I have alluded to the topic of my brother in other blog posts and have been meaning to write a post about him. As it turned out, a cousin of mine is doing a paper that fit right in with my family's situation. My mom graciously agreed to be interviewed then I was asked for my input. The following is just a silver of what I wanted to write about my brother but it will have to do.

I have an older brother who is three years my senior. To be honest, I don’t think about him all that often because most of the time, I forget that I even have a sibling. I know it sounds awful but over time, I have come to see myself as an only child—a combination of how my own parents feel and my gradual agreement with them.

Obviously, I cannot recall very much of how I felt or thought when I was an infant but I am sure that even though I wasn’t explicitly told what was different about my brother, I could feel it. As I grew up, I couldn’t understand why I was able to feed myself but my brother still needed to be spoon-fed. My mother told me once of how I questioned her about this as a little girl, maybe 4 or 5-years-old.

I could feel it in how others would stare at my brother and us every time we went out in public. I remember feeling anger as a pre-teen at those who would whisper, point, and/or stare at us. Since we stood out, I did everything I could to “not stand out” because I had had enough stares and whispers from strangers in my lifetime.

Going on vacation with my brother was always an “ordeal” for my parents. They had to make sure we had a special wheelchair for my brother. We had to be able to mash or grind his food into small bits for him to eat. Whenever we went to Disneyland, we could only ride on the handicapped accessible rides for my brother. I didn’t fully understand the allure of Disneyland as a child.

I have many cousins and many of them have siblings. None had a sibling like I did though. Unconsciously, I would observe how they would react to each other. Talk with each other. Play with each other. And I couldn’t relate to any of it.

I tried, on many occasions, to spend time with my brother. One of my mother’s favorite recollections is one where I slathered on white Desitin cream all over my brother’s body when I was only 4-years-old. She always gets a kick out of retelling that story to anyone who will listen.

Other times, I would sit with my brother and talk with him. I’d ask him questions but he’d never answer back. Or if he did, it would be moans or grunts but I could never be sure if he understood what I was asking him. A few times, I would try to be a teacher to him and help him learn colors or shapes.

By and by, my one-on-one visits with him declined. It’s hard to have a one-sided relationship with someone when you aren’t even sure they understand what’s going on around them.

I ached to have a sibling that I could relate to. Every so often, my parents would talk about adopting a child. I would always be ecstatic. I would finally have someone that I could play video games with. Someone I could hide under the blankets and tell secrets to. It never came to fruition though.

One Christmas, I remember a cousin asking my mom, “What’s wrong with him?” I was 10-years-old at the time and I was very bothered by the question but I couldn’t understand why. Now that I’m older, I now know why it does. It’s the presumption that anything outside of what we consider “normal” is wrong. There’s nothing wrong with my brother. He’s just different. Unfortunately, it has taken me until adulthood to realize this and I fear that my own parents do not see my brother in this light.

My own mother has admitted to me that the discovery of my brother’s situation was devastating to her, my father, and their marriage. They were deeply depressed because even though their first born was a son, he wasn’t “normal” and my living grandparents at the time were disappointed—being of Asian descent, a son is more favorable than a girl. There was pressure to have another child—another son. But they had me instead, a girl; a double whammy for my parents.

Any parent will tell you that it is a joy to watch their children develop and grow. I know this myself, since I have three children of my own. I love the baby years. I love the toddler years. I love the preschool and elementary years. I can’t say for certain that I’ll love the teenage years since our children aren’t yet teenagers but I am sure there will be ups and downs but they will still be memorable.

However, my mother has poignantly explained to me how it is with my brother. For her, it is as if you have a baby but the baby doesn’t develop. He will forever need to be fed, diapered, and treated as a baby even though their body grows to be 100 pounds and a gangly four feet seven inches. It is an exhausting job that has no end in sight until one is placed in a home or death occurs.

That is all that I sent to my cousin since she only wanted experiences of when I was still living at home. However, it doesn't ever end there, does it? There's long reaching aspects. Once in a while, my parents will talk about how I may have to take guardianship of my brother if anything were to happen to them. I didn't write about how I had seriously considered having him live with me because I felt it was my sisterly duty to take care of him since my parents were no longer able to. I didn't write about how I am a carrier for the chromosome translocation, which is the reason why I've had more miscarriages than live births--all before 30 and was the main reason for having a tubal ligation; I couldn't handle any more heart ache.

There's just so much that needs to be said but only so much capacity in what others desire to hear or read.