my little hamburger patty.
His giggle covers over you like a cherished blanket or sweater, enveloping you in joy, warmth, comfort.
His smile is like a sunflower growing in the corner of an empty lot, bringing company to those who take the time to soak up its presence, remaining present even for those who don't.
His eyes are freckled with experience. He's been through more than you could ever know.
His jubilant demeanor masterfully disguises all the grief, pain, trauma, sheer exasperation that have piled up in his life locker. Only those closest to him have the combination to the lock, have seen inside the dark space where he is frustrated, angry, tired of it all.
Throughout high school he begged to sleep on my bedroom floor. "I promise I won't snore. I'll spray my spray! Please. Can I?" And to that I would respond, "No Patric. Go to bed." I would awaken most mornings with a sprawling body on my floor, my little brother, begging to be close to me, to be comforted by the close proximity of a warm body breathing in the same room. As I reflect on my selfish adolescence, I am shamed by the ways I treated this brave, resilient, selfless young man, for he has taught me so much in the 11 years I've known him.
My brother has a condition called Neurofibromatosis which has resulted in a series of neurofibromas forming all over his body. Due to these "tumors," he's had upwards of about 15 brain surgeries throughout his 20 years of life. Tomorrow he will have another.
Patric, you are the strongest man I know. You've brought so much joy to my life. You make me laugh so effortlessly. You used to beg us to play games with you until you were blue in the face. Now I can't wait to play games with you as soon as I walk through the door of our home. I don't have to tell you you're a phenomenal chef, because you know that, but your willingness to share that talent with those around you is admirable. You go above and beyond for everyone around you. You're a grown man and yet you're still willing to share your bed with me when I come home. Yeah, you go all Mortal Kombat on me in your sleep, but I'll choose to suffer because I like being near you. You radiate the love of Christ. And you've got an uncanny sense of style for a 20 year old. Patric, you make me want to be a better person because you truly are exemplary of what it means to live for others. You are strong. You are brave. You shine. Your spirit lights up the room and I'm so thankful I get to call you my brother.
On this eve of the most scary and menacing of surgeries, I sit here in my bed, alone and in denial at the extremity of it all. You lie in that hospital bed, hurting and tired. I weep in wishing that I could be near you, holding your hand right now. I can only claim my own feelings in this moment. I can't pretend I know what you're going through or try to give life to your thoughts or feelings. I would be presumptuous in my attempts. But me, I'm scared. And sad. Angry. So fucking frustrated.
But in the midst of those feelings there is a faith that is strong enough to hold the whole world. Hope nested deep in a higher power, for God will be guiding the hands of those surgeons. You are protected by the fierce and fervent angels I've prayed upon you.
I love you with all my heart Mr. Patric William Benge West. You light up my life. Thank you for all you are.
Now let's get that motha fuckin' shunt out of you.
His smile is like a sunflower growing in the corner of an empty lot, bringing company to those who take the time to soak up its presence, remaining present even for those who don't.
His eyes are freckled with experience. He's been through more than you could ever know.
His jubilant demeanor masterfully disguises all the grief, pain, trauma, sheer exasperation that have piled up in his life locker. Only those closest to him have the combination to the lock, have seen inside the dark space where he is frustrated, angry, tired of it all.
Throughout high school he begged to sleep on my bedroom floor. "I promise I won't snore. I'll spray my spray! Please. Can I?" And to that I would respond, "No Patric. Go to bed." I would awaken most mornings with a sprawling body on my floor, my little brother, begging to be close to me, to be comforted by the close proximity of a warm body breathing in the same room. As I reflect on my selfish adolescence, I am shamed by the ways I treated this brave, resilient, selfless young man, for he has taught me so much in the 11 years I've known him.
My brother has a condition called Neurofibromatosis which has resulted in a series of neurofibromas forming all over his body. Due to these "tumors," he's had upwards of about 15 brain surgeries throughout his 20 years of life. Tomorrow he will have another.
Patric, you are the strongest man I know. You've brought so much joy to my life. You make me laugh so effortlessly. You used to beg us to play games with you until you were blue in the face. Now I can't wait to play games with you as soon as I walk through the door of our home. I don't have to tell you you're a phenomenal chef, because you know that, but your willingness to share that talent with those around you is admirable. You go above and beyond for everyone around you. You're a grown man and yet you're still willing to share your bed with me when I come home. Yeah, you go all Mortal Kombat on me in your sleep, but I'll choose to suffer because I like being near you. You radiate the love of Christ. And you've got an uncanny sense of style for a 20 year old. Patric, you make me want to be a better person because you truly are exemplary of what it means to live for others. You are strong. You are brave. You shine. Your spirit lights up the room and I'm so thankful I get to call you my brother.
On this eve of the most scary and menacing of surgeries, I sit here in my bed, alone and in denial at the extremity of it all. You lie in that hospital bed, hurting and tired. I weep in wishing that I could be near you, holding your hand right now. I can only claim my own feelings in this moment. I can't pretend I know what you're going through or try to give life to your thoughts or feelings. I would be presumptuous in my attempts. But me, I'm scared. And sad. Angry. So fucking frustrated.
But in the midst of those feelings there is a faith that is strong enough to hold the whole world. Hope nested deep in a higher power, for God will be guiding the hands of those surgeons. You are protected by the fierce and fervent angels I've prayed upon you.
I love you with all my heart Mr. Patric William Benge West. You light up my life. Thank you for all you are.
Now let's get that motha fuckin' shunt out of you.
posted by Sabrina @ 7:41 PM
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