My little brother, Mickey, is paralyzed. I usually tell people this to evoke sympathy or in the middle of a terrible, verbally violent argument to make the other person feel ashamed for being so horrible to someone with a paralyzed brother. Most of the time, it works. Ultimately, I have to explain how this development in his life came about, and quite unfortunately, how he recovered - at which moment the sympathy fades away and people get angry at me again for selfishly bringing in my paralyzed brother as a distraction from the real problem.
I've told the story many times but have yet to actually write it down. I tend to add creative flair (see above) when telling stories through writing, so I figured this was a great idea. Also, because my little brother told me this was something I should write about. Let's begin, shall we? Let's start from the beginning. We're going to go back to the beginning. Now.
My earliest childhood memories of Mickey are him being weird. I'm talking deeply, perhaps even disturbingly, weird. He walked around with bowls on his head. I don't have memories of him speaking very often. He had blonde hair. He had a lazy eye and was forced to wear a patch most of his early childhood. Don't get me wrong, Mickey was adorable. Cuteness registered off the charts, but I remember him being weird. It could be because I was actually the weird one so normal people were rendered strange by my view of the world, or because he was actually a case study in unusual. These are just details and they are not important to me.
We are fairly close in age, and I was quite an effeminate young boy which may come as a surprise to no one. I remember often forcing - sometimes physically - Mickey to participate in my games. And by games, I mean realizations of my vivid imagination's desire to control other people. For example, I spent hours preparing a classroom to play school and goddamnit, someone was going to be my student. I spent minutes preparing extremely elaborate stage productions and goddamnit, someone was going to be my co-star, stunt double, lighting technician, and sound technician. I spent seconds preparing movie scripts, and goddamnit someone was going to be my co-star, stunt double, lighting technician, cinematographer, sound technician, and craft services. Mickey was almost always this person. Mickey was quite put upon.
Perhaps because of the amount of work I forced him to do, perhaps because we are quite different, or perhaps because we are so close in age, I don't remember getting along really well with Mickey - especially as I grew older. I was tormented in school for the way I was, and I think I often took that out on him. I also didn't feel supported by him or my older brother at times. Not because they weren't supportive, but because they were my brothers and they weren't exactly like me, so obviously I felt unsupported whether or not that was the reality.
In high school, I reached a certain threshold of popularity where other people wanted to actually use me and my house for parties. It was like nothing I had ever experienced and I was so ready to be abused for something cool for once in my life. Like a guest star in a couple's threesome, I was ready to be passed around and taken advantage of. Excited, even! And so I had, from what I remember, one of those epic high school parties that only seem to exist in movies. The party got so amazing that Mickey came down and locked the fridge closed with a bike lock. I remember him being legitimately pissed for me putting him in that position and I remember myself being drunk and obnoxious in the worst way: the high school way. That's about the last thing I remember until I woke up the next morning with what I affectionately call the "hangover flu," AKA my fever was 102 and I honestly thought the house was caving in on me.
Mickey, understandably, was not happy with me. He wasn't a jerk about it - he actually had every right to be upset with me - but I was all like "Oh my God, why can't you let me be great?!" I managed to clean up the house somehow (save for the handle of Bacardi 151 that my parents would find tucked in a cupboard a few months later). The next day, Mickey went to the gym as he always did in those days. You know, before he was paralyzed.
Well, something happened at the gym while he was doing calf raises. I remember calf raises distinctly because in the coming days, I would tell myself repeatedly: "Exercise is the devil, and calf raises are the devil's tool." He hurt his back, so I came to pick him up. Quickly, he knew something was up. When my dad returned home later that night, he came to a conclusion that it must be a pinched nerve or something. Mickey went to bed and the next morning, he woke up and couldn't move his legs.
I remember going into his room when this realization came about and the rest is a blur. Here's what I know:
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| Wes & Mick & Eye Patch |
My earliest childhood memories of Mickey are him being weird. I'm talking deeply, perhaps even disturbingly, weird. He walked around with bowls on his head. I don't have memories of him speaking very often. He had blonde hair. He had a lazy eye and was forced to wear a patch most of his early childhood. Don't get me wrong, Mickey was adorable. Cuteness registered off the charts, but I remember him being weird. It could be because I was actually the weird one so normal people were rendered strange by my view of the world, or because he was actually a case study in unusual. These are just details and they are not important to me.
We are fairly close in age, and I was quite an effeminate young boy which may come as a surprise to no one. I remember often forcing - sometimes physically - Mickey to participate in my games. And by games, I mean realizations of my vivid imagination's desire to control other people. For example, I spent hours preparing a classroom to play school and goddamnit, someone was going to be my student. I spent minutes preparing extremely elaborate stage productions and goddamnit, someone was going to be my co-star, stunt double, lighting technician, and sound technician. I spent seconds preparing movie scripts, and goddamnit someone was going to be my co-star, stunt double, lighting technician, cinematographer, sound technician, and craft services. Mickey was almost always this person. Mickey was quite put upon.
Perhaps because of the amount of work I forced him to do, perhaps because we are quite different, or perhaps because we are so close in age, I don't remember getting along really well with Mickey - especially as I grew older. I was tormented in school for the way I was, and I think I often took that out on him. I also didn't feel supported by him or my older brother at times. Not because they weren't supportive, but because they were my brothers and they weren't exactly like me, so obviously I felt unsupported whether or not that was the reality.
