My brother Bill

I don’t know when my mother started to have labor pains. I cannot even recall whether my two sisters and I were present in the house at that moment. I would have been five, Bonnie ten and Margaret three. That evening, Dad arrived home later than usual from work. As he stepped through the door, he found Mom already in active labour, and called for the doctor. 
Dad would later boast, “By the time the doctor arrived, I had already delivered Billy. Except for cutting the cord, I did everything else.”

The arrival of Bill brought the family happiness, especially for our father who finally had a son.  Dad was fifty-one, and Mom was forty-four. They named their little boy William Thomas.
As time passed, Mom grew uneasy as she noticed that Billy seemed slower than his sisters to reach milestones like rolling over and sitting up. She tried to brush aside her worries, reassuring herself that boys developed more slowly than girls, and decided there was no reason for concern. 

During her parents’ Christmas gathering, when the baby was nine months old, he was still not able to sit, I was told one of my Aunts looked at him closely and became alarmed. Billy’s eyes were slanted, and his tongue was so large it protruded all the time. She convinced mom and dad to see her pediatrician and made the appointment for them. 

The doctor examined the baby and informed Ada, my mother, and James, my father, “This child has Down’s Syndrome.” Mother was in a state of shock, “No, not my baby boy.” 
“But doctor, no one in either of our families have disabled children. Why did this happen?” The doctor turned to her, his tone direct. “You are an older woman,” he explained, “and sometimes a child is born with this handicap to older women.” He continued, his words deliberate and clinical, “He will probably die before he is five. I noticed his tongue is enlarged, so he won’t be able to speak clearly.” 
With the doctor’s diagnosis still echoing in her mind, Ada instinctively drew her son close, wrapping him in a protective embrace. A sharp, almost physical pain coursed through her, threatening to overwhelm her completely. The knowledge that her beloved child was handicapped, and the harsh reality that he would never experience the life she had envisioned for him, settled heavily on her heart. As they left the hospital, James turned to his grieving wife. He reflected on the events of their son’s birth, recalling how Ada had waited for him to come home from work before seeking help.

He told her, “You should have not waited for me to come home but gone straight to the hospital.” He watched Ada face as her eyes widened in grief and tears leaked out. “I promise you Jim, I’ll take care of the child and love him.” Despite the heartbreak and blame, my parents did found strength in each other. United in purpose, they resolved to support their son as best they could. 

Two years later, we moved to a larger house. It was closer to the elementary school my sister Margaret and I went to. Mom was happy with her new home; she would sing as she cleaned. She now had a dining room, living room, kitchen, a huge pantry, and a half bathroom, all on the main floor. Three bedrooms and main bathroom was on the second level. She began to have the church ladies over for meetings.  She bought two aquariums and placed them in the living room. She filled the tanks with back mollies and tetras. In the pantry on the top shelf facing a huge window, she kept canaries. One canary stayed in the kitchen close to the window and he would start to warble when the sun came up. She felt things were getting better.

Life changed for all of us when Mom became ill and passed away three years later. Bonnie was fifteen, I was ten, Margaret was eight, and Billy, only five.
Shortly after her death, I reached for a clean towel in the bathroom closet, where I found a pair of Billy’s briefs hidden under a clean towel. It was full of stool. I was furious. I found Billy. When I showed him the offensive underwear, he laughed like it was a big joke. I told him if he ever did that again I would rub his face in it.  The threat was enough. I never found soiled undergarments again. Today, when I think back, my poor mother had probably been too sick to toilet train him. 

Two years went by. Bonnie left home at seventeen once she finished high school and got a job. Margaret and I were left to take care of Billy and each other. We were not up to the challenge.
Poor Billy tried running away from home. He had a red peddle car that he would take off in. Once I realised he was gone, Margaret and I would start searching. We usually found him a block away.
One time, I could not find him, so I called the Montreal North police. “My brother has run away. His name is Billy Ritchie.” “He is here at the police station. Come and take him home.” 
The police station was at least thirty minutes away from our house, so I left right away. I found him happy eating ice cream. Unfortunately, he went back to the station many times and the police grew tired of him. 
One of my aunts found a place where he could go to school with other disabled people. . He would learn basic skills and how to ride a bus. Dad agreed and changed his work shifts so he could send Billy off to school. Margaret and I would be home when Billy got home on the yellow school bus. Bill loved it there and made many friends. 

One afternoon, Margaret returned home from school to a frightening sight. Billy was dangling precariously from an open second floor window. His hands gripped the sill in a desperate attempt to keep from falling. Margaret sprinted up the stairs and, summoning all her strength, managed to pull Billy back inside to safety.  Catching her breath, Margaret asked, “What were you trying to do? Billy, mumbling in response, mentioned something about Superman and flying. Margaret pressed further, “Did you think you could fly?” Tearfully, Billy admitted, “Yes."

Around 1965, Dad gave in to Bill’s constant begging for a two wheeled bicycle. There were two large hills on the street where we lived, divided by a busy road. Our house was on the bottom half, and it was the least trafficked. Bill was told only to ride on our section of the street. I had my nose in a book as usual when there was a banging at the door. I opened the door to see a young, agitated man who lived in the neighbourhood. In French, he told me my brother had an accident and kept pointing to the busy road separating our street. There was a police car with lights flashing. With my heart beating wildly, I rushed out the door and raced to the corner. Bill’s bike was totalled. Except for a few scrapes, Bill was unhurt. He glared at the driver with rage. When my brother saw me, he pointed indignantly to the man who hit him. I knew right away the accident was not the man’s fault. Bill was not supposed to be on this part of the road.

“He broke my bike, Addy” he shouted.” He always called me Addy as he could not pronounce my name. The driver of the car that hit Bill’s bike was shaking and tears streamed down his face. It turned out Billy had roared right through the stop sign. The police told the driver to leave, that there would be no consequences. He took me aside and in a firm voice told me, “Tell your father, your brother should never ride a bike. The next time, he might be killed.” After Dad heard what happened, that was the end of Bill riding a bicycle. 

Bill had many adventures, some good, some bad, and despite the doctor’s prophesy, Bill lived to seventy years old.