For Some Things

My mom's silence about my brother's disease.

It was my own inch-thick, binder-clipped medical history. It was my life scribbled on some paper, detailing every little thing about my development; the day I was born, ear infections, asthma, heart murmur, gastro-esophageal reflux disease. It was me minus five feet and some inches, compressed into slices of paper.  It didn’t feel like me though. I didn’t remember most of the finer print and I was afraid that if I read though it, remembered it, something in me would change. It’s a stupid feeling, I realized. But ignorance is bliss. Once I dropped it on the table, my curiosity took over and I thumbed through, holding it like an 8.5x11 cartoon flip book.

 

I don’t remember how I saw it written. It could have been just as CP, or written out in full medical terms. I just remember that it was my mother’s choice to not tell Phil or me about Andrew’s disease, other than to say he was physically and mentally handicapped. I felt like I was going through something in her mind, something she had filed away a long time ago and only referenced it once or twice daily instead of every moment like she did after he died.

 

Why had she chosen to not tell us? I understand that we were young, but we weren’t stupid. Was she keeping our innocent minds free of big words we shouldn’t know? She couldn’t hide everything though, like his wheelchair and the seizures. She did her best to explain them to us in kid-terms. My mind was more interested in the salamanders under the rocks in my neighbor’s yard.

 

I’m thinking now that maybe she did tell us, once or twice in passing. I was six when Andrew died and I only remember a handful of things that have him in it. Ninety percent of the memories involve instruments to help him with his disease, like his wheelchair, and the strange blue rocking chair with a harness to hold him upright; even the nest of blankets on the floor of the family room, where he’d lay with a huge smile on his face just watching us move around.

 

CP. Cerebral Palsy. From what I’ve learned from Google searches his was one of the bad cases. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk. He wore diapers up until his death. To me, this was part of life.

 

I must have pestered my parents about more details of Andrew’s condition because they never brought it up around me easily. I remember a simple line of dialogue, although I can’t say whose voice was speaking to me. It said that Andrew had the brain functions of a six-month old, even though he was much older than that.

 

I wonder if my parents, Mom in particular, were protecting us from the disease that had been labeled unknown for the beginning of Andrew’s life. She kept us from the hundreds of questions the rarely got answers to. Andrew was born in the mid-1980s, before any of the amazing medical knowledge we have now. For years, Andrew was in and out of the hospital, being tested, given different drugs. He had his first seizure before I was born, and was put on anti-seizure medications. I don’t know his medication history as fact so I must assume his doctors did that.

 

Was she protecting him more so though? She must have dealt with so many questions from other parents for his entire life, like why his eyes didn’t focus on one thing, why he drooled, and why his voice always rang out in child-like singing. Phil and I could stand up against our tormentors, but Andrew could only vaguely look at them and smile.

 

Still, she didn’t hide Andrew in the safety of our house. We went out to amusement parks, went on vacation to the Jersey shore. Mom protected him as best as she could, but she couldn’t keep from losing him that night in August thirteen years ago. He slipped away in the middle of the night. We didn’t know why and even now we don’t. Was it from a grand mal seizure or some other side-effect of CP?

 

Maybe my parents do know but they’re not telling Phil or me. They’re being our parents, protecting us from the things that will only hurt us. And because, for some things, ignorance is bliss.

 

Reviews

[SR Urie]

hiya ink.
Sorry about your brother. I like your story about how you and your unfortunate brother dealt with the nightmare of CP, along with your mom. It's difficult to imagine, ever for a guy who's had his share of wheelchairs, bedpans, and being teased in childhood.
Your text is very well written and flows. I would reccomend that you spell out the circumstances, the various trials and tribulations, and then address the question as to why your mom kept certain aspects of CP from you and your brother. I understand you're in pain and have issues with her silence. But there is an unwritten rule in good writing and it is very simple; you want to repeat yourself as little as possible, especially in different sections of your story. By explaining everything that happened and how your brother died suddenly and how your mom repeatedly kept quiet about the ugly facts of the disease, addressing your feelings at the end and asking those questions about your mom's motivations will give the whole story more emphasis in the climax; in this case how you feel about her silence.
You have a good story here. Keep up the good work! BZ