In high school, I reached a certain threshold of popularity where other people wanted to actually use me and my house for parties. It was like nothing I had ever experienced and I was so ready to be abused for something cool for once in my life. Like a guest star in a couple's threesome, I was ready to be passed around and taken advantage of. Excited, even! And so I had, from what I remember, one of those epic high school parties that only seem to exist in movies. The party got so amazing that Mickey came down and locked the fridge closed with a bike lock. I remember him being legitimately pissed for me putting him in that position and I remember myself being drunk and obnoxious in the worst way: the high school way. That's about the last thing I remember until I woke up the next morning with what I affectionately call the "hangover flu," AKA my fever was 102 and I honestly thought the house was caving in on me.
Mickey, understandably, was not happy with me. He wasn't a jerk about it - he actually had every right to be upset with me - but I was all like "Oh my God, why can't you let me be great?!" I managed to clean up the house somehow (save for the handle of Bacardi 151 that my parents would find tucked in a cupboard a few months later). The next day, Mickey went to the gym as he always did in those days. You know, before he was paralyzed.Well, something happened at the gym while he was doing calf raises. I remember calf raises distinctly because in the coming days, I would tell myself repeatedly: "Exercise is the devil, and calf raises are the devil's tool." He hurt his back, so I came to pick him up. Quickly, he knew something was up. When my dad returned home later that night, he came to a conclusion that it must be a pinched nerve or something. Mickey went to bed and the next morning, he woke up and couldn't move his legs.
I remember going into his room when this realization came about and the rest is a blur. Here's what I know:
- I called my dad who was genuinely mad at me for not knowing more about what was happening. I specifically remember his tone implying "why don't you know what's going on, you young idiot?!" When Dad arrived and found out that there was no explanation, and that no, this wasn't one of my elaborate productions and he actually could not move his legs, shit got real. Mickey and I even joke about how he was almost angry when he and I hoisted Mickey on our shoulders, and still his legs didn't work. Poor guy was scared shitless.
- I remember freaking out so hard I started crying and watching Mickey cover his face with his comforter, almost embarrassed that I was so obnoxious. (And so began Mickey's impressive trait of always keeping his cool.)
- While my dad stayed with Mickey at the hospital, I stayed home and cried again when a Hov-a-Round commercial came on and old people were being mobile around the Grand Canyon. All I could think was "that's going to be Mickey." I don't know why I wasn't filled with more joy, because those old people sure as hell were happy.
- A lengthy amount of time of not knowing what the hell was going on or how this happened.
Long story short, at some point during his workout? Mickey developed a blood clot of sorts that lodged along his spinal cord. That night, he lost movement from his mid-torso downward. This clot cut off oxygen to his nervous system, but did not cause damage to his spinal cord as I suppose it dissolved and went away. Once your nervous system is damaged though, you won't regain feeling. So, Mickey can walk and has control over his muscles, but can't feel sensation. True to form, he's a total weirdo.
I credit Mickey for giving me my current disgusting, sick, and twisted sense of humor. I don't know if credit is the right word. It's Mickey's fault. Reason being - I did not know how to cope with this. I didn't know how to be supportive without crying. I would joke with him when I drove him to school in the morning that if he didn't put his seatbelt on, we could get in an accident and he could get paralyzed -- Oh, wait. I would pick him up out of his wheelchair, walk down the stairs with him, and place him somewhere else and walk away. I would make fun of his sneezes and coughs, which because of the muscle loss in his stomach, were like tiny little baby sneezes and coughs. When he regained the ability to walk, I'd push him over... sometimes by accident, sometimes... not? I remember walking into his hospital room one time with him rolled over on his side with his big, saggy balls just hanging out in front of my mom and thinking "what the actual fuck is going on here?" Trying to make him laugh at his expense was the only way I felt like I knew how to support him.
Not that he really needed it. Without a shadow of a doubt, he is the strongest person I know for experiencing what he did and refusing to be crushed by it at a time in his life (high school) when I imagine most people would feel ruined. He went from being my personal antichrist to being one of the coolest people I know. He learned how to walk again, he learned how not to shit or piss his pants (you try doing that without control over your muscles, asshole), and most importantly he navigated an impossible situation without feeling sorry for himself, without breaking down, and always knowing that he'd end up okay. To this day, I can't believe it.
I won't pretend that I believe everything happens for a reason in life. I won't pretend I believe in destiny or fate. What I will say is that I can find a lot of beauty in this situation because it afforded Mickey and I the chance to become closer. I am the first to admit I'm a selfish person, and I often feel like my sexuality made a barrier [that I've imposed on myself - the barrier, not the sexuality] between me getting as close as I'd want to be with my brothers. In many ways, we've overcome that, but I think that process was accelerated exponentially by Mickey's paralysis. It forced me to view my brothers as humans, not enemies, and I feel fortunate to be able to say I'm thankful for what the experience has given us. Because it wasn't a guarantee that things would end well.
I won't pretend that I believe everything happens for a reason in life. I won't pretend I believe in destiny or fate. What I will say is that I can find a lot of beauty in this situation because it afforded Mickey and I the chance to become closer. I am the first to admit I'm a selfish person, and I often feel like my sexuality made a barrier [that I've imposed on myself - the barrier, not the sexuality] between me getting as close as I'd want to be with my brothers. In many ways, we've overcome that, but I think that process was accelerated exponentially by Mickey's paralysis. It forced me to view my brothers as humans, not enemies, and I feel fortunate to be able to say I'm thankful for what the experience has given us. Because it wasn't a guarantee that things would end well.
When he said he'd like to see me write about paralysis, I knew I couldn't write about his experience because to this day, I have no idea what that could have been like for him. I also couldn't write about paralysis as a subject because I don't know squat and I'm too lazy to research. Instead, I jumped at the chance to write about what a hero is to me. I don't get to tell him that enough. And I hope I made him as proud as he has made me to be his brother.
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