Family is Everything

I’m going to have to stop telling people I’m an only child.  This, in fact, has always been a lie; although explaining to people why it’s not true usually makes their eyes glass over and roll back in their heads.  So, I’ll try.

I have two brothers; one by blood and one through family.  Clear as mud, right?

My adoptive parents – who I have ALWAYS called “Mom” and “Dad” (and that will never, ever change) raised me as an only child as there were no other children in their household while I was growing up.  But I knew I had a “brother”.

My dad, Gordon had been in a relationship with a woman before he married my mom, Marjorie.  It’s unclear whether they married and I haven’t been able to find legal proof that they did, but they conceived a child together.  The real story is unclear and I only have the memory of my mother based on my father’s telling of the story to go by.  In any case, the child was born several weeks premature on December 25, 1949; completely blind and with severe brain damage.  He lived with my parents for a time but required constant care.  After I was born he went to live at a hospital and became a “ward” of the State of California.

I can remember my mother driving down to the hospital in Loma Linda, California (actually it’s in Pomona but she always said Loma Linda) several times a year to visit my brother.  As a child this didn’t seem abnormal because my parents told me my brother was very sick and lived in a hospital.  After my father died and we moved to Oregon, the visits stopped, although I know my mother still received annual reports on his health and welfare.

After my mother’s death in 2005 I contacted the social worker and asked to be listed as the next of kin.  Basically that means I am notified annually of his health and progress but have no “real” say in his care.  Annually the staff gets together and discusses his case and then I’m sent a report with every minuscule detail of his care.  It’s pretty confusing and interesting at the same time.  Every year I’m invited to attend in person or to conference call into the meeting.  Every year I’ve been intimidated and have declined the invitation.  This year I decided I wanted to make it work and the social worker graciously sent me a reminder and explained the process as well as forwarded on the agenda so I could follow along.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it was fascinating to have all those doctors, nurses, social workers and other staff in one room talking to me about a person that I’ve really never met.  It was a bit surreal.  They all took time to explain things to me; from acronyms to procedures.  They let me ask questions and answered them patiently and clearly.  It was obvious that they knew his likes and dislikes, needs and wants very well and took very good care of him.

 

And then, about 20 minutes into the meeting, there was the sound of a door opening (Oh, how I wish I had Skype) and the doctor leading the meeting said “Mrs. Norman, your brother is here.  Would you like to say hello to him?”  I could barely speak but managed a brief “Hello Gordon.”  He made a few guttural sounds that could roughly be interpreted as speaking, but more likely it was just him making noises.

My brother Gordon will never speak; will never see and will never function in “normal” society.  He will live in a care facility for the rest of his life with diapers and attendants and therapists monitoring his every move.  He likes music time (two hours per day, five days a week) but doesn’t really like people in his personal space.  He has a pacemaker, a GT (feeding) tube and has no concept of money or birds or cars or time.  He is in a wheelchair as his walking is so slow and shuffling; he frequently falls and hurt himself.  He probably has no memory or understanding of mother or father or sister.  They’re just words.

But the opportunity to “meet” him over the phone was incredible.  It brings tears to my eyes just to think about it again.  The staff encouraged me to send him photos for his room – he can’t see them, but they’ll make his room look more lived in and the staff can describe them to him.  They encouraged me to visit for a short or long time anytime I wanted to; they’d make every effort to make it a good experience for Gordon.

Photos and visits won’t make any impact on Gordon – I understand that.  There’s no “value” in visiting someone who is so profoundly mentally impaired that he has the function of at best an 18 month old but is 62 years old and wears a diaper.  But, he’s my brother.  My family.  A link to my father.  Another piece of me.

I also have another brother; one that I’m related to by blood.

I’m adopted.  My birth mother and birth father weren’t married when I was conceived.  My birth mother moved across the country – quite literally – to live with friends during her pregnancy and until she had delivered me.  She returned back to her home and eventually married my (birth) father.  My birth father had been married before and had a son from that marriage; this son is my half-brother. 

I’ve never met my half brother, but I know his address, phone number (thanks to the wonder of the internet) and could probably introduce myself and create a whole boatload of familial issues if I wanted to.  I haven’t yet dredged up the courage to start that road show yet.

One day I may and I’ll meet another part of my family.  A link to my mother and father.  Another piece of me.