Dear Patrick,
I was then an only child who had everything I could ever
want. But even a pretty, spoiled and rich kid could get lonely once in a while
so when Mom told me that she was pregnant, I was ecstatic. I imagined how
wonderful you would be and how we'd always be together and how much you would
look like me. So, when you were born, I looked at your tiny hands and feet and
marveled at how beautiful you were.
We took you home and I showed you
proudly to my friends. They would touch you and sometimes pinch you, but you
never reacted. When you were five months old, some things began to bother Mom.
You seemed so unmoving and numb, and your cry sounded odd --- almost like a
kitten's. So we brought you to many doctors.
The thirteenth doctor who
looked at you quietly said you have the "cry du chat" (pronounced Kree-do-sha)
syndrome, "cry of the cat" in French.
When I asked what that meant, he
looked at me with pity and softly said, "Your brother will never walk nor talk."
The doctor told us that it is a condition that afflicts one in 50,000 babies,
rendering victims severely retarded. Mom was shocked and I was furious. I
thought it was unfair.
When we went home, Mom took you in her arms and
cried. I looked at you and realized that word will get around that you're not
normal. So to hold on to my popularity, I did the unthinkable ... I disowned
you. Mom and Dad didn't know but I steeled myself not to love you as you grew.
Mom and Dad showered you love and attention and that made me bitter. And as the
years passed, that bitterness turned to anger, and then hate.
Mom never
gave up on you. She knew she had to do it for your sake.
Everytime she
put your toys down, you'd roll instead of crawl. I watched her heart break every
time she took away your toys and strapped your tummy with foam so you couldn't
roll. You struggle and you're cry in that pitiful way, the cry of the kitten.
But she still didn't give up.
And then one day, you defied what all your
doctors said -- you crawled.
When mom saw this, she knew you would
eventually walk. So when you were still crawling at age four, she'd put you on
the grass with only your diapers on knowing that you hate the feel of the grass
on your skin.
Then she'd leave you there. I would sometimes watch from
the windows and smile at your discomfort. You would crawl to the sidewalk and
Mom would put you back. Again and again, Mom repeated this on the lawn. Until
one day, Mom saw you pull yourself up and toddle off the grass as fast as your
little legs could carry you.
Laughing and crying, she shouted for Dad
and I to come. Dad hugged you crying openly.
I watched from my bedroom
window this heartbreaking scene.
Over the years, Mom taught you to speak,
read and write. From then on, I would sometime see you walk outside, smell the
flowers, marvel at the birds, or just smile at no one. I began to see the beauty
of the world through your eyes. It was then that I realized that you were my
brother and no matter how much I tried to hate you, I couldn't, because I had
grown to love you.
During the next few days, we again became acquainted
with each other. I would buy you toys and give you all the love that a sister
could ever give to her brother. And you would reward me by smiling and hugging
me.
But I guess, you were never really meant for us. On your tenth
birthday, you felt severe headaches. The doctor's diagnosis --leukemia. Mom
gasped and Dad held her, while I fought hard to keep my tears from falling. At
that moment, I loved you all the more. I couldn't even bear to leave your side.
Then the doctors told us that your only hope is to have a bonemarrow transplant.
You became the subject of a nationwide donor search. When at last we found the
right match, you were too sick, and the doctor reluctantly ruled out the
operations. Since then, you underwent chemotherapy and radiation.
Even
at the end, you continued to pursue life. Just a month before you died, you made
me draw up a list of things you wanted to do when you got out of the hospital.
Two days after the list was completed, you asked the doctors to send you home.
There, we ate ice cream and cake, run across the grass, flew kites, went
fishing, took pictures of one another and let the balloons fly. I remember the
last conversation that we had. You said that if you die, and if I need of help,
I could send you a note to heaven by tying it on the string of any balloon and
letting it fly. When you said this, I started crying. Then you hugged me. Then
again, for the last time, you got sick.
That last night, you asked for
water, a back rub, a cuddle. Finally, you went into seizure with tears streaming
down your face. Later, at the hospital, you struggled to talk but the words
wouldn't come. I know what you wanted to say. "Hear you," I whispered. And for
the last time, I said, "I'll always love and I will never forget you. Don't be
afraid. You'll soon be with God in heaven." Then, with my tears flowing freely,
I watched the bravest boy I had ever known finally stop breathing. Dad, Mom and
I cried until I felt as if there were no more tears left. Patrick was finally
gone, leaving us behind.
From then on, you were my source of
inspiration. You showed me how to love life and live to the fullest. With your
simplicity and honesty, you showed me a world full of love and caring. And you
made me realize that the most important thing in this life is to continue loving
without asking why or how and without setting any limit.
Thank you, my
little brother, for all these.
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