called me. He said, “It was my pride.” Of all the people I thought he would call, it would be me, but I understood. He had a long road ahead to recovery, but in the back of my mind, I knew his time was short. I’d seen this same look in Sharon and Mom. His body was failing him because of damage to his internal organs. 

Over the next few weeks, he kept me apprised of what was happening. He and Taryn had mended their differences, and he could see his granddaughter, Denali. I was so happy. He said he looked forward to building a relationship, but I knew he knew he was in bad shape. In the coming weeks, I revisited him, but this time it would be my last visit to see him alive. 

When I walked into his room, he was hooked up to so many tubes. He couldn’t move his hands and was struggling to breathe. Taryn was there because we needed to have a serious talk with Aaron and his doctor. The doctor told us it was only a matter of time, that they couldn’t do much more, and that it was the machines keeping him alive. He assured us that they’d make him as comfortable as possible in preparation for his inevitable transition.

I then had the most difficult conversation with him that we had ever had. I looked at him and said, “If I were lying in that bed in that condition, I wouldn’t want to be here.” We locked eyes, and I knew he understood his fate. He told Taryn and me, “When it’s time, just let me go.” I felt a sense of relief, knowing he wasn’t afraid. 

Aaron passed away on January 1, 2025, and was later cremated. I placed his urn in his room at our Mom’s house. I wanted to bring him home so I could feel his presence, as I did Mom’s, Sharon’s, and Denita’s. May they all rest in peace and take care of each other until we meet again.