If you’ve never lost an immediate family member, what strikes you most over time is not the sadness, which you expect and eventually get used to, but the lingering incompleteness. Something will always be missing. Yes, you’ll laugh and feel joy again, but never quite as much as you did before. It’s sort of like having all of the lights in your house set permanently to dim; it never feels quite bright enough to illuminate everything.

My brother Alfred died in 2012. He was 13 years older than me, and as part of a large blended family, we weren’t particularly close in my early years. But we were kindred spirits of sorts, and by the time I was preparing to graduate from high school, he had become the closest thing to a mentor that I had.

Al had gained maturity quickly and out of necessity. Before I was out of my teens, he had come out publicly as gay, battled addiction issues, and been diagnosed with AIDS. This was the early 1990’s, and a positive diagnosis was akin to a death sentence. But back then, I didn’t see him as a survivor, just a big brother. He was one of the most unfailingly optimistic and least judgmental people I have ever known. Our extended family included addicts (current and recovering), petty criminals, and garden variety ne’er-do-wells. Al was our defacto cheerleader and champion. He didn’t hesitate to tell you he was proud of you, no matter how many times or how badly you fucked up.

Although he wasn’t the oldest, Al possessed a hard-won wisdom that made the rest of us fall in line. He could be stern enough that you didn’t want to cross him, but mostly he was gentle and his capacity for forgiveness was unparalleled. He was also notoriously generous, with both his money and time. Al was the first person in our blue collar family to attend university, and he was the one who spent hours helping me complete my financial aid applications. When I left home for college, he bought me a calling card so I could stay in touch with long distance friends and boyfriends. He also co-signed my first car loan. Being on the receiving end of Al’s generosity was not unique. Everyone who knew him has multiple stories about him coming to the rescue when no one else would or could.

Al was an active member of the HIV/AIDS community. Some of my earliest memories are of him organizing family, friends, and coworkers to participate in the annual Philadelphia AIDS Walk (now AIDS Walk Philly). He had withstood the fatal diagnosis of a low CD4 count and braved toxic drug cocktails. Along the way, he endured opportunistic infections that left him hospitalized. As was all too common for gay men during that time, he had lost (and would continue to lose) friends and lovers. I recall them as beautiful, vibrant men who had shared our family dinners and vacations, reduced only to smiling faces in photographs. AIDS cruelly stripped them of their dignity, strength, and lives. While I was engaging in petty arguments with my roommates in a campus dorm, my brother was attending funerals and taking massive doses of pills to stay alive.

Al had fought hard against the wrath of AIDS, and though he would always display some of the telling side effects of first generation ART, he was one of the ‘lucky’ ones. Like many others, he emerged from those dark days with a determination to live a more meaningful life. He had a rewarding career and he was enjoying financial success. He bought a large home in the suburbs and reveled in spoiling our retired mother, nieces, and nephews. He wrote checks so frequently that I doubt anyone really knows how much money he gave away. When it came to family, Al never expected his loans to be repaid. Without being asked, he quietly picked up the tab for family events, from birthday parties to wedding receptions.

In his early 40's, Al met the love of his life, Eric. They adopted a dog, bought an RV, and traveled extensively. They were passionate about the outdoors, camping, and Eagles football. They were welcoming hosts, and their warm home was a place where everyone gathered for impromptu pool parties and holiday dinners. They talked about getting married in Massachusetts and were even considering fatherhood.

When my brother was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma in the spring of 2012, he didn’t disclose it immediately. He worried about burdening others with his diagnosis, especially our mother, who was in her 70's. When he finally shared the news, he did so with a calm assurance that he would fight the cancer and everything would be alright. He did extensive research and took time off from work to focus on getting well. Better than anyone, Al knew how treatment could make someone feel worse than the disease itself. Buoyed by the support of Eric and his family, he began R-CHOP therapy with an optimistic and determined attitude. With his 50th birthday approaching, he shared that he was considering an early retirement once the cancer was in remission. For some reason, hearing sick people making long term plans seems to give others hope.

Intellectually, I understood the battle that was going on inside my brother’s body, and had been for many years. In medical terms, the result of the immune system suppressing HIV for an extended period of time is chronic inflammation, which accelerates aging. Add to that the toxicity of early treatments and the side effects of today’s medicines, and we’re now seeing an increase in issues such as heart disease and cancer in people who have been living with the disease for many years (it is now estimated that half of all people living with HIV today are over the age of 50). As someone who had already been working in the pharmaceutical industry for several years, most recently in HIV, I understood the reality of my brother’s prognosis.

Our family worried and cried a lot during those first months, but we wanted to believe that he would pull through it, because we needed him to. He was still so young and had much to live for. Looking back now, I don’t think any of us could imagine a world in which Al wouldn’t be around. To borrow a platitude, he was the glue that held us all together, the sensible voice in a familial hodgepodge that looked to him for guidance.

A few months before my brother passed away, he and Eric flew from their home in NJ to visit me in CA. Al was already sick, though he hadn’t yet disclosed his diagnosis, and maybe he sensed that our time together was limited. We took a road trip to Napa and toured the vineyards, laughing and reminiscing. On the way back to San Francisco, Al vomited in a trash can at a gas station. His lymph glands were visibly swollen. We cut the trip short, and he and Eric flew home early so he could see his doctor.

In the following months, we’d Skype on our iPads, often during his chemo sessions. The treatments had stolen his hair, his appetite, and his energy. He had taken to smoking marijuana just to be able to eat. Sometimes the thrush in his mouth was so bad that he had trouble talking. And yet, he never expressed self-pity. Mostly he worried about Eric, who was 20 years his junior, and now had the unenviable task of caring for someone with cancer. Only once did Al confide in me how tired he was of fighting to keep his body healthy for so many years while it stubbornly betrayed him. Hearing an unfamiliar vulnerability in his voice made me feel scared and helpless. Not long after, he was gone, and the world inhabited by those of us who are left has never been quite the same since.

Today more so than ever before, I am humbled by the impact Al’s life has had on other people and how his legacy lives on. At his own request, a portion of his estate was earmarked to fund a trust for an autistic family member who requires constant care. My twenty-something nephew, who struggles with his own demons, recently told me that he asks himself “what would Uncle Al say?” when faced with a tough decision. My incredibly generous friend, Greg’ry Revenj, is dedicating his Life After Diagnosis tour to my brother, someone he never actually met, but whose story he views as part of the fabric of his own journey as a gay HIV+ man trying to make sense of his diagnosis while helping others.

Al’s legacy includes so many stories about how he impacted other people’s lives, and I’m still learning them. I want to keep hearing and telling them over and over again, lest they fade with time. I still miss my brother’s counsel. Sometimes I close my eyes and silently ask him for guidance. I’d like to say that doing so offers me insights and clarity, like when he was alive. But what I mostly see is his effervescent smile, and I imagine his chuckling voice telling me, “Ree, I’m proud of you. Everything is going to be fine.”