“A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens is common dreaded reading to most high school students. So many kids I knew would try desperately to use the film to get out of reading or buying Cliffs Notes to make it seem like you actually read the book. There are more drastic ways of getting out of reading this classic, like having a car accident and becoming a quadriplegic.
My brother Jared was extreme. Born just shy of my 12th birthday, he and I were the bookends of the four kids. He had the best curly hair and lovely eyelashes that made most women comment, “If only I had your curls. Those eyelashes are wasted on a boy!” Growing up, he was picked on for his appearance hair color choices, earrings that were actually cut dry wall screws and the need to push the envelope of convention. But Jared was a good kid.
As most kids will, he had a way of procrastinating. He made it his mission to drive his teachers to the brink of insanity and then make them smile with wonderment until they made him mad again. Jared would not do any homework for an entire marking period; not because he couldn’t, he just didn’t. There were also many occasions where he would do the entire 10 weeks of homework for all of his classes in a weekend and turn it in. The teachers often had no choice but to fail him. He was smart, but got upset easily and was labeled: trouble.
My brother Jared was extreme. … Growing up, he was picked on for his appearance hair color choices, earrings that were actually cut dry wall screws and the need to push the envelope of convention. But Jared was a good kid.
Now this beautiful, sensitive child was behind two full years in school at 14 and was beginning to realize that actions had long-term consequences. Jared somehow managed to complete all of eighth grade and ninth grade in a year and a half. Not honor roll work, but he completed it. Then, he decided that he wanted to graduate from high school with his friends. He pulled his world together and completed 10th grade and started 11th the same year. For a child who really felt like the world was against him, he had decided that he was going to show the world what he was capable of: excellence.
Jared earned his license to drive at 16 like many young men before him. My mom was a bit leery because of his quick temper, but he proved himself worthy. Jared worked. Oh my, did this young man work. He became a carpenter at 15 and decided that manual labor was very gratifying and felt like it gave him the time to think and reflect. The summer of 2002, he sprouted up about 6 inches and put on some serious muscle mass and an amazing tan.
Jared was assigned to read Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities” a week or so before November 16, 2002. His plan was to read the whole book on the weekend “so that the story would all be in his head at once.” He always did things his own way so arguing was of no use. He tossed his school copy of the classic on his bed, grabbed a backpack and got in my mom’s new car. He was driving from Saratoga Lake to Glens Falls. A trip he had made so many times. This time was different. This time it was fall, and from somewhere a freak snowstorm appeared, causing black ice on the Northway.
Jared never did get to read “A Tale of Two Cities.” The black ice caused him to lose control over the car. Jared hit his head and had a closed head injury. He became a traumatic brain injury survivor at 16. The toxicology said that there were no drugs or alcohol in his system. My mother describes the State Trooper knocking on the door of the little house they lived in with my stepfather on that sunny day (you see, it was sunny at their house but not where he was driving) as a slow motion nightmare that she could not wake up from.
Jared lost the ability to speak and have any purposeful movements; for a 16-year-old boy, that can be everything. Jared could understand when you spoke to him and could answer yes or no questions. He could sign “I love you” when given time and encouragement. He could not speak his thoughts, dreams or fears.
For 11 years Jared lived at various rehabilitation facilities or at home with my mother caring for him. Jared’s care was a complicated dance of tracheotomy care, attending physical therapy and arranging for Jared’s life to have some meaning.
My dear brother decided in late October that he no longer wanted life-saving measures to be made. He had been on a ventilator for a year at this point and had developed another infection that required more and more skilled care at a hospital in an isolation room.
Jared entered hospice care on Oct. 29. Watching him slowly die over 11 years is no comparison to watching him spend nine long days in hospice with my mother by his side for all of it. On Nov. 7, my brother was finally able to let go and be released from the torment of being trapped in his own body.
I have so much respect for my mother for honoring Jared’s final wishes. The last night I saw him I threatened to return with a copy of Dickens’ classic and read it to him. He died less than eight hours later.
So, you see, when I say “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” I know what I am talking about. He is at peace. We are left to mourn what should have been.
Jennifer Steuer is an Albany mom, whose busy household includes her husband, Harlan, and 5-year-old triplets Olivia, Benjamin and Rebecca. The one thing she misses most about pre-triplet days is sleep.