Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

My brother Troy and I have always been very close. He was born 16 months after me and as soon as I was old enough to understand what being a big sister encompassed, I tried my hardest to live up to the title. I introduced him to Sesame Street, sang to him, showed him the nice way to pet kittens, read him my favorite books and didn’t even mind when he bit me, because that’s what baby brothers do. Before my sister was born, we used to share a room - I remember our bunk beds and matching solar system comforters well, he gallantly took the top bunk because being so close to the ceiling made me claustrophobic. In grade school, he had a harder time than I did with the anti-Mormonism we experienced living in the Bible belt. You would never believe it to look at him now, at over six feet tall, but I knuckle-sandwiched a few kids in my day on behalf of my little bro. No one messes with my blood! I love him, so much. And that is why the past 11 months have been so difficult.

For two years of his life, my brother served a religious mission in Resistencia, Argentina. He lived in several different areas, usually the most destitute parts of town. He walked endless miles in sweltering heat and extreme rain, enough to go through multiple pairs of shoes. Sometimes, the hovels he had to live in didn’t have floors, real roofs and at one point, running water. He had to assimilate into a new culture, learn a foreign language, adapt to the area dialects, walk countless miles every single day and try to teach unwilling people about his beliefs. I don’t know how his spirit didn’t break with every let down and hardship he encountered. Mine would have. A few weeks before he was scheduled to return home, he developed appendicitis leading to a severe infection on his bowel, resulting in emergency endoscopic surgery … in South America (yikes!). Poor guy was having major abdominal pain for over a week and thought he just wasn’t eating enough fiber. When he started vomiting nonstop and was unable to walk to his appointments, he finally went to a hospital. Now, that’s dedication. It was one of the scariest times in my life. I remember the surgery was supposed to last two hours and ended up going for almost six. Every hour that passed was agony, my mind racing over the hypothetical situation of something going wrong and losing my brother forever. A few days after the surgery, he was still out serving the last few people he could before jetting back to the states.

This act of dedication sometimes leaves me speechless. It was such a selfless thing to do, to give up a portion of your life (and bowel, ha) to lobby for something you believe would change the lives of strangers for the better. When people say that they are ‘touched’ by something, I can’t always relate to the feeling. When I think about this, however, I do understand. Troy returned home in late March of last year, gaunt and malnourished, he looked like he had been to Hell and back. Little did we know, this would turn out to be a literal description of his experiences. For the first month or so of being home, he seemed to be dealing with reverse culture-shock relatively well. He was reconnecting with old friends, looking for a job, excited about starting up with school again … everything seemed great. My brother was back. No more waiting for his holiday phone calls and weekly emails that hardly provided enough information, I could talk to him whenever I wanted.

But as the weeks went by, my brother slowly recoiled from all of his social activities, he even stopped looking for a job. He would sit alone in his room or on the computer every moment he was not in school. This was completely out of character for him, he was a social creature and it was strange to see him shrink into something I barely recognized anymore. Each of us (mom, dad, little sister) would try separately to figure out what happened but he wouldn't talk about it. I called depression, possibly PTSD, back in the third month of this behavior, but everyone else believed he would snap out of it. It was going on 11 months, with my poor brother slowly growing more detached as the time passed. No one knew what to do or how to be there for him.

This week he finally broke down and asked for help. Thank God. My parents went to our bishop at church to see if there were some other missionaries that might be able to talk with him, since he wouldn’t talk about his negative mission experiences with us. He also started going to a therapist, by his own free will no less. On the downside, he was diagnosed as clinically depressed (duh!), but wouldn’t talk about medication. I think he was embarrassed. I just want my brother back! And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. My sister and I went to church with him this Sunday to support him. We even went to youth group with him last night where I got pummeled at dodge ball (yes, Mormons do this for fun) and if that doesn’t say sisterly love, I don’t know what does. He has been stuck in the missionary frame of mind for far longer than necessary … it’s been almost a year since he was released from that title. I hope that he will continue to harmonize with the world around him. I hold a certain respect for Elder Rashak, but he’ll always be Troy Boy to me.