I was an only child then—pretty, pampered, yet lonely. When my mother told me she was expecting a baby, I was overjoyed. I imagined a remarkable little brother who looked like me and would never leave my side.
When Patrick was born, I showed him off proudly to my friends. We'd touch him, pinch him a little, but he never reacted. At five months, something began to worry my mother. He seemed so still, almost sluggish, and his cries sounded strange—like a kitten's.
We took Patrick to many doctors. The thirteenth one examined him in silence, then said he had "cri du chat" syndrome. I asked what that meant. He looked at me with compassion and spoke very gently: "Your brother will never walk or speak. It's a chromosomal disease that affects one child in fifty thousand and leaves them retarded." My mother was shaken. I was furious. I thought it wasn't fair.
On the way home, I realized how quickly the news that my brother wasn't normal would spread. So to protect my popularity, I did something unthinkable: I rejected him. My parents never knew, but I decided to steel myself against loving him. My mother and father showered him with love and attention; it made me bitter. Over the years, that bitterness hardened into anger, then into hatred.
My mother never stopped fighting for Patrick's sake. She'd place toys just out of his reach. To get them, he would roll instead of crawl. So my mother wrapped his small body in sponge so he couldn't roll. Patrick would thrash and cry pitifully. But my mother would not budge. And one day Patrick moved forward on his hands and knees.
When my mother saw it, she knew he would walk. When he was four, he was still crawling. She put him on the grass with only a diaper, knowing he hated the feel of grass on his skin. Sometimes I'd watch from the window and smile at his discomfort. Again and again, my mother placed him on the grass until one day she saw him rise and walk with hesitant steps away from it. My father picked him up, crying. I watched from the window—a scene that tore at my heart. From that moment on, I saw him walking, looking at flowers, marveling at the birds, or simply smiling with his eyes. I began to recognize the beauty of the world around me, the simplicity of life, the wonders of creation. That was when I realized he was my brother, and I began to love him. In the days that followed, we grew closer. I gave him all the love a sister could give. He rewarded me with smiles and caresses.
On his tenth birthday, he had terrible headaches. The doctor's diagnosis: leukemia. At that moment, I loved him even more. I couldn't bear to leave his side. He was too sick to be operated on. Until the end, he clung to life. A month before he died, he asked me to make a list of things he wanted to do when he got out of the hospital. He asked the doctors to let him go home for two days. We ate ice cream and sweets, ran on the grass, took pictures of each other, flew balloons into the air.
I remember our last conversation: he told me that if he died and I ever needed help, I could send him a message in heaven by tying it to a balloon string and letting it fly.
Then, one last time, he had a crisis. His face was covered with tears. He was in the hospital, struggling to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I knew what he wanted to say. "I'm listening," I whispered, and added: "I will always love you and never forget you. Don't be afraid. You'll soon be with God in heaven."
Tears streamed down my face as I watched the bravest boy I ever knew and saw him stop breathing.
From that moment on, Patrick became my inspiration. He taught me how to love life. With his simplicity and honesty, he showed me a world full of love and care, and I understood that the most important thing is to keep on loving—without asking why or how, without limits.
- Sarah, 2003
(from O. & L. no. 143)