Mom worries about our baby brother.
Jeffrey Joseph is a year old and still makes no attempt to walk or even to pull himself up in his crib. Mom takes him back again and again to our gruff old pediatrician who finally throws up his hands.
"You worry about this baby too much," he growls irritably. "His only trouble is that he's got nine brothers and sisters who do everything for him!"
Mom wants desperately to believe him. In a few months, however, when Jeff is still not walking, Mom takes him to another doctor who recommends a visit to Omaha for tests with specialists. Dad takes the day off, and he and Mom bundle our baby brother up to make the all important trip for the results of the tests. They don't return until after 8 that night, and by then we're all anxious to hear only that our sweet, yellow-haired brother is fine and healthy. When we crowd around them at the door, though, we know immediately Mom has been crying.
"Kids," Dad ushers us into the living room, "everybody sit down," he says gently. He and Mom don't even bother to remove their heavy coats. We are silent and fearful for what he will tell us. Mom, who holds Jeff close, eases herself onto the big couch next to Dad, and the rest of us assemble on the floor to face them. Dad's eyes are piercingly blue and bore into us as they do when he is about to tell us something earth shaking, like "Somebody took the money off my dresser" or "We're moving to Grand Island, Nebaska." Mom says nothing but avoids our eyes as she removes Jeff's jacket and mittens. We wish Dad would say something.
"What's wrong with Jeff?" Joe finally breaks the silence.
Dad sighs deeply. "Your little brother has Cerebral Palsy."
We stare back. None of us has ever heard of Cerebral Palsy, but it sounds frightening and final, as if Jeff might die.
Dad rubs his hand over his face. "It's something that affects Jeff's muscles. He may have trouble walking and talking."
Our baby brother, the subject of this dire discussion, sits on Mom's lap free of the heavy jacket and mittens and grins.
"Will he get over it?" I ask. My voice shakes.
Mom looks up to smile tremulously. "No, but he'll be all right," she tries to sound confident. "We'll all help him to be all right."
We don't believe her. Our baby brother will struggle the rest of his life to walk and talk. How can anything ever be all right?
Instinctively, our little brother Tommy, who is not quite four-years-old but who regards himself as Jeff's personal caretaker, goes to Jeff and gently pats his back. "It's okay, Jeffy," he sings softly. "Everything's okay."
Mom loses her composure and weeps softly. Dad moves closer to put his arm around her. His blue eyes are very bright when he looks at us. "We're a big family, and we've been very lucky," he says. "Things like this happen. But we'll get through it."
Dad's always talking about getting through things as a family. "Family is everything!" he reminds us when we bicker and argue with each other. Most of the time I roll my eyes and long for the time I can depart for college to enjoy space and privacy without a million kids around.
But tonight I am grateful for my brothers and sisters. Life all at once seems perilous and uncertain, and each of us feels a great surge of protectiveness for our baby brother who sits innocently on my mother's lap. We want to shield him from the frightening future ahead. We want him to enjoy a healthy, happy life. We want him to be normal.
But we will not be able to protect him from everything. Most importantly, we learn that "normal" is a detestable word. Jeff is neither normal nor abnormal. He is our baby brother who must face a world outside our front door that is not always kind to him.
In kindergarten, he will enter special ed classes with braces on his legs. For the first time in his life, he will discover he's different - that other kids will leave him to himself on the playground. Teachers are kind, but he will want only to run and play with his classmates.
"I can't run good," he cries at home as my mother pulls him close.
"You know what your big brother Mick calls me when I run?" Mom comforts him. "Turtle! Can you believe that?"
Jeff, in spite of himself, giggles. Mom can always make him laugh. My sister Mary, only 13, constantly carts him around on her hip. "Little Mother", Mom calls her. At home, Jeff is safe. But even at home, we must remind him to swallow. His disability causes him to drool incessantly. When he walks on his toes, Dad will remind him to plant his heels on the floor. "Heel, toe, Jeff!"
In middle school, an unforgiving teacher will refuse to adapt her social studies class to Jeff's needs. I tutor him for hours drilling him over Machu Piccu, the Incas and the Andes Mountains. Tired and frustrated, I snap at him when he can't keep it all straight. "Concentrate, Jeff!" After a moment, I hear his soft sob. He cries next to me on the tv room couch. We've studied for more than two hours straight, and he's exhausted. I cannot forgive myself in that moment.
"You know what I think about your social studies teacher?" I burn with rage. "She's a mean old cow, and I hate her."
Jeff is so surprised, he forgets to cry. We make a peanut butter sandwich and forget about Machu Piccu.
But there are kind teachers, too - teachers like my beautiful friend Ellen May, Jeff's special ed teacher at Northwest High School, who will love him and encourage him. Jeff gravitates to her kindness and feels confident in her classroom.
More than anybody, Jeff will depend on our brother Tom. Tom reassures him, teases him, includes him, and is best friend to him. For all their lives, Tom will watch out for his little brother.
Jeff will never drive a car, never attend college, never own his own home. In fact, the difficulties and loneliness of his disability will drive him to despair and alcohol and substance abuse. For a long time, we fear that we will lose Jeff forever - that he is destined for an early death.
