My Brother, My Niece, and January 20

Influences and synchronicity

Most regular readers of my Substack know about my brother Ricky. He was murdered in a hospital by COVID protocol two years ago. On January 20. Which happens to be my niece Denise Marcellino’s birthday. Denise was born with Down Syndrome, and she changed the way I looked at the world.

I still think of Ricky every day. He would have been 75 last year. I would undoubtedly have tried to give him a big party to celebrate the milestone. I am so glad that I threw a big party for him on his 70th birthday. He was beaming, and it was one of the rare occasions in his life where he received some positive attention. Usually it was all negative. From everyone. Everyone lost patience with him very quickly. Including me, of course. It was amazing how someone so harmless, without a vindictive bone in his body, could cause others to ridicule and shun him so easily. I can’t explain it, but to give an example, one of the psychiatrists I took him to, years ago, was yelling at him five minutes into his session. It’s not easy to get that kind of reaction.

I’ve detailed much of Ricky’s luckless life in other articles. I don’t know for certain how he’d feel about me sharing such personal information, but I think he’d approve. He liked attention. Which was almost always negative, because whenever people weren’t ignoring him, they were making fun of him. And not usually in a good- natured way. Ricky probably had something like Aspergers Syndrome. If such a thing really exists, of course. He loved to talk with people, but didn’t know how. Too often, he said something that unintentionally offended them, or repelled them. He’d probably fare better today as a youngster, with so many on the autism spectrum.

There’s still a big hole in my life, without Ricky. I really struggled after he died, and hearing from so many of you, who also lost loved ones to the hospital killing fields, made things easier. I talked to God a lot. I asked him for some kind of sign from Ricky. Literally thirty seconds later, my wife called from the grocery store, and asked me if I was interested in a carrot cake on sale. Carrot cake was not something we normally buy, but this sent shivers down my spine, because carrot cake was Ricky’s favorite. Every birthday, he wanted a two layer carrot cake from Safeway, and he wanted it all for himself. So I couldn’t help but believe that this had to have been the sign I asked for. Otherwise, it was an unfathomable coincidence.

The fact that Ricky died on January 20 held extra significance. Six years earlier, my Iranian brother-in-law had also died on January 20. Which, as I noted, is my niece Denise’s birthday. That’s another pretty fantastic coincidence. Denise was born in 1968, which means she is turning fifty six. She still looks like she did in our 1985 wedding video. Literally has not changed in appearance at all since she was seventeen. I guess maybe that’s a small perk that those with Down Syndrome get. We’d all love to not show our age to such a degree. My sister Janet has led a hard life, and despite Denise being seen as a burden by most, I think she considers her a great blessing. As she likes to say, “Denise has taught me more than I could ever teach her.”

As a jolly obese eleven year old, I often used the word “retard.” It was a common term of derision for kids to employ, although in those days few self-respecting adults would have said it. Or so I thought. I would soon learn differently. After Denise was born, that word took on an entirely different meaning for me. I never used it again. And I blanch whenever I hear someone else cavalierly flinging it around. It’s become the “r” word to me. My “n” word. I even felt guilty that, because I’d used this word so much, Denise was some kind of punishment for it. Janet was advised by pretty much everyone in our Catholic family to “send her away.” That’s what people generally did in those days. Human imperfections were removed from polite society. Sent to nunneries or group homes, visited infrequently if at all by their families.

I first heard the world “mongoloid” in reference to Denise. That’s what they called her- a mongoloid. That was the clinical term then. And it’s the word that the “sensitive” people used. The insensitive- which was seemingly the majority of people- preferred the other, jarring and offensive term. The one that is now used freely by radio talk show hosts, alleged comedians, liberals and conservatives alike. Remember how much fun “comedians” had at the expense of Sarah Palin’s Down Syndrome son Trig? It was disgusting, and demonstrated that not all that much has changed in society. Even in our new “Woke” culture, no one gets “cancelled” over using the “r” word. It’s certainly not at the level of “misgendering,” or even “fat shaming.”

To my sister’s credit, she vowed to raise Denise with her other children. Considering that Denise was the fifth of her six kids, this was really a formidable task. As a kid myself, I was scared of Denise. I felt uncomfortable sitting next to her at the dinner table, because she liked to steal some of your food. She also enjoyed untying your shoes. I know my parents didn’t know how to relate to her. I witnessed grown men and women give Denise dirty looks and move farther away from her. Many kids threw the “r” word at her. If she was playing by herself in the yard, kids would come to the fence and try to get her to take off her clothes.

Janet said that during one trip to the grocery store, Denise (then probably six or seven years old), kept trying to talk to an elderly couple, who were overtly fleeing from her. This sweet little girl liked to go up to everyone and introduce herself, saying, “Hi, I’m Denise.” My sister finally cornered this old man and woman, and told them, “You know, she’s not contagious. You can’t catch what she has. She’s just trying to be friendly.” I thought that was a really brilliant way to handle such ignorant bigotry. There were too many others like them. Too many people in my large family thought Janet was irresponsible to keep Denise instead of “sending her away.”

I was not especially close to Denise until I started dating Jeanne, who would become my wife. Denise instinctively gravitated to Jeanne, calling her “Jeanne Beannie.” Jeanne has always been so patient and kind, that this was a natural reaction. I started seeing the beauty in Denise for the first time, and recognized that she was truly special. Denise participated in the Special Olympics for many years. I think she won the shotput competition every time. She inspired me to volunteer at the Special Olympics, and it was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. For each event, we gave out one gold ribbon, one silver ribbon, and every one else got a bronze ribbon. Every participant thought they’d won. I cherished each of the many high-fives and hugs I got. For a hyper competitive guy like me, this was a sobering lesson.

