Grandma Brown says Tommy is a "sickly child."
I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I hear the imperious voice of my grandmother on the other end of the phone. She might be in Pittsburgh, but she sounds as if she's in the next room.
"He's doing much better, Mother Brown." Mom always refers to Grandma as "Mother Brown". She closes her eyes and rubs her forehead. "We've switched him to soy milk."
Thomas Joseph Brown, our ninth sibling, is born on Valentines Day, 1969. From practically his first day on Earth, he has trouble keeping milk down. Because Mom is worried, the rest of us are, too. Tommy is already thin and fragile when the pediatrician finally advises our frazzled mother to switch to soy milk. Mom feeds Tommy in tiny helpings then places him gently over her shoulder to murmur comforts.
At last, our sweet baby brother begins to thrive. He smiles continuously, and his cheeks become fat and rosy.
"Mr. Mashed Potato Cheeks!" I tease him, and my mother laughs.
We are especially protective of Tommy. Deb and Mary, just little girls themselves, cart him around on their hips. My brothers act like clowns and constantly perform.
"Tom! Watch this!" They make faces, pretend to fall on their faces, and generally make buffoons of themselves - anything to hear Tommy's contagious little chuckle. He is never cranky, never demanding. Our little brother appears to exist solely to be loved and adored by the rest of us.
It's when our last sibling Jeffrey Joseph is born that Tommy discovers his life's purpose. Just two years old, he at once regards himself as Jeff's personal caretaker. Sitting close to Mom as she feeds Jeff , Tommy gently strokes Jeff's soft baby head.
"I'm right here, Jeffey," Tommy sings to Jeff in his toddler voice as if to reassure our infant brother.
Grandma Penney, Mom's mom, can hardly keep her eyes off Tommy. She makes the long drive from Beatrice to visit us and cannot drag herself away from our little brother.
"He's so much like Al," she tells Mom, wiping tears from her eyes. Al is our deceased grandfather. "Sometimes I think he's Al come back to me," Grandma confides to Mom.
Tommy is a gift, Grandma reminds us again and again. For some reason, Mom feels anxious whenever Grandma says this. She holds Tommy a little closer as if he might be snatched away and taken from all of us.
One spring day when Tommy is three, he nearly is snatched away. A 15-year-old girl learning to drive catastrophically runs over our little brother in our very own front yard.
It happens on a late spring afternoon when our cousins, the Ryans, are visiting from Denver. MaryLee is actually Dad's cousin, and she, her husband Joe, and their five kids are some of our very favorite people. On Sunday afternoon Mom, Dad, Joe and MaryLee go off to play tennis. As the oldest, I am left in charge. Instead of supervising the kids in the front yard, however, I sprawl on the couch to watch tv.
In the yard, Deb playfully throws Tommy's Micky Mouse across the street, and Tommy is outraged. When no one is paying attention, he toddles across the road to retrieve Micky Mouse. He's just stepped foot into our yard again when the 15-year-old driver, accompanied by four older women all talking at once, panics and swerves into Tommy.
My brother Rick and I rush outside to see a car resting in the middle of our front yard. I hear my baby brother screaming beneath the vehicle. The teenage driver grips the wheel and refuses to move. A woman gets out of the car but stands dazed and confused. Twelve-year-old Rick crouches under the car and begins to crawl toward Tommy who lies on his side pinned to the ground by the tail pipe.
Rick can only edge his way so far. "Tommy!" he shouts over our little brother's screams. "Roll over on your stomach and crawl to me!"
Somehow Tommy is able to follow Rick's simple directions and pulls himself with his arms to Rick. He is bleeding profusely from his side and head, and both legs are contorted in strange angles.
"I want a jelly sandwich!!" Tommy screams. He's in shock. My brothers bend over to comfort him, and Joe yells over his shoulder. "Cathy, call an ambulance!"
It takes several attempts to force my shaking hands to work the telephone dial, but at last help is on the way.
Miles away at the tennis court, Mom hears the ambulance siren and immediately feels a terrible sense of foreboding. "I hope the kids are okay," she turns to Dad.