But we underestimate our youngest brother. With a supreme faith in God, he will fight to overcome his addictions. When we give him up for dead, he astounds us with his will to live. Sometimes, I think with awe, my baby brother is the strongest and bravest of us all. Jeff enriches our lives and helps us to be bigger and better people. He shows us how to be more tolerant, more perceptive, more understanding. Just more.
But tonight, when Jeff is 17 months old, and we are huddled together in the living room, none of us knows how strong Jeff must become - how strong we all must become. Tonight he is only my sweet, yellow haired baby brother.
One day, though, he will be my hero.
Jeffrey Joseph is a year old and still makes no attempt to walk or even to pull himself up in his crib. Mom takes him back again and again to our gruff old pediatrician who finally throws up his hands.
"You worry about this baby too much," he growls irritably. "His only trouble is that he's got nine brothers and sisters who do everything for him!"
 |
| Mom and Jeffrey Joseph, 1971 |
Mom wants desperately to believe him. In a few months, however, when Jeff is still not walking, Mom takes him to another doctor who recommends a visit to Omaha for tests with specialists. Dad takes the day off, and he and Mom bundle our baby brother up to make the all important trip for the results of the tests. They don't return until after 8 that night, and by then we're all anxious to hear only that our sweet, yellow-haired brother is fine and healthy. When we crowd around them at the door, though, we know immediately Mom has been crying.
"Kids," Dad ushers us into the living room, "everybody sit down," he says gently. He and Mom don't even bother to remove their heavy coats. We are silent and fearful for what he will tell us. Mom, who holds Jeff close, eases herself onto the big couch next to Dad, and the rest of us assemble on the floor to face them. Dad's eyes are piercingly blue and bore into us as they do when he is about to tell us something earth shaking, like "Somebody took the money off my dresser" or "We're moving to Grand Island, Nebaska." Mom says nothing but avoids our eyes as she removes Jeff's jacket and mittens. We wish Dad would say something.
"What's wrong with Jeff?" Joe finally breaks the silence.
Dad sighs deeply. "Your little brother has Cerebral Palsy."
We stare back. None of us has ever heard of Cerebral Palsy, but it sounds frightening and final, as if Jeff might die.
Dad rubs his hand over his face. "It's something that affects Jeff's muscles. He may have trouble walking and talking."
Our baby brother, the subject of this dire discussion, sits on Mom's lap free of the heavy jacket and mittens and grins.
"Will he get over it?" I ask. My voice shakes.
Mom looks up to smile tremulously. "No, but he'll be all right," she tries to sound confident. "We'll all help him to be all right."
We don't believe her. Our baby brother will struggle the rest of his life to walk and talk. How can anything ever be all right?
 |
| Jeffrey dresses himself up as Santa Claus, 1975 |
Mom loses her composure and weeps softly. Dad moves closer to put his arm around her. His blue eyes are very bright when he looks at us. "We're a big family, and we've been very lucky," he says. "Things like this happen. But we'll get through it."
Dad's always talking about getting through things as a family. "Family is everything!" he reminds us when we bicker and argue with each other. Most of the time I roll my eyes and long for the time I can depart for college to enjoy space and privacy without a million kids around.
But tonight I am grateful for my brothers and sisters. Life all at once seems perilous and uncertain, and each of us feels a great surge of protectiveness for our baby brother who sits innocently on my mother's lap. We want to shield him from the frightening future ahead. We want him to enjoy a healthy, happy life. We want him to be normal.
But we will not be able to protect him from everything. Most importantly, we learn that "normal" is a detestable word. Jeff is neither normal nor abnormal. He is our baby brother who must face a world outside our front door that is not always kind to him.
In kindergarten, he will enter special ed classes with braces on his legs. For the first time in his life, he will discover he's different - that other kids will leave him to himself on the playground. Teachers are kind, but he will want only to run and play with his classmates.
"I can't run good," he cries at home as my mother pulls him close.
"You know what your big brother Mick calls me when I run?" Mom comforts him. "Turtle! Can you believe that?"
Jeff, in spite of himself, giggles. Mom can always make him laugh. My sister Mary, only 13, constantly carts him around on her hip. "Little Mother", Mom calls her. At home, Jeff is safe. But even at home, we must remind him to swallow. His disability causes him to drool incessantly. When he walks on his toes, Dad will remind him to plant his heels on the floor. "Heel, toe, Jeff!"
 |
| Tom and Jeff, 1985 |
"You know what I think about your social studies teacher?" I burn with rage. "She's a mean old cow, and I hate her."
Jeff is so surprised, he forgets to cry. We make a peanut butter sandwich and forget about Machu Piccu.
But there are kind teachers, too - teachers like my beautiful friend Ellen May, Jeff's special ed teacher at Northwest High School, who will love him and encourage him. Jeff gravitates to her kindness and feels confident in her classroom.
More than anybody, Jeff will depend on our brother Tom. Tom reassures him, teases him, includes him, and is best friend to him. For all their lives, Tom will watch out for his little brother.
Jeff will never drive a car, never attend college, never own his own home. In fact, the difficulties and loneliness of his disability will drive him to despair and alcohol and substance abuse. For a long time, we fear that we will lose Jeff forever - that he is destined for an early death.
 |
| Jeff today. |
But tonight, when Jeff is 17 months old, and we are huddled together in the living room, none of us knows how strong Jeff must become - how strong we all must become. Tonight he is only my sweet, yellow haired baby brother.
One day, though, he will be my hero.
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