Dear Patrick,

	I was then an only child who had everything I could ever want.  But even a
	pretty, spoiled and rich kid could get lonely once in a while so when Mom
	told me that she was pregnant, I was ecstatic. I imagined how  wonderful
	you would be and how we'd always be together and how much you would look
	like me. So, when you were born, I looked at your tiny hands and feet and
	marveled at how beautiful you were. We took you home and I  showed you
	proudly to my friends. They would touch you and sometimes pinch you, but
	you never reacted. When you were five months old, some things began to
	bother Mom. You seemed so unmoving and numb, and your cry sounded odd --
	almost like a kitten's.  So we brought you to many doctors. The thirteenth
	doctor who looked at you quietly said you have the "cry du chat"
	(pronounced kree-do-sha) syndrome, 'cry of the cat' in French. When I
	asked what that meant, he looked at me with pity and softly said, "Your
	brother will never walk nor talk." The doctor told us that it is a
	condition that afflicts one in 50,000 babies, rendering victims severely
	retarded. Mom was shocked and I was furious. I thought it was unfair. When
	we went home, Mom took you in her arms and cried. I looked at you and
	realized that word will get around that you're not normal. So to hold on
	to my popularity, I did the unthinkable ... I disowned you.  Mom and Dad
	didn't know but I steeled myself not to love you as you grew.  Mom and Dad
	showered you with love and attention and that made me bitter.  And as the
	years passed, that bitterness turned to anger, and then hate.  Mom never
	gave up on you. She knew she had to do it for your sake. Every time she
	put your toys down, you'd roll instead of crawl. I watched her heart break
	every time she took away your toys and strapped your tummy with foam so
	you couldn't roll. You'd struggle and you'd cry in that pitiful way, the
	cry of the kitten. But she still didn't give up. And then one day, you
	defied what all your doctors said -- you crawled.  When Mom saw this, she
	knew that you would eventually walk. So when you were still crawling at
	age four , she'd put you on the grass with only your diapers on knowing
	that you hate the feel of the grass your skin, and smile at your
	discomfort. You would crawl to the sidewalk and Mom would put you back.
	Again and again, Mom repeated this on the lawn.  Until one day, Mom saw
	you pull yourself up and toddle off the grass as fast as your little legs
	could carry you. Laughing and crying, she shouted for Dad and I to come.
	Dad hug	ged you crying openly. I watched from my bedroom window this
	heartbreaking scene.

	Over the years, Mom taught you to speak, read and write. From then on, I
	would sometimes see you walk outside, smell the flowers, marvel at the
	birds, or just smile at no one. I began to see the beauty of the world
	around me, the simplicity of life and the wonders of this world, through
	your eyes. It was then that I realized that you were my brother and no
	matter how much I tried to hate you, I couldn't, because I had grown to
	love you.

	During the next few days, we again became acquainted with each other. I
	would buy you toys and give you all the love that a sister could ever give
	to her brother. And you would reward me by smiling and hugging me.  But I
	guess, you were never really meant for us. On your tenth birthday, you
	felt severe headaches.

	The doctor's diagnosis -- leukemia. Mom gasped and Dad held her, while I
	fought hard to keep my tears from falling. At that moment, I loved you all
	the more. I couldn't even bear to leave your side. Then the doctors told
	us that your only hope was to have a bone marrow transplant. You became
	the subject of a nationwide donor search. When at last we found the right
	match, you were too sick, and the doctor reluctantly ruled out the
	operations. Since then, you underwent chemotherapy and radiation.
	Even at the end, you continued to pursue life. Just a month before you
	died, you made me draw up a list of things you wanted to do when you got
	out of the hospital. Two days after the list was completed, you asked the
	doctors to send you home. There, we ate ice cream and cake, run across the
	grass, flew kites, went fishing, took pictures of one another and let the
	balloons fly.

	I remember the last conversation that we had. You said that if you die,
	and if I need of help, I could send you a note to heaven by tying it on
	the string any a balloon and letting it fly. When you said this, I started
	crying.  Then you hugged me. Then again, for the last time, you got sick.
	That last night, you asked for water, a back rub, a cuddle. Finally, you
	went into seizure with tears streaming down your face.  Later, at the
	hospital, you struggled to talk but the words wouldn't  come. I know what
	you wanted to say. "I hear you," I whispered. And for the last time, I
	said, "I'll always love you and I will never forget you.  Don't be afraid.
	You'll soon be with God in heaven."  Then, with my tears flowing freely, I
	watched the bravest boy I had ever known finally stop breathing. Dad, Mom
	and I cried until I felt as if  there were no more tears left. Patrick was
	finally gone, leaving us behind.  From then on, you were my source of
	inspiration. You showed me how to love life and live life to the fullest.
	With your simplicity and honesty, you showed me a world full of love and
	caring. And you made me realize that the most important thing in this life
	is to continue loving without asking why or how and without setting any
	limit. Thank you, my  little brother, for all these.
	
	                                                Your sister,
	                                                Sarah






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