The last time I saw my older brother Thomas was when he was in his casket. That was 1983. I was 18 and he was 20. He had a blue and red button down plaid shirt on that was tucked into his jeans; his face was embalmed and he looked so serene, so peaceful, so innocent. I can barely get these words into print without tears.
I don’t have many photographs of Thomas; our family doesn’t have that many photos in general of us kids growing up. The last photo I have of Thomas before he left to live away from us is dated on the back: March 1968, Bloomington, Indiana, the month and location of my younger brother’s birth.
In the photograph, my mom seemed to be holding Thomas up a bit; he seems to be holding a bowling pin. My sister and I were next to them, I with a balloon in hand; I was almost four years old, Thomas 6 and my sister 7. Thomas seemed so happy, so sweet, so carefree.
But, Thomas was not what they called “normal” back then; he was classified by the medical professionals as “mentally retarded.” That was not a derogatory term, it was just what the medical term was. It is what you said back then. Thomas could not function on his own; he could not talk or read or write or control his bladder.
My mom had the shingles during the first three months of her pregnancy and she thinks that is what caused my brother to not develop correctly in the womb, and that is the suspected reason for my brother’s mental retardation.
The doctors ultimately recommended that my brother live away from our family as it would be too hard to have him live with us in a family with three other children, 7 and under. It is what many families with similar situations in the 1950’s and 1960’s did. It was heart-breaking for my parents.
So, three months after my baby brother was born, in June 1968 my mom flew with Thomas from Bloomington, Indiana to Salem, Oregon to drop him off at Fairview Training Center. He would not live with us ever again.
In 1970, we moved from Indiana back to Oregon where my father was hired as a business professor at Oregon State University in Corvallis.
Every few weeks, we would drive the 45 minutes north from Corvallis to Salem to visit Thomas at Fairview. After we checked into the front desk at the main office we walked to where my brother lived at his cottage. They separated the children and young adults at Fairview into cottages depending upon their ages and how much care each individual needed. Thomas needed 24 hour care; he could walk and sometimes he seemed to be trying to talk.
We rarely spoke of Thomas when we were away from him, it seems, as I look back on my childhood; it was like a different life, a different world. My parents just had a sadness about them when it came to Thomas. After moving from Corvallis to Portland, Oregon, it was an hour drive to see Thomas. We mostly visited him on site, but I have some photos of him and us all together at the beach. My sister remembers having him at our house a couple of times. She is older and has more memories.
Sundays were the main day we would visit Thomas at Fairview, and my mom agrees when I asked her, that it seemed like we visited less and less as we got older; she said we got busier with school and sports and friends.
What I remember about Thomas. He liked bananas and onions and had a sweet understated laugh. He walked with a bit of a limp. Here’s the hardest part: He cried sometimes when it was time to return him to his cottage where he lived. This crushes me thinking about it now. As a child, you don’t question as much. I wish I had. But, now, I ask myself, Why? Why did he cry when we dropped him off? I have sobbed thinking about the reality that there may have been physical abuse at Fairview, which I heard later may have been true.
When he cried, that should have told us something. Why didn’t we do something? What could we have done? I have more questions now than I did back then: Why did we have to drop him off? Why did he have to live away?
It was what you did. Many mentally challenged, mentally retarded children lived in institutions then.
When I posted a photo and story about Thomas on social media a few months ago as a tribute to my mom, my old swim teammate Al Franco from Cleveland High messaged me that he too had a sibling that lived at Fairview. He said it is also such a hard part of his past and he only realizes it now, as an adult.WWw
I loved my brother, but now I ask myself, why didn’t I visit, as I got older? Did I talk about him much to people? Why didn’t we pick him up for holidays, Christmas at least, more? All of our Christmas pictures in front of our artificial Christmas tree that was lit with real candles are with just five of us. My sister remembers one or two Christmases with Thomas there. She said they were hard with Thomas. My parents did the best they could and they loved all of their children.