"Patti," Dad says reasonably, "this is a town of 32,000 people. What are the odds?"
At home, the paramedics have carefully lifted Tommy into the ambulance, and I am allowed to ride with him. A policeman has just arrived, and my brothers give him directions to the tennis courts and our parents.
Tommy is suddenly quiet and unresponsive in the ambulance.
"Tommy?" I hold his hand and lean close to his face. He stares at me but doesn't answer, and I begin to weep.
"He's okay," the paramedic pats my shoulder.
At the hospital, Mom and Dad and the Ryans have arrived ahead of us. They do not know which of their children has been injured, and I see my mother and MaryLee running toward the ambulance. As soon as the paramedic opens the door, Mom is there. She sees Tommy and covers her face with her hands.
"He's all right, Mom!" I say. She nods her head and follows Tommy and the paramedics as they sprint into the hospital. MaryLee follows close behind. Standing by the door of the ambulance and waiting for me is my big, safe father. I need him very much.
"Dad," I fall out of the ambulance and sob. "It was my fault. I wasn't watching."
Dad preaches "responsibility" to all of us day in day out. I understand he will be very, very angry. But he's not.
"Babe! Babe!" he grips my shoulders. We march into the hospital, and I lean against him and sob all the way. I am certain Tommy will die and that I will never see him again.
But he doesn't die.
Tommy remains at Lutheran Hospital for a long time. Doctors close the wound on his side with 18 stitches and cast his right leg. His left leg is broken so badly that it requires traction for three weeks. Mom is adamant that he will never be left alone in the hospital. She's there every morning when he wakes up and stays with him at night until he falls asleep. The rest of us older kids take shifts during the day.
The nurses on Tommy's floor fall in love with him. Two of them check on him often.
"You are such a cutie!" one young nurse kisses his mashed potato cheeks.
Tommy flirts with her. "YOU'RE a cutie!" he chuckles.
By the end of those three weeks, Tommy's second leg is in a cast, too, and we carry him home in a blanket. Mom and Dad gently place him in a reclining position in the back seat, and for the first time in his life, Tommy doesn't have to sit in the crack of the station wagon.
It's a long summer of recovery for our little brother. We carry him in and out of the house on his blanket. On warm summer days, he reclines outside while Mom gardens and the little kids play. Inside, he claims the tv room couch. When some of us sit beside him, we carefully raise his legs and place them on top of our laps. He occasionally lifts his plastered cast legs and lets them drop with a crack on our knees.
"Dang it, Tommy!" Rick howls in pain. Tommy chuckles in delight.
We help him go to the bathroom in a jug. We bring all his food to him and carry him to bed at night.
"Take me to the backyard!" he commands. "Bring the jug!"
He orders us around like servants, and we perform every single task. How can we not? Every day we witness his struggle to sit up or roll over with two burdensome casts on his legs. Other than the delight he takes in bossing us around, he rarely whines or cries with the frustration of it all. He is, in fact, remarkably cheerful and sunny. We cannot help but think that he might not be with us at all.
Everyone of us is filled with guilt. Deb cannot forgive herself for tossing his Mickey Mouse across the street. She blames herself for the accident. But I know differently. I was in charge of Tommy that day. I am his big sister, and I didn't take care of him. I vow never again in my life to fail him.
It's a great day for all of us when Tommy is broken free from his casts. With physical therapy, he soon is walking and running again. He seems to suffer no trauma or ill effects from the accident. He does, however, continue to be our baby brother Jeff's caretaker.
In fact, for all the rest of his life, Tommy is a caretaker. He loves to distraction his beautiful wife and kids. He and Sheryl take in foster children and love them like their own. Tommy becomes director of the Primrose Retirement Home in Grand Island. His residents adore him, and he adores them.
He's even able to joke about the accident. Not long ago, Deb asks to borrow a cooler.
"Forget it," Tom cracks with a straight face. "You tried to kill me when I was three. Find your own damn cooler."
Then he laughs that same little contagious chuckle.
Tom is 47-years-old. He's tall, handsome and highly respected in the community. Many, many people depend on him.
