siblings.

So, it's apparently siblings day - a holiday about love, laughter and warm childhood memories. But it's not marketed the same way as Mother's and Father's Day, so I usually kind of forget about it. Except for this year.

I have a sibling, a younger brother. When strangers ask about him, I give them the basics: he's 24, likes swimming and reading, only wears green unless it's a Chinese holiday and then he wears red like everyone else. The follow-up questions are usually about if we were close as children, or if we're still close now. And then I feel inclined to tell them another basic fact, that he has Down's Syndrome.

Siblings day makes me recall things buried inside my memory. Some were stories that make me feel warm and happy, and some made me feel sad in a nostalgic sort of way. Most of them made me reflect on my experiences as a sister, and as someone with a "special needs" sibling. 

Growing up, my brother meant the world to me. Before he was born, I more or less insisted that he was a boy (despite beliefs that the baby was a girl), and to my absolute joy, I was right! I became a big sister when I was five, and was so excited to finally have a sibling to play with and boss around. 

the good old days.

Of course, it was a little more complicated than that. Gabriel was born with an extra chromosome, and my parents told me that things would be "different." He didn't really seem that different to me, though. He was an adorable baby with the biggest smile and the most uninhibited, gut-wrenching laugh. It took him a while to learn how to walk, so he was really chubby and adorable for the longest time. The perfect little brother, really.

I loved making him laugh. Playing with him was often my reward for finishing my homework and piano practice. We would climb and jump on the delicate furniture, race around the house on a purple plastic tricycle, dance (very badly) to our favourite Disney soundtracks. We played so many games in the evenings - lots of hide and seek, which was always fun because whenever he found me (and yes, I usually scared him) he would shriek with decibels and delight. When it was his turn to hide, he would pick really obvious spots - I would pretend not to see him and make a dramatic act out of looking everywhere else, and he would giggle loudly from his top-secret hiding place. Classic.

We always had separate rooms, but I loved tucking him in at night, making him laugh hysterically with silly words and phrases, like "nincompoop!" and "petunia!" I still like to tuck him in when I'm home. We're past the silly words, but I can still make him laugh. And up until my high school days, Gabe would wake up in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with me. He was a great alarm clock (ever the morning person), even though his snoring could be hard to sleep through at times.

And then, you know, we grew up. I became one of those sulky teenager things, then moved out of the state shortly after college graduation. Gabe grew up, too, in his own way. He graduated from high school a few years ago, and currently goes to a community college-type place that assigns him work. A few years ago, he got really sick with Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura (ITP), a disease that involves a low blood platelet count. Things have been hard for the family, and the recovery has taken a lot longer than expected, but Gabe has improved a lot, slowly but surely. My parents are great with him, keeping things organised, setting up weekly schedules with both fun and challenging activities, keeping a set routine that Gabe is comfortable and familiar with. Every time I visit my family, I am amazed at how smoothly everything is run.

Communication is challenging - Gabriel can talk, but not much, and it's difficult to have a conversation with him that doesn't feel mostly one-sided. (I should also add that I too have social hangups - not in the same way, but I am definitely not a talkative person, nor an engaging conversationalist even when it's necessary.) We video chat every now and then - it's usually a family affair, with my mom focusing the screen on Gabe while she does most of the talking. It's good to see his face, and I do miss him more than I let on.

My family has to talk about the future sometimes, which makes me sad. When Ben asked my parents for my hand in marriage, the conversation mostly revolved around the unfortunate fact that someday, Ben would be responsible for not just his wife, but also his brother-in-law. If anything happened to my parents, we would have custody of Gabe, and would either live with him, or live near his group community home, depending on the circumstances of course. These are all terrible situations that nobody likes to think of, but we have to, sometimes. It comes with the territory.

I am so grateful for Gabriel - for our relationship, for our history, for all the memories we've shared and will hopefully continue to make for many years to come. But as an adult, I look back on the day my parents told me about the extra chromosome, and I understand now. Things really are different. 

Ben and his sisters are adults. Family reunions are peppered with "remember whens" and multi-layered reminiscing. They can look back on stories that weren't so funny at the time, but after gaining perspective through the years, have developed a nostalgic air of comedy. They can collectively pool their memories and give their parents a good-natured hard time about questionable fashion choices and disciplinary action. I see this with my friends, too - siblings all grown up and laughing about their childhood memories. I miss this, and sometimes I find myself feeling a little jealous.

I realise that not all siblings are friends, or even cordial with each other - and that I'm lucky to have a brother that is a challenge to communicate with, rather than one I can't stand. A few of my friends have lost a sibling, which is horrible and tragic, and I am thankful that my brother and I are still living - even when there will come a day when one of us won't be.

Still, there are times when I feel lonely, almost like an only child. Mostly because I can't reminisce with Gabriel about our past. I don't know how much of our childhood he remembers, aside from flipping through old photo albums together and laughing at our regrettable 90's haircuts. Maybe he doesn't remember much. (He is a guy, after all.) Maybe he remembers more things than I do. (This could be a good thing.)

But maybe that's my responsibility. To do the reminiscing for both of us. To tell the stories I remember about our early days, and to share with our friends and family how amazing my brother is. It's not the same, but I'll take it.

Because sometimes it's okay if things are different.

CK