It’s so hard thinking of Fairview. I did some recent research on the history of the institution, which closed its doors a few years ago and has since been torn down. In my search I stumbled upon a documentary called, “Where’s Molly?” The film follows the story of Jeff Daly, whose sister Molly was sent to Fairview when he was 6 and she was 2. He continually asked the question, “Where’s Molly?” but his mother never answered, and he never got to visit her. Ever. He was not even allowed to talk about her.
But, 50 years later, after his parents’ death, Jeff, with the help of his wife Cindy, found his sister Molly. She was living in a group home in Hillsboro, Oregon. He and Cindy produced a documentary about their family’s life and history of Molly being sent to Fairview, and they titled it, “Where’s Molly?” The circumstances surrounding Molly impacted Jeff profoundly his entire life as he felt such guilt and sadness.
But, you cannot relive your childhood through the lens of your adult self, as I am realizing. And, yet, I too have such a sadness and remorse over my brother Thomas now as an adult, as a mom of five children, and I ask myself now, through tears, why didn’t I talk more about Thomas growing up? Why didn’t I visit more as we got older? I am sad that I didn’t get to see him as an adult. I am fiercely loyal, and family means the world to me. I know it was (and still is) a heartache for my parents, thinking about their son.
Our family of six was visibly to others only a family of five in our family photos.
And, in 1983, when Tomas died, we became just that. A family of five. I do not know how my brother died. I heard he only had a half of a functioning kidney left and that may have caused his death.
He was 20 when he passed away and I was half way through my freshman year of college at The University of Portland, where my dad was a professor. I had my life before me, full of dreams and goals and visions. And, my brother was dead. Heart-wrenching. Not just that he died but for the life and family he never got to know.
After viewing Thomas’s peaceful body, my last time to see my older brother, we buried him on a rainy day at Riverview Cemetery not far from our Portland home. It was us five: me, my younger brother, my older sister, my mom and dad, my parents’ friends the Schafrinna’s and my mentor from Campus Crusade for Christ, Patty Burgin, and who had asked to join our family. Not many others even knew about his death, much less that I had an older brother.
We need to go visit the tombstone, the location where we last saw him, 35 years ago. My parents said the same thing as well recently as I’ve been talking to them about Thomas, asking questions.
We need to always remember. Every soul is loved, every life worth living. I do ask myself and pray to God about my brother and do believe God sees. I believe having Thomas as a brother has made me more compassionate and understanding towards those who may be different, towards those who may not be at a certain intellectual ability.
I want Thomas to know that he is loved, and always will be.
It’s taken me 35 years to write this, and I think it is only the beginning of remembering a precious life.
Cornelia, this was such a beautiful, heartbreaking read! Thank you so so much for sharing and writing about your brother so beautifully! I have a younger brother who had a brain tumor and after his surgery is not the same. He lived in a home away from home for a few years and he’s back at my parents home but it’s so hard emotionally on all of us. Just so bittersweet. This made me cry as I don’t want to look back with regret for not having enough compassion or love for my brother. Thank you again for sharing. I believe God brought me to your IG for a reason ❤️
Cornelia, After reading your blog and clearing my eyes I’m blessed to say that I do have friends that understand. God Bless you Cornelia for being a voice to those who are in need.
Dear Al- Thank you so much for reading and responding and for your vulnerability. I know this is something we have shared in our lives but that we didn’t know back in high school when we were friends. I am thankful for your encouragement of my writing and for you. May God grant us both – and others with similar stories — true peace.
Beautiful piece. I am glad you are sharing your processing journey with us…it’s encouraging for all while we process our own life and relationship challenges. I think I met your brother Thomas before he passed away. Love and hugs. Betsy
Dearest Betsy- Thank you kindly for your words about my writing and yes, I am trying to process this part of my life and I do so via writing. It means a lot especially to know that others may be encouraged to process their own lives. And yes, I do believe you met Thomas- I am so glad- Thank you for reading and responding, dear family friend- love and hugs to you as well –
Feeling your sadness Cornelia. I had similar experiences in my family while growing up as a young child and teen. Back in those times that was how “mental illness” ,as it was called, was treated and it was a very sad thing for famililies to experience. As I look back upon it now I realize that I did all I could do at the time, though now I most likely would have done more, I cannot dwell on that, because that was then and this is now. Then, if I knew what I know now I would have done more, but I didn’t know, so I have to live content in the knowledge that I did then what I could, and I do now what I can, to help others now in similar situations, otherwise I will live in torment. Bless you Cornelia. Remember the good memories and give the others to God.
