OT- Story

[Guest guest]

I had never read this though I'm sure many of you possibly have. It

is an older reprint from Reader's Digest I am told. Thought you

might enjoy it also.

My Silent Keeper

My brother, Harter, was born in Hollywood on Dec 9,

1956, a month before his due date. Doctors told my parents only that

because he was premature, it would take some time for Mike to catch

up.

However, six months after Mike's birth, a nurse noticed his slow

mental`and physical development. It was more than a minor

disability, she told my parents. He was retarded, and he also had

cerebral palsy.

Overwhelmed, my mom and dad went to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester,

Minn., in the spring of 1957, looking for the kind of medical

miracle they believed the clinic's doctors performed. But they could

do nothing for Mike, nor could they ever fully explain why he never

lost his baby teeth, never grew taller than about 30 inches and

never weighed more than 28 lbs. They did estimate, however, that he

would not live to see his 12th birthday.

In May 1958 I was born in Austin, Minn., a blue-collar town framed

by cornfields, I was healthy and grew up to be big and fast.

As a boy I learned to feed and clothe Mike. As a teenager, I babysat

for my " big brother " and learned the proper dosage of medicine to

prevent the seizures that caused him to stiffen and tremble.

In my favorite photo we are on the steps of our new home, wearing

red baseball hats and toothy smiles. I am standing next to Mike, and

between us are Midge, a pomeraian, and Happy Hank, a basset hound.

Animals understood Mike. If other kids pulled or dogs tails or ears,

they would move out of range or snap, but never with Mike. And if

the dogs thought he was in danger, they always came to his defense.

Mike found special things he loved to hold and play with: a yellow

rose, a small flag, a pinwheel, wind chimes.

The ideal for Mike was to sit near the window with a bowl of M & M's,

sunshine streaming across his face.

Many people said he would never walk or talk, and should be

institutionalized. He never did learn to walk, but he did learn to

talk-not flawlessly or even in complete sentences, but he had the

basics down. If he was hungry, thirsty, happy or sad, we knew. Cake.

Cookies. Candy bar. water-water cry.

He knew names too. I was Kagun, not . But that changed with a

beard I grew during the summer before college. Family members said

it was ugly. The name stuck.

" Look who's home. Who's that? " they'd say to Mike. " Ugly, " he

would respond, and squeal with delight.

All of which-to-me-was normal, for he was the only brother I knew.

The only time I thought of the diffrences between us was when others

pointed them out. A stare in a restaurant, a pointed finger on the

street, a comment by another kid in the schoolyard, or the rubber-

necking gawks of strangers at the county fair.

His effect on some people was special, however. Big, tough men

crumbled when he smiled, giggled and winked at them. One in

particular, a bear of a man who had been on the wrong side of the

law more than once, always asked after him. He'd often give mom a

few dollars and tell her, " get something for the little guy, will

you? "

For anyone who took the time, Mike softened them like butter in

the afternoon sun.

My circle of friends widened when I entered high school. One day

mom asked if my new friends would have a problem seeing Mike for the

first time. " If they dont accept Mike, they dont accept me and they

aren't welcome, " I said.

And if I didnt think of him as diffrent, I never thought about him

dying either. That changed on a warm fall night in 1975. I had made

my first varsity football start. We won, 7-6, and after the game I

celebrated with my friends at the local hangout. The phone rang and

I was paged. " No need to worry, everything is okay, dont rush home, "

said my mom, " but Mike had a seizure and is in the hospital. "

With this first seizure, Mike's life was begining to fade. His

immune system was defenseless. His seizures intensified and became

more frequent. His bones would break with little cause. His lungs

often filled with fluid.

As his arms grew weak and his life flickered, Mike lost the

strenght to lift a rose, and the resistance to sit by an open

window. Like the flowers he loved, Mike was to fragile to stand a

frost.

As his health faded and college took me away, Mike would show his

disapproval of my absence by ignoring me and pouting when I

returned. My greatest sin was growing up and moving out. Maybe it

was then that HE realized there was a diffrence between us.

Toward the end of his life, the promise of Spring was near, but

Mike would not make it through yet another hospital stay. A bout

with pneumonia quietly squeezed life from him. Mike slipped in and

out of a coma on March 15,1983-Dad's 50th birthday.

As though he knew the importance of the date, he battled for one

more day. Harter- Just 26 years old died at sunrise

the next day in my mothers arms, Dad nearby, surrounded by those he

loved.

I put a few things in Mike's casket to be buried with him.My

favorite picture of us with our dogs, a bag of M & M's, a stuffed

animal and a radio.

We never Had those great, soul-searching talks that other brothers

have about women, religion, work, parents and Vietnam. We never

played catch, talked about our dreams or double dated for homecoming

or prom. I would get older, maybe one day marry and have kids, but

Mike would be an everlasting innocent.

It has been 13 years since he died, but each year, in some way,

I find new meaning in my life as a result of Mike. He taught me

compassion and strenght. He taught me respect for those less

fortunate than myself. And he taught me an appreciation of the

beauty in the simplest things.

Children who come into the world with mental or physical handicaps

are considered by some to be abnormal. Others mat regard them as the

select children of God. Mike was one of those.

Physically and mentally, I was my brothers keeper. Spiritually,

Mike was and still is my kepper - a nearly silent, soulful guardian

angel.