Soulmate

One of my many self identified sins is envy.  One of the things I envy most is people who have found a "soulmate"... even if it didn't last "forever."

I think I've had a "soulmate" epiphany.

Today is my little brother's 65th birthday.  He died fourteen years ago.  Royce Fredrick Stephenson was born on April 28, 1947.  About eighteen months later he was finally diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy.  He had a very severe case.  He never spoke, never sat up by himself, never fed himself.  However, he lived a full albeit frustrating fifty one years.

He went to school in West Allis Wisconsin up to age 18.  He went to day camp and week camp, which gave my devoted Mother a bit of a break once a year.  He had all manner of assists for his handicaps; talking board, talking books, and eventually computers that he could use, tediously.  He had many devices to help him live an active life and many angels that contributed to them.

When the famous baseball player, Bobby Thomson, came to the Braves for one year later in his career he, his wife Winkie and their daughter Nancy lived upstairs from us on Martha Washington Drive in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin.  Bobby was moved by Royce's plight and bought him his first specially outfitted tricycle with supportive back and lace on foot pads.  It was a treat.  Royce had "standing tables" designed for him to be locked into with locked waist high braces so that he could play in a standing position.  He also would get a little carried away and tip himself over on his back occasionally.

My best friend during high school years, Bunkie Proulx, would come to the house and ask if she could take "Rock" for a walk.  They would walk, she pushing his wheel chair or pulling him in a wagon, to the Milwaukee Zoo ... probably three miles from our house.  When she brought him home he always had wet hair.  She said, and he nodded, "the giraffe spit on him."

Royce was not retarded, at all.  Some of the people who tested him were.  They couldn't comprehend his intricate talking board.  It was very tedious but he could make his thoughts and needs known to anyone willing to spend some time hunched over it.  Now, his spelling was not fabulous, partly I think because he never did get to "sound out" any words.  Case in non point; when they, Mom, Dad and Royce, lived in Ajijic, Mexico, for part of one year they were invited frequently to Sunday afternoon "musicals" with other US ex-pats, to listen to hi-fi recordings of classical renditions.  The hostess asked Royce which composer he would like to hear and he pointed to the "C" on his talking board.  After the assemblage mentioned every C composer they could think of, it turned out Rock was asking for Tchaikovsky, which to him "sounded" like a C word.

My parents were truly devoted to Royce, especially my Mother and especially as they all aged.  When it became apparent that he needed to be placed in an institution (Mother was 4'11" and weighed less than 100 pounds, Daddy was in rapidly failing health) they headed out to find the best spot.  Wintering in Douglas, AZ (the West was much better for Mom's arthritis and Dad's emphysema) they heard about a good smelling "home" in Lordsburg, NM.  As soon as space became available they moved to Lordsburg, Royce moved in to Sunshine Haven, Mother moved into an apartment and Daddy died.  Mother worked part time at the Lordsburg Public Library until she was 84.  She brought Royce home almost every Sunday for a home cooked meal and to listen to his record albums, Tchaikovsky, Glenn Miller and such.

When Mother died in 1992 at the age of 88, my little brother became my responsibility.  That's an awful way to put it.  I had always promised him and her that I would be there when the time came.  But to be there meant jumping in my car after work on a Thursday and driving 915 miles from Alief to Lordsburg, arriving plumb tuckered, spending Friday and Saturday with him, going for rides, of course, and then Sunday driving home.  It was not a good situation so we changed it.  The State of New Mexico had recently mandated and funded "group homes" for developmentally disabled instead of large institutions.  They allowed for our party of two to be a "group."  Royce's SSI and state money funded day care and transport and training at NMSU's speech department in Las Cruces.  We moved into a nice little house and loved our time in "Cruces".  I found some jobs but none that actually supported us very well.  We loved waking up on Saturday mornings to the sound of hot air balloons crossing over that fabulous blue sky above our house, smelling those green chiles roasting and jumping (well, it took a bit of hefting and devices) into the car for a road trip, maybe across White Sands and up to Cloudcroft.  Everything was great except making ends meet so when Mr. Smith called and said he'd pay to move us back to Texas so I could resume doing my job for him, we talked it over and made the arrangements.  I was able to find an adequate house in Northshore, in the same subdivision as the best nursing home I could find for Royce.  I would get him on Friday evening and take him back on Sunday night.  Road trips became rides on the Lynchburg Ferry or all the way to New Braunfels.  The day after a trip to NB to see the flood damage I got a call that Royce had suffered a heart attack and was enroute to hospital.  It was massive and he had always said it would be all right to go somewhere that more of his worked well.  He died that night after most of my kids had made it to his bedside to say goodbye.  I did not handle it all that well.

But only today have I realized that I'd been whining all this time (mostly to myself) about not having ever had a soulmate.  In thinking and talking about how much fun we had, how many serious conversations we had, and how many nights we went to bed still laughing about something we had said or done or planned.

And I did have a soulmate ... it wasn't a husband or a boyfriend or a lover, it was my little brother!  I really should have gotten it before this.  But at least I get it now.

Happy Birthday Royce!