Summer of Loss - and a Lesson Learned

Summer's almost over. Most of the time, I say those words sadly, but this year I'm more than ready to begin a new season. For me, there have been few days to celebrate in the summer of 2018. If you live in the northeast, you may be nodding your head, thinking about the weather - hot, humid, sticky, and generally miserable. But my sadness has little to do with weather.

I lost someone I love this summer, someone who had been part of my life for most of my life. I lost my brother. Jimmy had Down Syndrome and, since the death of our parents, I was his guardian. In other words, he was a special needs person. Some people looked at him and that's all they saw. But others looked beyond that and saw him simply as a special person, which he was. Born in a time when there were few programs for people who didn't fit what was considered the norm, his needs were indeed many, but mainly due to the untiring efforts of our mother and a very special aunt, Jimmy enjoyed a life that was rich and filled with a variety of experiences. He worked at a number of different jobs, at first in a sheltered workshop and later in the less protected environment of the general community. He participated in Special Olympics, Exceptional Equestrians, a bowling league, and was active in the music program of his church, thanks to the support of a congregation that practiced love in action.

In the months leading up to his death and during the rituals that surround saying good-bye to a loved one, I learned a valuable lesson. I've always believed that everyone, whatever their intelligence or talents, has a gift to give to those in the world who are ready to receive it. I watched Jimmy win medals and awards and make friends with his sweetness and his unique sense of humor. I saw his accomplishments as his gift, an example of what can be accomplished by pure determination. I believed him to be an inspiration, especially to other persons with special needs and to their families. That belief was confirmed numerous times by people who told me, many with tears in their eyes, what a blessing he had been to them. But the real lesson was something beyond that. I came to realize that his disability was his gift. His need for help and support provided people with an opportunity to give of themselves. He brought out the best in others. Can there be a more important gift than that?

I learned the truth of something my mother told me many years ago: sometimes the nicest thing you can do for someone is to let them do something nice for you.