Paulie and Me: The Joys and Struggles of Growing Up With My Special Needs Brother

By Bernice Ranalli

A poignant account of the author's life along the southeastern shores of the Georgian Bay, Paulie and Me explores a young woman's coming-of-age with a special needs sibling. A tale of imperfection and heartbreak, emotions collide and divide a family. Yet layered throughout, like the lines of the Bay's granite shores, is a tale of achievement, courage, and determination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781989304082

Book preview

higher.

INTRODUCTION

The white pines of Georgian Bay are best recognized as windswept silhouettes leaning away from the bay’s prevailing northwesterly winds. For years artists have been drawn into the symbol of their strength and enamoured by their beauty.

It’s one particularly poignant painting by Alfred Joseph Casson of The Group of Seven, titled The White Pine, that speaks to me. The artist depicts two white pines, one large and one smaller, alone on an outcrop of rock, their odd shapes lean toward the open water while their branches bend away from the fierce winds of Georgian Bay. The larger of the two appears to protect the smaller in a symbol of unity. They remain together, deeply rooted beneath the rock, utilizing what little soil the land has to offer.

So it is that my brother Paul and I are standing together in this life, our trunks fixed and strong as we lean into the wind and bend away from our adversities. Connected to one another like A.J. Casson’s white pines, I care for Paul as though he were my own child. Even before I was born, he was there waiting for me, trusting I would help him navigate the journey of his life.

Many times while braving the winds of our lives together, I have asked why as I struggled under the burden of my brother’s special needs. Still, I see Paul as the larger of the two white pines and myself as the smaller.

Often frustrated with his slowness,

Paul taught me to be his teacher.

Enveloped in his unconditional adoration of me,

Paul taught me how to love.

Viewing him soar in spite of clipped wings,

Paul taught me to fly.

Watching him shrug off the bullies of our youth,

Paul taught me to stand tall.

Seeing him show no shame in asking for help,

Paul taught me humility.

Witnessing his tears spill when troubles overwhelmed him,

Paul taught me to cry.

And on the days when the weight of him was too heavy to carry,

Paul taught me to lean on him.

The Georgian Bay white pines—in response to the Bay’s northwest wind—are possessed with a strange beauty, attracting paintbrushes of artists for centuries; and so it is that my own artist has found beauty in my connection with Paul and compelled me to share our story.

MASKS

We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.

– André Berthiaume

Darkness had fallen when the raccoons came to visit last night. With the evening air still and warm, the heat inside the cottage was oppressive. Having filled our bellies, we migrated outside where the faint hope of a breeze beckoned. The smell of smoke hung in the air, rising from distant campfires. Laughter drifted invisibly across the lake. Cutting through the stillness and the dark, the phantom voices sounded close but came from several directions. They were familiar and soothing in their ghostly nearness. Settling into conversation, we were unaware that a pan left soaking in the kitchen sink silently beckoned our masked friends.

From a few feet away came a scuffling and scraping. That’s when we realized we weren’t alone. Around the corner from us, heedless of our voices, were four disguised creatures crouched at the kitchen door—two adults with their young. Cleverly, they inserted their claws into the front sliding kitchen screen door and pulled. They were almost inside. The anticipation must have been palpable, but they were oblivious that their scheme was about to be foiled. A loud shout followed by clapping sent them scurrying, leaving the door slightly ajar. Several minutes passed when a noise had us on our feet again. Running for the kitchen, we arrived to see one of the rascals was halfway inside, but at the rear door this time. Its brown, plump, furry body had two black eyes peering through its mask at us. It was wedged in a small hole where it had pushed its way through the corner of the screen. Then it was gone. In spite of the heat, the doors got closed for the night.

The next day, a chorus of crickets is my only company as I sit alone, remembering the raccoons’ visit. Curious creatures concealed behind masks, raccoons are full of powerful mystical symbolism. They remind me that we often hide or alter our state, simply to survive. None of us are who we seem to be, changing our masks depending on those with whom we associate and what roles we adopt.

Behind me, a broken fence sits yet again in need of mending. Mine is a green wooden fence, picket style; with so many repairs, surely a strong wind will take it down. Tattered and torn, many of the original pickets gone, it appears quite fragile. Each time a slat of green wood gets torn away, I hammer in a replacement. Multiple varieties and sizes of wood, some black, some brown, some raw coloured, each one different, give my fence a patchwork appearance. Some wired, some hammered, and others bolted into place. Some days I am fearful a sustained squall will topple this fence forever. Still it stands, defiant, intact.

Growing up, my family was fraught with worry. Worry over Paul, my brother whose life achievement prospects were dim under the cloud that was his mental disability. Worry when complex partial seizure epilepsy began at adolescence and threatened his safety. Worry for my mother whose heart was broken, both physically and figuratively. I had become the witness. Quietly perched in a chair listening while no one noticed, I was quite adept at staying invisible. Hiding under the table, listening to grownups talk between hands of cards, seamlessly switching from Dutch to English and back again, wordlessly I recorded events as they unfolded.

