A TOUCHING STORY
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 bone marrow 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.

So touching

I'm tearing up already. What a life

Hmmm, really touching story.....