Thinking About Stuff
Obligatory "Yes, I'm Still Alive" statement.
The past few times that I have visited my parents, I have received several new things about my past to think about. A little over a month ago, my parents introduced me to a little more about my namesakes. Their names were Michael and Richard. My first name came from Michael's middle name, and my middle from Richard's middle.
I was initially under the impression that both of these men had disappeared while in Thailand. This is not true; Michael, a scholarly gentleman, good in maths, very sociable, friendly, disappeared in Thailand. Richard, another old friend of my parents, died in a car accident in Texas. While Michael's body was never found, at least one villager in Thailand reported seeing a body wash onto the shore, only to disappear a few days later.
I also learned about a relative of mine. To protect her identity, I shall call her Alice. I'm not the only one who has learned a lot about her in a very short time; my father had not seen this particular cousin in about 30 years. In that time, Alice went from being a relatively successful pharmacist to being mentally unstable. She believed herself to be the center of a conspiracy, that several people (her neighbors, her family, her friends) were out to get her. She took advantage of whoever she could to make ends meet. She bilked at least one church, a Mormon church if I'm not mistaken, out of quite a bit of money. And she gave the people who saw to her care at Whitfield quite a bit of trouble. From what my parents tell me, she has been abandoned by all of her blood relatives except for my father. And now, my father and mother are the only family she has. And, by extension, me.
I have met cousin Alice exactly once. And she was as sweet to me as could be, offering me what little of her snacks she could, greeting me with a big smile and a hug, taking the greatest interest in the meager achievements of my life. And it breaks my heart to see her so bad off. But I have absolutely no idea how to help her. She feels a sense of entitlement, no pride in trying to pick herself up from her state, instead using other people to get as much as she can from them.
And, I learned a great deal about my brother these past few weeks. I'm sure I may have mentioned my brother, Damian, in passing, but I shall do a little better, and tell quite a bit about him.
Damian seemed as normal a boy as possible when he was born. He seemed bright enough, but soon started showing some terrible signs. By the age of, if I'm remembering right, three, Damian had been diagnosed with tuberous sclerosis. This is a genetic disorder which causes some odd growths on various internal organs. Among other things, the disease causes developmental delays. My brother will always be at the mental level of about a 2-year-old. My parents are unfortunately incapable of giving him the 24/7 care that he requires, so he stays at the Hudspeth Center, a home for the intellectually and developmentally handicapped. For almost my entire life, he has been a resident here.
None of these things are new to me. What was just revealed to me are a few things:
#1: While he was in the center, one of the other residents broke his hip. The doctors don't believe he will ever walk again, because he does not know how to interact with the physical therapists. He is cared for in a special unit that handles those with physical handicaps as well. They're very kind and understanding there. So, unfortunately, my brother cannot be brought home on Sundays anymore, as my parents had done for decades. They still visit him every week, though. And I try to make it a point to visit him, too. I have not spent nearly as much time with my older brother as I should have.
#2: One of the last times I visited him, my parents pointed to a gated area to the right. "That is where Damian will be buried, when his time comes." I should've known that Damian would be buried somewhere on the grounds of that place, but seeing what will ultimately be his final resting place made me realize just how little time I had spent with my brother.
#3: My brother and I, until I had made it to about 5, enjoyed each other's company immensely. My parents told me a story, where, when I was very young, my brother and I had figured out how to undo the crib. And he climbed into the crib and I out of it, then we put the crib back up. And we started laughing hysterically, thought that was the funniest thing ever. That's what my parents woke up to that day. And that stuck with them for a while.
In the past few weeks, I have realized just how little love and respect I have shown my brother. He is a human being, just as deserving of love and respect as any other. And I've allowed the other troubles of the world to distract me from being a good brother to Damian. However, I am determined to correct that.
I apologize for the rambling nature of this post, but I've had a few things on my mind, and I'd like to get them out really quickly before I forget them. I've got one other thing of which I'd like to speak: specifically, my accident.
1987, I was your average 4 year old. Energetic, happy, able to jump into anything. I once jumped into a pool without any floaties before knowing how to swim. Brave kid.
Umm, that changed. Tremendously. I cannot remember the exact day or time, but it was mid-afternoon, and I believe this was during the summer. I am sure I've mentioned this; I was ran over by a pickup truck and rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital. This hospital is known as the hospital which attempted to treat JFK, Oswald, and Jack Ruby, failing to save any of the three gentlemen from death. To be fair, though, Parkland has an otherwise sterling reputation; thanks to their connection with the University of Texas, they have some of the finest doctors on staff. I should know, several of them saved my life.
As cavalier as I have been about this in the past, I could have died. In fact, the doctors believed that I was going to die that very evening. They allowed my parents to stay all night and have as much visiting time as they wished.
Of course, the story turns out well enough; I survived the night. In fact, the next morning, my parents came to my room, expecting me to be unconscious. Instead, I was happily slurping a popsicle and greeted them happily: "That's my daddy!" I called when I saw dad coming around the corner.
I spent a week in the hospital after the accident. The day after I was initially discharged, I was readmitted because my lungs collapsed again. And thankfully, after a week of care, I was discharged again. Barring that incident, my life has been free of almost any major medical issues. I have hypertension, but that's really it.
I've been thinking about that a lot lately, where I came from. I'm sorry for all the rambling. Cheers.