My brother Paul is my hero. This is our story. And yet I must also tell the story of my mother who masked her own disappointment, while she championed Paul’s right to live a successful life by teaching him the skills he would need to forge his own path. I know being born into this family was my fate. Even still, coming into this world with Paul waiting was my fortune.

It was on February 17, 1958, that Paul Terance Timmermans was born in Hamilton, Ontario as the first child to Dutch immigrant parents. Nine pounds ten ounces of baby, he appeared with a full head of jet-black hair. His birth was especially slow and caused him to develop hydrocephalus—what was once known as water on the brain. Although quickly controlled, unknown to the new parents, the tiny baby’s brain had been damaged.

Travelling comfortably on his mother’s lap, several days later he headed home, sleeping as she hummed to him. His father drove mindfully so as not to disturb the sleeping bundle wrapped in white and cradled in the arms next to him. Carefully, he navigated their blue Volkswagen Beetle along snow-covered streets. They had been buried in a deep freeze for several weeks, which was rare for Hamilton in February. Inside the car, the heater hummed, and their dreams filled the tiny space as the first-time parents tried to imagine what changes this new life would bring to their lives. Neither could have guessed just what shape those changes would take.

Since infancy, Paul’s dark brown eyes carry within them a perpetual smile filled with deep trust and carefree delight. Paul was there waiting for me when I arrived two and a half years later. Paul and I crossed several milestones together, but soon enough I surpassed him.

Side by side, Paul and I sat on the floor, our small feet in front of us, shoes untied. Won’t Mommy be surprised? I thought.

Watch Paulie, I said.

With exaggerated motion I picked up one shoelace and carefully placed it across my shoe from right to left. Slowly, using my other hand, I picked up and crossed the second lace over the first, making an X before pulling both tight.

Now you do it, Paulie.

Okay Bernice! His head nodded eagerly.

Carefully and deliberately, he mimicked my actions. His tongue snuck from his mouth and lay on his lower lip; his jaw was set, determined. But his fingers struggled.

Around us was the green and beige chequered linoleum floor of our kitchen. Mom had lain down for her daily nap. We were good at keeping quiet. Dad said Mom had a bad heart and needed her sleep. Soft rhythmic sounds of wood being hand sawed drifted up the stairwell; Dad was busy working in the basement. Mom said Dad was handy. Things have been busy in our house. Several months ago, a new baby brother had come to live with us. The new baby, whom we called Ronnie, slept with Mom. It was summertime in 1964. I was four and Paul was six. We sat alone.

On the wall, the green clock with glow in the dark hands ticked loudly. Paul was ready. Each hand holding one of my crossed laces, I tucked one lace down and under the first. I pulled them snug and tight.

Your turn!

Mom had been teaching us both to tie our shoes; I had mastered the task.

Okay Bernice. His gaze moved to his assignment.

Fumbling with the direction of the laces, he wound them over and under, then under and over only to find that when he pulled the laces they had not intertwined. Shaking his head, nose pulled up in a scowl, he dropped the laces. We began again.

About the time that Paul’s patience began to wane, we heard a muffled baby’s cry. Pulling off his shoes and scrambling to his feet, Paul shuffled away leaving me and the shoes behind. Mom emerged from her bedroom cooing at the baby and flanked by Paul.

I was teaching Paulie how to tie his shoes, Mommy, I said, running to her side.

You are Mommy’s little helper! she said, her eyes never leaving the baby.

Face beaming I asked, What else can I do for you, Mommy?

I would like to put the baby outside. Would you stay with him and watch him? You can take your dolls. Mommy needs to help Paul practice writing his letters for school.

Why Mommy? I asked, following her, dolls in tow.

Because Mommy wants the baby to get some fresh air.

Standing in the warm sun, careful not to leave my post, I had grown bored with my dolls. They lay half-dressed and haphazardly strewn, along with their various outfits, below the carriage. Quietly leaning into the carriage so as not to wake Ronnie, I marvelled at my baby brother’s tiny head and gently touched his soft fuzzy hair. Momentarily forgetting my need to stay quiet, I let out a shriek and ran into the house.

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!

She looked up as I approached where she and Paul were working. I did not wait for her to answer.

I think Ronnie is getting some fresh hair! My voice screeched.

With a laugh I was sent back to my post.

RUNNING

July 1963 – Paul five and a half, Bernice three

We cannot have company anymore without Bernice knowing about it. About six weeks ago, so before your third birthday, you were drying the dishes for Mommy in the morning, and you counted out four teaspoons. Very quickly you asked: Who did you have over for coffee last night Mom? Mommy asked you to bring the dustpan and the brush and, yes love, you understood that fine and you said; "Here Mommy, here is the strawberry blik" (Dutch translation of