Life and Death with Diabetes
Michael had been diabetic since he was 4 years old; I was 2. As a child, growing up in a house where my brother was diabetic simply meant that we drank sugar-free Kool-Aid and never got to buy fun cereals like Cookie Crisp and Lucky Charms. The diabetes was always a presence in our lives, but was not what defined Michael. It never occurred to me to think of him as sick, although I saw him testing his blood sugar levels and taking insulin injections on a daily basis. To me, he was just all that a brother should be, good and bad.
I was 2 when he gave me my first haircut. I don’t remember standing there letting him cut my hair, but I have heard the story so many times that I can put the scene together in my mind. He picked up my small pony-tail and snipped it right off, then started cutting around my head above my ear. My mother called my father at work to tell him what had happened, and she was crying so hysterically that my father thought Michael had stabbed me with the scissors. I’m not sure he even remembered doing it, but he would laugh whenever he heard the story. I bet he was pretty proud of his mischievous 4-year-old antics. He was just torturing his baby sister, because that’s what big brothers do.
Michael and I were very different growing up. I was the academic, and he the athlete. He started playing hockey at age 5, and continued to play throughout his youth and in high school. He was also an excellent water-skier (while I could never even get up on skis), and played football in junior high. He could do so many things that I could not. Once, he took me along when he and his friends went roller-blading on the streets of downtown Houston late at night. This was before they started infusing night-life into the downtown area, so the streets would be completely deserted at night. I was not half the skater that Michael was, and my braking skills were non-existent. I would stop by crashing into things. I remember skating along, gaining momentum on a slight slope. And I was scared because I was building up speed; I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop myself. Michael could skate so fast; he raced up behind me, grabbed me from behind, and stopped us both. He was protecting me from certain injury, because that’s what big brothers do.
When I was 15 and got my learner’s permit, he taught me to drive a stick shift. When I was a poor college student, he would visit me in College Station and take me out to eat. He did so many things for me over the years, but even I could not have anticipated just how remarkable he would be with my children.
Michael was an amazing and involved uncle from day one. The day Olivia was born, we were at the hospital by 6 a.m., an any of you know that Michael was not an early riser. But he was there, eager to meet her, although it would be over 12 hours before she would come into the world. I have so many memories of my brother, but having seen him interact with my daughter was the greatest gift. I can’t even begin to explain the bond that they shared. I just feel blessed to have witnessed it, and that he had that time with her. Whenever we would go to my parents’ house, Olivia would take Uncle Michael by the hand and lead him upstairs for their playtime. They would appear every now and then to find a snack or something to drink, but often we wouldn’t hear from them for most of an afternoon. If things got too quiet and we went to check on them, we might find that they had fallen asleep together while watching a DVD. I doubt she ever heard him tell her no. He was always willing to do whatever she wanted, because that’s what uncles do.
These are only a few of my fond memories, and the ways that I choose to remember my brother. Of course I wish that we could have had more time; that I had taken more pictures; that I had told him more often just how extraordinary and brave I thought he was. But I will keep and cherish all that I do have, and hold him in my heart forever, because that is what those of us who are left behind must do.
-Taryn Raley