My brother, the Schizo

My younger brother has always been something of a wonder to me. He was never the typical boy, preferring to play with my Barbies rather than his trucks, hating to get dirty, and always being sensitive to the needs of others. It was never a shock to me that he was mercilessly picked on, however my reactions always suprised me.

I used to defend him every day while we at the same schools. I'm not trying to say I was this amazing advocate of a sister, for I did my fair share of teasing, I just remember having the attitude of "He's my brother, only I get to pick on him." After being sent home for getting in fights or coming back from recess with someone's bloody nose all down my shirt, I was getting into more trouble than he was most days. Within a year or so, our family relocated and we were split between the junior high and the elementary.

This was when the worst of it began.

I remember him coming in from school one day, muddy from head to toe, knees and elbows scraped up. My mother ran to him, trying to heal and hug him at the same time, asking him what the hell happened. When he stopped sobbing enough for us to understand that he had been dragged through the mud by a couple bullies when getting off the bus that afternoon, I was livid. I wanted to beat the shit out of them, to put it lightly. Ever the diplomat, even in the face of humiliation, he refused to tell me who they were. There was nothing I could do.

After that day, I knew that he had to face his own battles or he would never be able to. He soon realized that all the bullies wanted was a reaction from him, and thusly began to ignore their taunts and punches. Luckily, they took the hint.

On top of all this, my brother has always managed to contract the most interesting, albeit scary, illnesses. On the eve of his tonsil and adenoid surgery, his routine tests came back with an alarming result. He had tested positive for Von Willebrand's Disease (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Von_Willebrand_disease), a disorder that does not allow the blood to clot. If he had this complication, it would make a normal surgery deadly for him. Three separate tests over a few days all showed the same result. My parents, both inspirational in their faith, brought in their parish priest to pray over him. Not even twenty four hours later, each test they gave him came back negative.

A little over a year ago, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I will leave that to speak for itself, as the ordeal is a story on its own. I will state that most patients spend years after their diagnosis attempting to find the right treatment. He was a junior in high school, with amazing grades, test scores, and all the promise a bright future brings, when suddenly the boy we knew was no longer. Despite all the odds stacked against him, within a few months of counseling and psychiatric care, the ideal medication was found. To this day, he is the brother I have always known.

I'm not sure I chalk his experiences up to miracles or acts of God, but I can certainly say that he amazes me every day. Everything he has overcome hasn't fazed him in the least. He is now in college pursuing his dreams and having the most amazing time. The shy, neat freak I always protected has been replaced with, as cheesy as it may sound, the Big Man on Campus. Everyone loves him.

As well they should.