The past few times that I have visited my parents, I have received several new things about my past to think about. A little over a month ago, my parents introduced me to a little more about my namesakes. Their names were Michael and Richard. My first name came from Michael's middle name, and my middle from Richard's middle.
I was initially under the impression that both of these men had disappeared while in Thailand. This is not true; Michael, a scholarly gentleman, good in maths, very sociable, friendly, disappeared in Thailand. Richard, another old friend of my parents, died in a car accident in Texas. While Michael's body was never found, at least one villager in Thailand reported seeing a body wash onto the shore, only to disappear a few days later.
I also learned about a relative of mine. To protect her identity, I shall call her Alice. I'm not the only one who has learned a lot about her in a very short time; my father had not seen this particular cousin in about 30 years. In that time, Alice went from being a relatively successful pharmacist to being mentally unstable. She believed herself to be the center of a conspiracy, that several people (her neighbors, her family, her friends) were out to get her. She took advantage of whoever she could to make ends meet. She bilked at least one church, a Mormon church if I'm not mistaken, out of quite a bit of money. And she gave the people who saw to her care at Whitfield quite a bit of trouble. From what my parents tell me, she has been abandoned by all of her blood relatives except for my father. And now, my father and mother are the only family she has. And, by extension, me.
I have met cousin Alice exactly once. And she was as sweet to me as could be, offering me what little of her snacks she could, greeting me with a big smile and a hug, taking the greatest interest in the meager achievements of my life. And it breaks my heart to see her so bad off. But I have absolutely no idea how to help her. She feels a sense of entitlement, no pride in trying to pick herself up from her state, instead using other people to get as much as she can from them.
And, I learned a great deal about my brother these past few weeks. I'm sure I may have mentioned my brother, Damian, in passing, but I shall do a little better, and tell quite a bit about him.
Damian seemed as normal a boy as possible when he was born. He seemed bright enough, but soon started showing some terrible signs. By the age of, if I'm remembering right, three, Damian had been diagnosed with tuberous sclerosis. This is a genetic disorder which causes some odd growths on various internal organs. Among other things, the disease causes developmental delays. My brother will always be at the mental level of about a 2-year-old. My parents are unfortunately incapable of giving him the 24/7 care that he requires, so he stays at the Hudspeth Center, a home for the intellectually and developmentally handicapped. For almost my entire life, he has been a resident here.
None of these things are new to me. What was just revealed to me are a few things:
#1: While he was in the center, one of the other residents broke his hip. The doctors don't believe he will ever walk again, because he does not know how to interact with the physical therapists. He is cared for in a special unit that handles those with physical handicaps as well. They're very kind and understanding there. So, unfortunately, my brother cannot be brought home on Sundays anymore, as my parents had done for decades. They still visit him every week, though. And I try to make it a point to visit him, too. I have not spent nearly as much time with my older brother as I should have.
#2: One of the last times I visited him, my parents pointed to a gated area to the right. "That is where Damian will be buried, when his time comes." I should've known that Damian would be buried somewhere on the grounds of that place, but seeing what will ultimately be his final resting place made me realize just how little time I had spent with my brother.
#3: My brother and I, until I had made it to about 5, enjoyed each other's company immensely. My parents told me a story, where, when I was very young, my brother and I had figured out how to undo the crib. And he climbed into the crib and I out of it, then we put the crib back up. And we started laughing hysterically, thought that was the funniest thing ever. That's what my parents woke up to that day. And that stuck with them for a while.
In the past few weeks, I have realized just how little love and respect I have shown my brother. He is a human being, just as deserving of love and respect as any other. And I've allowed the other troubles of the world to distract me from being a good brother to Damian. However, I am determined to correct that.
I apologize for the rambling nature of this post, but I've had a few things on my mind, and I'd like to get them out really quickly before I forget them. I've got one other thing of which I'd like to speak: specifically, my accident.
1987, I was your average 4 year old. Energetic, happy, able to jump into anything. I once jumped into a pool without any floaties before knowing how to swim. Brave kid.
Umm, that changed. Tremendously. I cannot remember the exact day or time, but it was mid-afternoon, and I believe this was during the summer. I am sure I've mentioned this; I was ran over by a pickup truck and rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital. This hospital is known as the hospital which attempted to treat JFK, Oswald, and Jack Ruby, failing to save any of the three gentlemen from death. To be fair, though, Parkland has an otherwise sterling reputation; thanks to their connection with the University of Texas, they have some of the finest doctors on staff. I should know, several of them saved my life.
As cavalier as I have been about this in the past, I could have died. In fact, the doctors believed that I was going to die that very evening. They allowed my parents to stay all night and have as much visiting time as they wished.
Of course, the story turns out well enough; I survived the night. In fact, the next morning, my parents came to my room, expecting me to be unconscious. Instead, I was happily slurping a popsicle and greeted them happily: "That's my daddy!" I called when I saw dad coming around the corner.
I spent a week in the hospital after the accident. The day after I was initially discharged, I was readmitted because my lungs collapsed again. And thankfully, after a week of care, I was discharged again. Barring that incident, my life has been free of almost any major medical issues. I have hypertension, but that's really it.
I've been thinking about that a lot lately, where I came from. I'm sorry for all the rambling. Cheers.