Leona- Thank you reading and for sharing your similar story. It is interesting how we now might do something different, but we cannot judge back then with our today’s lenses, as we both realize. That is the only way to not live in torment. God sees every soul.
Nellie, this is incredible. Heartrenching, beautiful, brave.
Midge- Yes, it is a big part of my past that I am now after all these years finally beginning to write about. Thank you for your words here and for reading.
Beautiful memories, words and hearts.
Every soul is loved….💞💚💜
Thank you kindly Shelley for commenting and for reading and for your support. Every soul is indeed loved.
Thank you for sharing this. I am crying with you. I have heard that that was what they did during that time period but did not know that you had to walk through this. Yes, every life is precious! And I am sure your journey makes you such a great teacher.
God bless you!
Romney
Hi Romney- Yes, it was very common during that time frame, it is what the doctors recommended. It is hard to look back with our lenses but I am trying to process it all. And, yes, every life is precious. Thanks for reading.
Excellent piece Cornelia…and good questions to ask…
Hey bro- thanks and as we have spoken, it is a huge part of our past and something I am just now processing. Love ya-
Dear Cornelia, My heart is so touched by your words this morning. What a bittersweet experience of remembering and trying to piece together what your Brother’s life means to you and your family. Especially at a time when our attention is so riveted on children being separated from their families, and the wild imaginings we as parents and grandparents have of what we fear for our own children.
I too was raised during the time when people with disabilities, were labeled and kept out of society. Worse, many like your Brother Thomas were kept away from family. And we can understand why given his need for care and your parents’ other responsibilities. And as you said, the times were different. They definitely were. I recall going to Knott’s Berry Farm and seeing children strapped in wheel chairs (probably suffering from crippling diseases like multiple sclerosis or ALS). We knew so little about diseases and differences it seems. You never saw a child with a disability in public much. They were segregated from society in places like Fairview.
When I was first in college, my sociology class took a field trip to a local institution that warehoused children with every kind of disability you could imagine. From those with severe mental disorders to those with physical disabilities. And they were just more or less babysat all day. When we wen to this facility, I was shocked. I had never seen anything like it. It was like a ring of Dante’s inferno. I cried and cried, so profoundly affected by not the children’s differences but by the treatment of them. It was as if they weren’t acknowledged as human.
I vowed to do something, whatever I could to change something about how we view others.
When my child was 2-4, I was finishing up my BA in Psychology/Early Childhood. My friend and I started a school for children. It became an Infant-K-4 school. What started in her house, soon expanded to a church. The church together with the parents of the children, built a playground and then the church built an entire building for the school complete with child-sized appliances, sinks, toilets, and facilities to train teachers to care for children. We integrated the classroom with children with all kinds of disabilities. This was in the early 70s and it grew from there. Since then, so much more is understood and so much more is being done to equip families and communities to support all kinds of people in all kinds of family structure.
But what we never can resolve for ourselves, is how we can find peace within ourselves, our lives, our families, and communities if we are not able to figure out how to heal heal rift within our hearts and souls which exists when we can find no way to have compassion for those who are different from us. And as you so eloquently pointed out, we also need to heal the brokenness within ourselves as well as our disappointment to not be able to resolve, fix, understand, or sometime, even find compassion for ourselves as we would like to. As I lit a candle this morning, I asked for prayers to accompany my own, to heal the hearts and souls of all those who are hurting, grieving, losing hope, feeling isolated, or feeling helpless to make a difference. I also join you in praying for the reunion of hearts and souls in feeling and expressing compassion, empathy, and love for all people and for acknowledging our own sacred obligation to treat ourselves with tenderness, kindness, forgiveness, and compassion too. Love to you Cornelia. Catherine
Cathy- your thoughtful response is truly meaningful to me. Thank you kindly for reading and sharing your own story alongside mine.