Love Letter to My Brother, Wilson

Published in The Six-Thirty Network, a newsletter of Knox Presbyterian Church, Toronto, July 2005

“My dearest brother Wils,

You were barely ten years old when your innocent world was shattered by Mom and Dad’s divorce.

You gradually became sad and aloof. As your four older siblings left home for university or careers, you struggled all alone with your pain. Mom, wrapped in her own grief, could give you nothing emotionally. Eventually, you were unable to communicate with any of us.

Wilson, the sunshine of our lives.

Then at fourteen, the disease of schizophrenia manifested itself and began to ravage you. As time went on, you became tormented.  Voices prompted you to destroy—to break windows, to tear up your passport and money. I remember watching you helplessly once on the subway platform as you held your hands over your ears. You seemed to be trying to shut out the noises inside your head.

As the years went by, you lived on the streets, in halfway houses and moved through the “revolving doors” of the Ontario psychiatric system. None of us took the initiative to find out the cause of your numerous hospital admissions. But you always kept in touch with me by phone. As I visited you in various hospitals, it grieved me to see how you were deteriorating. Having come into the family last (nine years after your older sibling), you were the bright light in our family with your flashing radiant smile. We doted on you. You were like the hub of a wheel that united our dysfunctional family where some members didn’t speak to each other for years.

But you had become merely a shell of your former self. You paid little attention to personal hygiene. When you spoke, I could see that months of tartar had accumulated on your teeth. You had little energy. You walked slowly. The bright sparkle in your eyes had long since vanished. Instead they wore an expression of unspeakable sorrow.

Late in November 1994, your phone calls stopped suddenly. Time passed with no word from you. Alarmed, I filed a Missing Person’s Report. I made up flyers with a photograph of you and posted them on telephone poles, in subway stations, bus shelters, half-way houses and hospitals where you had been a patient.

In early February 1996, a sergeant from the Special Investigations Unit came to my apartment to inform me that your body had been found in Lake Ontario that evening. A couple walking along the lake had spotted a body and notified the police. They, in turn, contacted the Marines who had to use a chain saw to hack your frozen body out of the lake.

They performed an autopsy on you, Wils. There was no evidence of foul play. All we know is that you had drowned. You had been dead for three months. You were only thirty.

First, I reacted with relief and then, shock. The agonizing period of uncertainty was over. Then I became very angry with God. All the time I had been looking for you, you were already dead!  Was this God’s idea of a cosmic joke?  Why did you have to go through such torment all by yourself?  Why did you have to suffer from such a horrid illness?

The world would have probably called you a failure. But you lit up our lives with your sunny smile, wit and vibrant personality. You wrote prose, poetry and songs. You taught yourself how to play the guitar and set your songs to music. You painted.

Wils, you appreciated the little things in life—visits with you in the hospital and whatever food and cans of Coke I brought. You beat me mercilessly whenever we played Scrabble, chess or checkers!  But you were a sore loser.

You were gentle. Those violent episodes were not innately you. They were rooted in your illness. How remorseful you were when you realized what you had done.

Wils, you were solitary and did not complain. You never shared your pain. My dear brother, we were fellow sufferers, but I will never comprehend the depth of your anguish. I had friends to prop me up. But you had none.

Your needs were simple. You had no desire to acquire material wealth. All you owned when you died were the clothes on your back, a few casettes and some books.

Your creativity was born out of suffering sensitivity. Your last dream was to have your poems published. I had never seen you as animated as when you talked about publishing your poems. I remember asking, “Which wouId you prefer, Wils—riches or fame?”  Without hesitating, you said with a smile, “Fame.”

I would like to realize that dream for you somehow. Four of your poems already appear in different anthologies. One day, you will have an anthology of your own.

It comforts me, Wils, to know your suffering is finally over, and you’re in the loving embrace of our Heavenly Father.

Thank you, Wils, for the precious gift of having had you as a brother. You taught me that life is transient and I must make the most of each moment.

I bid you adieu, dear Wils, till we meet again in heaven.”

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