But he's still my baby brother. I still love his mashed potato cheeks. And I cannot in a million years fathom life without him.
I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I hear the imperious voice of my grandmother on the other end of the phone. She might be in Pittsburgh, but she sounds as if she's in the next room.
Thomas Joseph Brown, our ninth sibling, is born on Valentines Day, 1969. From practically his first day on Earth, he has trouble keeping milk down. Because Mom is worried, the rest of us are, too. Tommy is already thin and fragile when the pediatrician finally advises our frazzled mother to switch to soy milk. Mom feeds Tommy in tiny helpings then places him gently over her shoulder to murmur comforts.
At last, our sweet baby brother begins to thrive. He smiles continuously, and his cheeks become fat and rosy.
"Mr. Mashed Potato Cheeks!" I tease him, and my mother laughs.We are especially protective of Tommy. Deb and Mary, just little girls themselves, cart him around on their hips. My brothers act like clowns and constantly perform.
"Tom! Watch this!" They make faces, pretend to fall on their faces, and generally make buffoons of themselves - anything to hear Tommy's contagious little chuckle. He is never cranky, never demanding. Our little brother appears to exist solely to be loved and adored by the rest of us.
It's when our last sibling Jeffrey Joseph is born that Tommy discovers his life's purpose. Just two years old, he at once regards himself as Jeff's personal caretaker. Sitting close to Mom as she feeds Jeff , Tommy gently strokes Jeff's soft baby head."I'm right here, Jeffey," Tommy sings to Jeff in his toddler voice as if to reassure our infant brother.
Grandma Penney, Mom's mom, can hardly keep her eyes off Tommy. She makes the long drive from Beatrice to visit us and cannot drag herself away from our little brother.
"He's so much like Al," she tells Mom, wiping tears from her eyes. Al is our deceased grandfather. "Sometimes I think he's Al come back to me," Grandma confides to Mom.
Tommy is a gift, Grandma reminds us again and again. For some reason, Mom feels anxious whenever Grandma says this. She holds Tommy a little closer as if he might be snatched away and taken from all of us.
One spring day when Tommy is three, he nearly is snatched away. A 15-year-old girl learning to drive catastrophically runs over our little brother in our very own front yard.
It happens on a late spring afternoon when our cousins, the Ryans, are visiting from Denver. MaryLee is actually Dad's cousin, and she, her husband Joe, and their five kids are some of our very favorite people. On Sunday afternoon Mom, Dad, Joe and MaryLee go off to play tennis. As the oldest, I am left in charge. Instead of supervising the kids in the front yard, however, I sprawl on the couch to watch tv.
In the yard, Deb playfully throws Tommy's Micky Mouse across the street, and Tommy is outraged. When no one is paying attention, he toddles across the road to retrieve Micky Mouse. He's just stepped foot into our yard again when the 15-year-old driver, accompanied by four older women all talking at once, panics and swerves into Tommy.
My brother Rick and I rush outside to see a car resting in the middle of our front yard. I hear my baby brother screaming beneath the vehicle. The teenage driver grips the wheel and refuses to move. A woman gets out of the car but stands dazed and confused. Twelve-year-old Rick crouches under the car and begins to crawl toward Tommy who lies on his side pinned to the ground by the tail pipe.
Rick can only edge his way so far. "Tommy!" he shouts over our little brother's screams. "Roll over on your stomach and crawl to me!"
Somehow Tommy is able to follow Rick's simple directions and pulls himself with his arms to Rick. He is bleeding profusely from his side and head, and both legs are contorted in strange angles.
"I want a jelly sandwich!!" Tommy screams. He's in shock. My brothers bend over to comfort him, and Joe yells over his shoulder. "Cathy, call an ambulance!"
It takes several attempts to force my shaking hands to work the telephone dial, but at last help is on the way.
Miles away at the tennis court, Mom hears the ambulance siren and immediately feels a terrible sense of foreboding. "I hope the kids are okay," she turns to Dad.
"Patti," Dad says reasonably, "this is a town of 32,000 people. What are the odds?"
