My brother came to Catalina for a few days, and for the first time in YEARS he had a good time. The last few years? Not so fun. Mainly disoriented, confused, angry, depressed, hating anything fun, ripping clothes off in public - and I don't know about you, but all of those things (save for that last one) do not spell vacation to me.
Life is apparently really hard when you can't talk, and your family loses the ability to read your mind accurately. I mean, the nerve of us. He looks and looks, and points and points but there were(are) a few years in there where we just Could Not figure out what he wants to tell us. Mainly it's something as simple as:
"Hey, people - this sandal is cutting into my foot and I'm freaking starving. Where's my sandwich? Seriously, my blood sugar is dangerously low. Sandwich? Sandal? Cutting into my foot? Sandwich? Blood sugar? Anyone? ANYONE?"
And there we sit chit chatting about Taylor Lautner and planning out our naps.
None of those things is a sandwich.
(but, mmmmmmm . . .Taylor Lautner.)
But sometimes (and this is where my heart breaks into a million pieces) it's not that simple. Sometimes he's upset because he's in pain from the enormous sinus infection/blockage that's been plaguing him for so many years, and has become so enormous it takes bleeding from the ears (mygod) before he'll actually be able to let us know he's in pain because this - this is what finally gets him to cry. My brother? He doesn't cry. He bites things. He yells. He points his fingers off at words that do not convey what he's trying to say, but (I guess) is hoping will distract him. But cry - no. So, when he does it, I pretty much want to find the nearest set of train tracks and lay down on them because honestly I cannot handle it when either one of the twins are so upset they cry.
(I once broke down in tears when I was at a doctor's visit with Becky and she had to get a shot. Not me. Her. But we were little and she seemed scared, and I didn't want her to be scared so I did the right thing and started crying. This at least confused things. I couldn't assure her everything was going to be alright, but I sure as hell could make her freak out about something different. It's a wonder she chose to go solo to her first gyno visit, despite my willingness to be there to support her. "Are you sure?" "Yes. You're just gonna cry." "No, I'm not." "Amy." "Ok, maybe. But it's just because I care.")
ANYWAY, he had a good time. Which was awesome. Lots of smiles and trolley rides, and my mom didn't lose her clothes anywhere (later story for those who haven't heard it)(though if you haven't it's probably because my mom was around and I'm pretty sure she's not at the "Well, it's funny now. . . " stage yet.)
This is when he first got off the boat. I have a better picture of us, but I love this one because it looks like I have something magical in my (gigantic) hand (why does it look so large?) and Michael is captivated by it.
Lucky for us the island library had Dumbo in stock. God forbid we go a whole day without watching it and ruin his life.
We went swimming which is Michael's favorite thing to do.
Oh yeah, except that he didn't really get in because it was too cold. It deceptively looks like it's sunny and warm here. It's not. It's freezing, and this picture isn't cropped to show just the three of us. We were the only three brave enough to get in. And then the fish started charging us like hungry little zombies. I'm not sure who that guy is with the snorkel, but I'm fairly certain he was bending over to see if he could find his finger that had just been bitten off.
They're cold blooded those Garibaldis. Look:
If that isn't the look of blood lust I don't know what is.
1 comment:
That swimming picture totally looks like the type that will resurface in twenty years as the only photo evidence of that guy, who it turns out was a serial killer, and it wasn't his finger he was searching for.
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