He ain't heavy, he's my brother

I have two brothers, both slightly older than me. They're different. One is quiet, serious, and has very few friends. The other is gregarious and meets a new friend every day. They're both handsome, tall, and brilliant.

Spending time in their company is always a treat. I especially like to be in the room for the rare times when they're together and listening to them talk. It reminds me of being a kid and how much I looked up to them.

I don't actually have a brother. I wonder how different family life would be if I did? Just my dad, my mother, my sister & me. I've often felt like a sort of surrogate son that my dad always wanted. (being by far the least girlie of the 3 women in the family.)

I have three. The oldest broke my heart and I refuse to have anything to do with him. My middle brother passed away almost two years ago now from lung cancer. He and I were the most connected. My youngest brother and I are close emotionally but weeks go by and we don't talk. Hopefully we'll do better in the future. I am the youngest and the only girl. It had/has it's plusses and it's minuses.

my brother is 20 and has a mild form of schitzophrenia.

Or so we think.

He wont stay with a doctor long enough to get a definate diagnosis, nor will he stay on meds long enough to see a difference.
He claims to be scared of peoples faces.
He thinks the FBI wants him for what he knows.
He thinks the neighbors talk about him

He lives in fear and depression that are not of his doing.

He is too skinny to be heavy..

I can't imagine not having a literal brother. Like mac, I had a great brother (though only one).

I was lucky enough to have the big brother from all the story books - the gentle giant, the thoughful monster.

He's not in any way a real monster - he's just BIG. I think he hit six feet by the sixth grade and people have always been a little intimidated by him -- which was really kind of great for a twerpy kid like me.

The fact that he is a General in the army and holds several advanced degrees is great for a twerpy adult like me too.

The fact that he is as funny as anyone you will ever see doing stand up comedy and that he loves with all his heart is great for all of us.

But this thread doesn't have to be about literal brothers - it can be about metaphorical brothers too.

The "brother" that inspired it is certainly not my sibling.

eoe and shewolf, you must have been posting when I was thinking.

Both of those stories are... are... are.... heavy and hard to carry.

I was going to post about how my older brother used to hold me down and fart on my head, but I don't think that it is very appropriate, do you?

Maybe some other time.

Boomer, this thread has come along at a sad time for me. I've been thinking constantly of both my bothers, but especially my brother Steve.

My brother, Steve, is 72 years old, almost nine years older than I. We have another brother named John, who is 70 years old. Both of them have Fragile X Syndrome causing mental retardation.

Steve is dying. He is as strong as an ox because he has walked everywhere he wanted to go as he could never drive a car; so he goes in and out of the hospital with one infection after another, but fights them off one at a time.

That many years ago, when we were young, mental retardation was considered a stigma. I remember one of the "church" ladies asking me if I thought god had punished my family by sending us two mentally retarded boys. I was four or five at the time and wanted to kick her in the shins. Instead, I just walked away. They were my brothers, my playmates. We lived in the desert far outside Tucson where we could just run wild, climbing trees and playing games of imagination. I thought them up and my brothers always played along. I tried to teach them the alphabet and numbers. They weren't heavy. I just loved them.

Then the time came when someone official told my parents that Steve and John should be sent to an institution, for my sake. Steve and John begged me to make our parents change their minds and let them stay at home. I tried, begging for them not to be sent away. I cried that it wouldn't be best for me. They trusted the official.

Johnny was much lower functioning than Steve. He never argued or tried to fight. Steve though, was a fighter and would never give up trying to get home. He would run away from the institution almost every month. He was always caught and, as a punishment, he would be placed in solitary confinement, which consisted of a small room with a mattress on the floor, a bench bolted to the wall and a slit for food. He was sixteen and wanted desperately to go home. Instead, he was in a prison, treated like a prisoner, including rape and beatings.

By the time I was sixteen, my parents had stopped going for visits even though the institution was only an hour's drive away. But as soon as I got my driver's license, I would drive up every couple of months. Then I would forget. High school band and orchestra were where I felt at home, so I didn't think of Steve or John…until the guilt kicked in again. They had gotten a little heavier.

As the years passed and I married, had a family, had a life, they began to resent me. When I would visit, they didn't look me in the eye, their sweet smiles would appear only rarely. By then, I was the maven of guilt. Oh how I loved them, yet they made me feel so incompetent. Why couldn't I make everything better? Why couldn't I cure them? My replies to them were simply expedient, so that we could get on to a safer subject. The weight was sometimes more than I wanted to bear. It was much easier to be busy with life and my own sons. I lived in Connecticut. They lived in Arizona. A trip once a year, with cards and letters in between visits appeased my conscience, but the weight?-I didn't need this worry. I hadn't helped them, hadn't cured them, hadn't prevented the nightmare of the institution.