At home, the paramedics have carefully lifted Tommy into the ambulance, and I am allowed to ride with him. A policeman has just arrived, and my brothers give him directions to the tennis courts and our parents.
Tommy is suddenly quiet and unresponsive in the ambulance.
"Tommy?" I hold his hand and lean close to his face. He stares at me but doesn't answer, and I begin to weep.
"He's okay," the paramedic pats my shoulder.
At the hospital, Mom and Dad and the Ryans have arrived ahead of us. They do not know which of their children has been injured, and I see my mother and MaryLee running toward the ambulance. As soon as the paramedic opens the door, Mom is there. She sees Tommy and covers her face with her hands.
"He's all right, Mom!" I say. She nods her head and follows Tommy and the paramedics as they sprint into the hospital. MaryLee follows close behind. Standing by the door of the ambulance and waiting for me is my big, safe father. I need him very much.
"Dad," I fall out of the ambulance and sob. "It was my fault. I wasn't watching."
Dad preaches "responsibility" to all of us day in day out. I understand he will be very, very angry. But he's not.
"Babe! Babe!" he grips my shoulders. We march into the hospital, and I lean against him and sob all the way. I am certain Tommy will die and that I will never see him again.
But he doesn't die.
Tommy remains at Lutheran Hospital for a long time. Doctors close the wound on his side with 18 stitches and cast his right leg. His left leg is broken so badly that it requires traction for three weeks. Mom is adamant that he will never be left alone in the hospital. She's there every morning when he wakes up and stays with him at night until he falls asleep. The rest of us older kids take shifts during the day.
The nurses on Tommy's floor fall in love with him. Two of them check on him often.
"You are such a cutie!" one young nurse kisses his mashed potato cheeks.
Tommy flirts with her. "YOU'RE a cutie!" he chuckles.
By the end of those three weeks, Tommy's second leg is in a cast, too, and we carry him home in a blanket. Mom and Dad gently place him in a reclining position in the back seat, and for the first time in his life, Tommy doesn't have to sit in the crack of the station wagon.
It's a long summer of recovery for our little brother. We carry him in and out of the house on his blanket. On warm summer days, he reclines outside while Mom gardens and the little kids play. Inside, he claims the tv room couch. When some of us sit beside him, we carefully raise his legs and place them on top of our laps. He occasionally lifts his plastered cast legs and lets them drop with a crack on our knees.
"Dang it, Tommy!" Rick howls in pain. Tommy chuckles in delight.
We help him go to the bathroom in a jug. We bring all his food to him and carry him to bed at night.
"Take me to the backyard!" he commands. "Bring the jug!"
He orders us around like servants, and we perform every single task. How can we not? Every day we witness his struggle to sit up or roll over with two burdensome casts on his legs. Other than the delight he takes in bossing us around, he rarely whines or cries with the frustration of it all. He is, in fact, remarkably cheerful and sunny. We cannot help but think that he might not be with us at all.
Everyone of us is filled with guilt. Deb cannot forgive herself for tossing his Mickey Mouse across the street. She blames herself for the accident. But I know differently. I was in charge of Tommy that day. I am his big sister, and I didn't take care of him. I vow never again in my life to fail him.
It's a great day for all of us when Tommy is broken free from his casts. With physical therapy, he soon is walking and running again. He seems to suffer no trauma or ill effects from the accident. He does, however, continue to be our baby brother Jeff's caretaker.
In fact, for all the rest of his life, Tommy is a caretaker. He loves to distraction his beautiful wife and kids. He and Sheryl take in foster children and love them like their own. Tommy becomes director of the Primrose Retirement Home in Grand Island. His residents adore him, and he adores them.
 |
| Tom and his family, 2011 |
"Forget it," Tom cracks with a straight face. "You tried to kill me when I was three. Find your own damn cooler."
Then he laughs that same little contagious chuckle.
Tom is 47-years-old. He's tall, handsome and highly respected in the community. Many, many people depend on him.
But he's still my baby brother. I still love his mashed potato cheeks. And I cannot in a million years fathom life without him.
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