The author (left) with his brother, Doug.
Guest Blog by Gregory H. Robson
I was upstairs, burying my head in a geometry textbook, while my sister was across the hall, working on a geology assignment. We didnt know that downstairs, in the kitchen, my brother was holding a knife against my mothers throat.
My sister and I had heard the slamming of drawers and my brothers rage-induced epithets, but we had heard these many times before. We figured our mother would say something softly, as she always did, and hed settle down on the couch or storm outside and walk around the block to compose himself. This was the way it worked.
But after a few minutes, the house became eerily quiet. Id been through this too many times to know this was not the way it went. I closed my textbook, stood up from my chair, and cautiously entered the hallway.
I felt panicked. For all I knew he could have been behind the bathroom door with a knife, terror in his eyes, ready to surge toward me. He had threatened all of us before. There was no limit to what he could or might do.
I tiptoed into my sisters room and asked her if she thought we should check downstairs. She shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her assignment. Why does he always do this when I have a big test the next day? she said. It’s like he knows or something.
I was too scared to make conversation, so I just shrugged and said, I’m going to see whats going on.
I intended to approach the kitchen gingerly, while looking out of the corners of my eyes to see where he might be lurking. But adrenaline and anxiety overtook me and I bounded down the stairs. In some ways I was hoping he heard me thundering downstairs.
Within seconds we were face to face. He looked maniacal, crazed. This was not the older brother I had admired for the past 14 years. This was a total stranger. My mother’s frail body was pressed against his chest and the sterling piece of cutlery was lodged against her throat. My mother looked haggard, shaken, and distraught. Her eyes were moist and her face was flushed.
Don’t come near me. I’ll fucking do it, he said. I’m not fucking kidding.
My mother took a big gulp and swallowed. I tried to find the calming words she had used so many times before, but nothing came to me. My mother gulped again and closed her eyes. Her face became pale, and he tightened the blade against her throat.
God, please stop, Doug, I said. He didnt move. I stomped my foot. Just please, stop it.
I contemplated lurching toward him, but when I closed my eyes, all I could see was bloodblood on my hands, blood on his hands, blood on my mothers throat.
I stamped my foot one last time, shouted Stop! and ran to get my sister. I said a quick Hail Mary and she and I raced down the stairs. But when we got to the kitchen, he was gone; the door slammed behind him. My mom was perched on the Formica countertop, and the knife was on the floor.
He had calmed down when he returned three hours later, but over the course of the next two years his repeated fits of rage plagued our home in suburban Long Island in such a profound way that we had no choice but to send him away.
Almost three years to that day he held a knife to my mothers throat, we celebrated Christmas in the sterile, white confines of the psych ward at North Shore University Hospital. How do you tell someone Merry Christmas when they havent stepped outside or eaten a home-cooked meal in three weeks? Doug sat withdrawn and expressionless, almost catatonic. Was this really the same older brother who took me to the horse track, drove me to the record store, and taught me to throw a football?
After more than five years of visiting with a psychiatrist, this is where he was: drugged up and confined to the four rooms of a hospital psych ward.
Two months after the Christmas that wasnt, Doug was sent upstate to a supervised living facility for people with severe mental health issues. While the facility gave him some semblance of freedom and flexibility, it also put a wedge between us. The psych ward had allowed us to visit him daily, but this new place limited our visits to once a month.
The brother I remembered from childhood became more and more distant. Our bond was reduced to 10-minute phone calls about horse racing and monthly visits that never lasted longer than a couple hours. And yet, for all the pain and rage he was battling, he always did his best to be cordial, often introducing us to friends and staff members and taking the time to talk about the Mets, Seinfeld, or horse racing. For every solemn and sullen visit there was another that was spirited and silly.
While I couldn’t see it at the time, my visits were his solace. Sometimes they were the only thing that kept him going forward. Even though I was just his little brother, I was his only brother.
As he continued to progress, the facility director allowed us to visit every weekend. It wasnt the daily routine of the psych ward, but it was all we had, and we put everything into every minute.
Back at home on Long Island my social life was taking a hit. I was becoming withdrawn and focused only on homework and running. When I wasnt doing one of those, I was writing my brother letters or finding articles to send to him.
With each visit, Doug seemed to be connecting. The conversations became less awkward and less strained. Seinfeld and baseball were replaced by a myriad of topics, including history and geography. He seemed more engaged and more focused. His therapist even acknowledged that he was indeed turning a corner.
Dougs battle with his own frailties forced me to analyze mine. I returned to the church, joining the Newman Society in college and spending much of my free time in various service projects and church-related activities. A selfish and spendthrift person by nature, I was gradually learning to let go of those deficiencies. My brothers determination led me to this new point in my life.
I spent the last few weeks of my freshman year in college in dedicated vocational discernment, analyzing whether or not to join the priesthood. The new bond my brother and I had formed made me want to be closer to God. Becoming a priest felt like the right thing to do.
I returned home that summer, ecstatic about the prospect of making weekend trips upstate to visit my brother. Within days we planned a trip to Saratoga, an event that his therapist endorsed. It would give me a chance to catch up on lost time with Doug.
During the trip we managed to revisit and rekindle some of our best childhood memories. Neither of us won a dollar at the track, but he smiled more than I had seem him smile in years, and he laughed with the glee and gleam of a toddler.
When I returned back to campus that fall, the Newman Society asked about my discernment decision. I politely declined. I didnt need the seminary to be closer to God. Fate, like a reservoir, was stored up in stolen moments standing next to my brother that summer. For all the rage and fear of his maddening days, I had found my faith in him. Then again, I always will. Were brothers after all.
*****
Greg Robson, a 2003 Elon University graduate, is a journalist living and working on Long Island, N.Y. More of his writing can be found at Resident Media Pundit, Step Inside This House, and at AbsolutePunk.