The Special Olympics, of course, was the brainchild of Eunice Kennedy Shriver, sister of JFK. She was a remarkable woman of great intellect. In today’s world, I’d like to think she’d have a better chance of being the first female president than the putrid front runners for the honor. She was motivated by her sister Rose, born “slow,” to use the indelicate term of the era, who spent most of her life in a convent, after an early frontal lobotomy, when it was considered a new, potentially miracle “cure,” backfired terribly. If you aren’t connected to someone like Rose, or Denise, you’re not likely to think much about it. You might even use the “r” word. My favorite political family, the Kennedys, the Special Olympics, and my niece Denise. More synchronicity.

Denise turned out to be very “high functioning,” as they indelicately say. She’s a whiz on the computer. For years, she worked a job that required her to ride both a bus and the subway every day. Now, the metro system here baffles me, the author of ten published books and many, many online articles. I could never have done what Denise did. She has a perceptive understanding that “normal” people don’t. She can instantly detect insincerity, and sees the real emotion in your face. If I’m wearing my “pissed off” expression, which I too often am, she will quickly ask, “Why you mad?” Denise would be very hard to fool. If she senses someone is uncomfortable around her, she will cozy up to them and try to win them over. And she always succeeds.

Even with the dysfunction prevalent in my family as in so many others, no one ever feuded with Denise. Everyone loves her. She’s the glue that keeps the family together. I smile when I see her twirling her ever-present pencil. Doing her crossword puzzles. Asking me to print out pictures from The Dukes of Hazard, her favorite show. Sneaking a piece of candy behind her parents’ back. Asking for another Diet Coke. She loves to gamble, and is really in her element at bingo. And lately she has started cursing. She’ll order you to “get me my damn drink,” and you can only smile. She’s also had several boyfriends in her life, although that must be monitored for obvious reasons. We will be giving her fifty one dollar bills for her birthday. She now has a fondness of one dollar bills for some reason. She’d rather have a one than a hundred.

Denise has had many health problems over the years, which is common with those with Down Syndrome. She was born with a hole in her heart, and has been hospitalized many times with congestive heart failure. She is on oxygen, and has to use a wheelchair much of the time now. Only a few people with Down Syndrome have lived to be in their late seventies. A list I found online for longest lived persons with Down Syndrome included some as young as fifty six. Denise’s present age. I think of that a lot. I can honestly say that Denise has been one of the most influential people in my life. You really look at things very differently when someone you love is born with something like Down Syndrome.

It’s funny, two family members whose lives impacted mine to such a significant degree, Ricky and Denise, were not especially close. At family get togethers, Denise would seldom seek him out. And he was just as unlikely to seek her out. And yet he died on her birthday, which ties them together in a unique way. Once I found out they’d gone behind my back and given him remdesivir against my wishes, it dawned on me that Ricky might very well die. I looked at the calendar, and silently hoped that it wouldn’t be on January 20. Not Denise’s birthday. But that’s exactly what happened. Are these things preordained? Cosmic coincidences?

I admit that I see significance, and meaning, in everything that happens. I discount the importance of randomness, maybe because it drives the Godless, “scientific” narrative of evolution, Big Bang, theory of relativity, and the eugenics that springs naturally from it. I have strong faith, and every fiber of my being revolts against the premise that we are mere genetic collections, whose sole purpose is “the circle of life,” and that when we die, we “become one with the earth.” I hated the expression, “Shit happens, and then you die.” He who dies with the most toys doesn’t win. I ought to market a bumper sticker that reads, “Life is about being good.” It probably wouldn’t sell very well.

Ricky was good, and Denise is good. When I think of the meek inheriting the earth, I think of them. While Denise has never been taken advantage of to my knowledge, and it would be no easy task for anyone despicable enough to attempt it, Ricky surely was. He used to lend significant sums of money to people- mostly co-workers- who never paid him back. I guess it was fortunate that he never had much money, or he would have died with more people owing him. He was shockingly naive, and an easy mark for anyone. A rube the circus barkers saw coming a mile away. But Denise knows how much money she has, and no one is going to shortchange her.

I dedicated my book Bullocracy to Ricky and Denise. It probably wouldn’t have been written if Ricky hadn’t endured such undeserved harshness from the world, which I’ve expounded upon in previous articles. Or if Denise had been born “normal.” I would never have volunteered for the Special Olympics, or coordinated the Top Soccer program for kids whose disabilities were serious enough that they couldn’t be mainstreamed into the regular sports programs. I might still be using the “r” word myself. Perhaps I’d still be frightened of Denise. Scared of what we don’t understand. It took my wife to open my eyes to that.

If it doesn’t snow again, we’ll celebrate Denise’s birthday on Saturday. On her actual birthday, January 20. It will be bittersweet, for me, and for her. She knows that Ricky died on her birthday, and that understandably bothers and confuses her. It bothers and confuses me, too. I’ll try to have fun, but it’s inevitable that thoughts of Ricky, and that final morning when we were finally permitted to visit him and told him things he didn’t hear because he was unconscious, will be foremost in my mind. January 20 is also the date my favorite President, John F. Kennedy, was inaugurated. Maybe there’s something to the whole numerology thing. So here’s to my brother Ricky- rest in peace, and know you will never be forgotten. And here’s a Happy Birthday to my special niece Denise, who has touched my life like few others.