Happy birthday, Chrissy, from some old friends

Without question, my sister Chrissy is one of the most influential people in my life. She was born on this day in 1978. (My little sister, turning 32. Wow!)

Chrissy was born with a brain anatomy that can only be described as unique, the corpus callosum that divides and connects the two hemispheres in most brains is shaped radically differently in her case. The brain's incredible capacity to adapt and reorganize itself continues to amaze as neuroscientists slowly unravel the seemingly endless mysteries of this incredible organ. Chrissy's brain is no exception. Indeed, it may be an exemplar of this capacity.

In addition to her unique brain, Chrissy has repeatedly defied the odds and well-considered expectations on a number of fronts. Doctors weren't sure she would walk, much less ride a bike, something she has done with what could only be called reckless abandon. (Her vestibular system seems to involve the regular intervention of some guardian angel, pushing her back to vertical just at the moment that a crash seems inevitable.) Her health is complicated by a sketchily diagnosed neuromuscular disorder so rare that it lacks a name, and by epilepsy, diagnosed after years of puzzling over her staring off into space, and which has only in her twenties progressed from nearly invisible petit mal seizures to the grand mal, convulsive variety that people often associate with the disease.

Her medical miracle may be less television-ready than many human interest stories, but I find it no less compelling. The two most important factors undergirding her story are my parents' unflagging dedication to my sister and Chrissy's own incredible resilience.

As Chrissy's epilepsy began intensifying due to hormonal changes and possibly tolerance to her seizure-control medications, my parents were forced to navigate a mine-field of best guesses and conflicting guidance, choosing between known interventions with unsatisfying outcomes and cutting edge therapies with uncertain benefits. With incredible diligence and tenacity, they tried countless combinations of drugs and other therapies to manage her seizures. Chrissy, meanwhile, had to cope with a bewildering array of side-effects from these drugs, dropping, gaining and re-dropping weight, descending into depressive spells or states of high anxiety until the drugs and dosages that worked best for her could be determined. She also survived a harrowing period of hospitalization, during which her seizures were studied in the hopes of better control. At one point during these dark times, she endured more than a hundred seizures per day.

But Chrissy doesn't complain about much. She is usually cheerful. She seems to have a way of finding a bright side.

Case in point, her goldfish. To this day, Chrissy remains an avid fan of the fabric cast of Sesame Street, a show that was in such regular circulation in our home that all of us can recite, verbatim, a surprising number of its segments. (Thank goodness they had the foresight to include humor targeted to adult care-givers in them!) Such familiarity and repetition helped me develop a passable impression of Grover and Ernie, although I'm hopeless when it comes to Bert.

Chrissy is "awfully fond" of Ernie and Bert, so much so that when she had goldfish for the first time, she named them Talbot and Melissa, after the pair swimming circles in Bert and Ernie's apartment.

And how's this for resilience: when Chrissy's goldfish inevitably take that final ride out to the sewer system (she might be a little too enthusiastic in their care and feeding), Talbot and Melissa are not gone, only temporarily out of sight. Whether days or years later, whenever goldfish reappear in Chrissy's life, she recognizes them instantly. As Talbot and Melissa.

So, Chrissy, happy birthday to you, from two old friends.

Love,

Your brother Eric