Over the years, the official line was that institutions were inhumane. Go figure! Anyone with eyes knew that, even 16 year old girls. Steve was given enough freedom to live with a few other men. Too often, there was too much freedom. He went places which were dangerous. We found out that he was gay. He would do anything if he thought that person would be his friend. He would always lose him money to those predators who can smell the most vulnerable among us from ten miles away. Steve was like a free ride. They just had to be friendly and tell him they would never leave. Which was better?-the institution or the apartment? This might sound cold, but I would vote for the apartment every time. Dys calls it the dignity of risk. Steve's freedom was the only dignity he ever experienced until he moved to Denver and received services from an agency which treated him as an individual, with respect and attention to his wants and needs. For the first time in his life he received mental health services in addition to basic living assistance.

Many of the staff there actually loved him. By the time he moved to Denver, they saw a middle-aged man who could be very grumpy and obstructive, never trusting, always suspicious, always complaining. But with medication, the sweet man inside could come out for hours at a time. He learned to trust a little, for a few minutes at a time; but he needed constant reassurance that no one would hurt him or take his possessions away. After a few years, he learned that there were two or three people whom he could trust...almost without question. Those people were always there for him. Always.

So, the past fifteen years have been the happiest in his life. Since he has been so sick, his staff and I worry when he isn't grumpy?-we know he isn't feeling well. When he flirts with the nurses and complains about the food or the weather or life in general, we know he is feeling better. All we need to say to each other is that Steve has been a grump. We laugh and know exactly what is really being said.

I have his medical power of attorney, which means that I had to sign a statement not to take any extraordinary steps to extend his life if he enters a vegetative state. We talked about it for a couple of hours. I told him that Dys and I had agreed to the same thing if that happened to us. I told him that even my sons agreed with stopping life-saving treatment if they entered a vegetative coma. Steve understood and agreed that I should do the same for him. At the time, it was easy to talk about it as an academic exercise, a humanitarian philosophy. It was like a fist in the stomach when I had to say the words, sign the document.

I thank him everyday for letting me see, at a very early age, that hypocrisy is everywhere, especially among the most pious citizens. It took a little longer to realize that there are the most loving people in the world who will always try to make life better for others, no matter how disabled they happen to be. I will always thank him for helping me become a four-year-old skeptic.

He really isn't at all heavy. He is my big brother, my playmate, the guy who let me be a bossy little mother hen. He's my brother and I love him more than I can ever say.

Sh!t--that was really maudlin. Sorry. He's just a great guy who I will miss very much.

It's okay. Very much so.

It wasn't maudlin at all, Diane, just telling the situation as it has been. Absolutely no need to apologize. It can't have been at all easy.

It wasn't maudlin at all, Diane, just telling the situation as it has been. Absolutely no need to apologize. It can't have been at all easy.

Wow, Diane.

Yeah, okay, it was maudlin but man o man what an inspiration. What an amazing story. I'm still a little speechless.

Thank you.

Oops! Double post with no X box to delete the last one. Sorry.

Stop it, Diane. Don't you dare apologize for that.


(((((HUGS)))))

When I was 14, my family (me included) visited London. While hopping on the subway, a young man getting off told my mother that I was heavy. By the way he said it, I knew that it must have been a good thing, but I really did know for sure.

Now, when we have family outings, I think everyone assumes that my brother and I are a couple. Everyone else, except for the tiny tots, are paired.

So, Boomer, your thought makes PERFECT sense to me!

Geez, I just read up on this thread........ WOW.

Boomer,

I have two brothers. Both are what I like to call nut cases. lol

The older one, he's bi-polar.
Went into the Air Force straight out of High School, a few years later, he was sent to England. While there, he met/married another civilian from the states..and some drama took place, and he was discharged.
He's been married three times. Has a daughter from the first marriage that just turned 16, and he hasn't seen her in 10 years.
He's almost 40 and has resorted to living at home with my parents.
He's in college right now, working on a degree in Computer Science.
He won't hold a job, he can't seem to juggle both school and a career
He will not stay on his medication...the moment he begins to feel better, he stops the meds. Then we are back to square one with him.
He's annoying as hell to be around.
Always coming up with a new quirk...
I don't talk to him unless I have to. Thats Christmas...lol, and maybe Thanksgiving.

The really sad part about all of his problems, are some are genetic..but some of the others probably stem from the fact that he is literally a genius. The man can do anything he sets his mind to. Brilliant, when he's in the mood.. But he's never been challenged. And to lazy to challenge himself.

The younger brother is 33 and has never been married.
He's as sneaky as they get. And...he lives in my parents front yard.
As far as he goes, I couldn't tell you anything else.
He's one of them that would meet you on the street and never act like he knows who you are.
So..I just do him the same way. I have nothing to do with him either.

Now...if/ when you get ready to talk about sisters...HA, I got one for ya..lol, matter of fact, you can have her!

That's good to know--your first post was, like, heartbreaking. I don't know what I'd do without my sisters.