One Breezy Summer

One Breezy Summer

I’d have to say that my life didn’t really begin until my little brother was born. In fact, any recollections and memories, from the time I took my first breath up until the age of five, are just blurry, abstract visions. But when David came home for the first time, every memory… every moment of my life proceeding, is as clear as a summer sunset. Memories aren’t just past stories; they are whole environments, eloquently placed in your mind for you to visit when your heart calls.

My brother wasn’t much fun until he was able to move around on his own, even though it was all done in a walker. I used to climb into David’s crib and sing to him. The song had only one line, which I would repeat over and over again, “Go to sleep, my David… close your eyes, my David”. Patting him gently on his backside, his diaper would make a padded “poof, poof, poof, poof…” sound, like a quiet drum. And soon, my baby brother would fall fast asleep… slow, healthy breathing. Each breath was a whisper to me: “We’re gonna have fun, big brother”.

David grew to be a skinny, little kid. His legs, always draped in skateboard shorts, were like that of a marionette puppet, so frail, yet nimble as can be, dancing and moving freely through the air. His little, brown body seemed to shrink every time he jumped into a swimming pool, and our little giggles would turn to laughter when he arose out of the water; black, wet hair plastered down in front of his eyes, branding a silver-capped smile. Being physically small, threats on his ability was always combated with smart remarks and daring feats. Yet the playfulness and gentle nature behind all my brother’s antics were special and true, and brought nothing but joy to all of us.

These were the times when I used to perch David on the front of my BMX bicycle. Through our neighborhood we would ride: up John Street, right on Wanzer, left on Fair Ave… all the way up to the Almar Shopping Center, where the five-and-dime store had the sweetest candy and the most wonderful toys. The old ladies who worked there always greeted us. Their red aprons branded marks right above the pockets from placing open pens into them. The world seems to go slower when you’re eleven years old. Bills and traffic were something my parents talked about, but for David and I, the breezy Summers in Santa Cruz seemed like endless strands of silk, waving about in the bliss of childhood.

There are many things I can recall about those days of wonder and exploration. And it was golden to share each experience of my childhood with my little brother tailing behind me. Golden, like the speckles of salty rust on our tool shed, or like the litter of orange peels at a campground barbeque. I think back to the summer of 1986, and wish I can relive it, those sweet, golden moments. My brother, always there with me…
My brother became sick about six years ago, and I didn’t know why. Often we blame, or try to find reasoning behind the onset of mental illness. We also deny, or look back at what we could have done to prevent it. It is easy to fight the thing that hurts us, but hard to accept it. We all experienced the shock, denial, depression, and acceptance of my brother’s illness. Yet it was our unconditional love… the relentless struggle to search for answers that forced us to stay our course. Other families stricken with mental illness look at us as heroes. They used to say things like, “It is incredible how much you support David.” Yet really, it wasn’t a superhero effort, or some valiant deed to fight for the improvement of quality of life for my brother, it was just Love. Plain and simple.

I realize that I can go into the details of what my family went through during the years of (what I refer to as) my brother’s challenge. But as a reader of this story, you probably can imagine. In fact, I invite you to reflect on your own personal experience and relate it to ours. I also invite you to discuss with yourself the meaning of quality of life.

Unfortunately, there is no magic pill for those stricken with mental illness. We can’t drink a potion, or wish upon a star to make it go away. We can, however, grab hold of the illness, look at it with open, accepting heart, and make the lives our loved ones something special.

I refer to my brother’s condition as a “challenge” rather than an illness. My brother wasn’t sick or diseased. Just challenged. And when my loved ones are challenged, I am right there, by their side to overcome the challenge. This is unconditional love, and it improved the quality of life for my brother. He still smiled, he still laughed (though he had to force it at times), and the love we gave him reflected onto others who were also fighting a similar battle. If our love constitutes heroism, all of those who are advocates for mental illness deserve the honor.

During the brief stay on this Earth, my brother David had many obstacles and battles, some were won, and some lost, but he never fought them alone. The day will come when I have used up my breath, and I will meet up with David again. We will climb up onto that shiny, white BMX bike, and ride forever into a warm, breezy summer.

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