On Father’s Day in 1961, a special child came into the world.  That was the day my brother arrived.

Wesley was born in an era when Having Down Syndrome sometimes meant confinement to an institution, or worse. Our parents were told that Wesley wouldn’t be able to walk, talk, or learn. That he would probably live in a vegetative state; that he would suffer from a litany of medical afflictions; that he would be a burden to our family.

Family members and medical professionals encouraged my parents to give up their only son and institutionalize him. Thankfully, they didn’t listen.

My mother was my brother’s greatest advocate and vociferous cheerleader. Failure to thrive was not an option. For years, she worked tirelessly, teaching him to talk by holding his tiny hand over her larynx to sense the vibration of her speech.

Wesley could crawl like nobody’s business, but could not walk. My parents became his coaches; one held him up, while the other moved his tiny feet in short, forward motions. They never gave up and had special shoes made to keep him from falling, as he often did. Finally came the victorious cries of success, and tears of unadulterated joy.

We were fortunate enough to live close to one of the few schools in the country dedicated to special needs children. My brother attended school supported by a small community of likeminded individuals, and my parents quickly became advocates for children with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

For a while, Wesley thrived. He did all of the things we were told he would never do, and more! He participated in Special Olympics. He learned to cross country ski, loved staying at our mountain cabin, cutting wood, camping, boating, and hanging out at the fire station.

When our mother passed away from breast cancer, we were lost. It was difficult for our young minds to reconcile that she was never coming back. But especially for my brother, who would get up each morning and look for her, then curl up with his beloved blanket, Tonto, and cry himself to sleep.

For Christmas and birthdays, Wesley received toys and books that sat unopened and untouched, collecting dust. There was no longer anyone to read to him and he was usually off on his own, talking to himself.

When my father returned to work, people offered to watch “the girls”, but not “the boy”. The word “burden” was mentioned by family members and friends. Offers of help dwindled, and again, many suggested institutionalizing my brother. My father told them to go to hell, and we did the best we could.

There were years that my brother wasn’t properly cared for. He was left to his own devices, eating whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He became morbidly obese. He was withdrawn, and out of nervousness, boredom, and the ill effects of a household filled with chaos and dysfunction, he retreated to his room, sucking his thumb until it was raw.

When Wesley spoke, he was difficult to understand and it sounded like gibberish. Children and adults were cruel to him. He was never challenged or held accountable and everyone blindly accepted that he had reached his learning plateau. Letting him flounder became commonplace.

My brother was forever on the inside looking out. Watching my sister and I do all of the things that he would never do: learning to drive, working, dating, moving away, getting married, and having children. I felt guilty for leaving him behind, especially when his homelife began to decline.

When we were growing up, Wesley was our protector. It was a self-appointed job that he took seriously, making sure my sister and I were safe from harm. Now it’s our turn to protect him. To keep him safe, and make sure he’s cared for. Wesley lives with my sister, but also has a bedroom in my home, visiting as often as possible. To say that he’s spoiled is an understatement.

In the last ten years, Wesley has gone from feral to fabulous. From unkempt, savage, and shoeless, to being a bonafide  germaphobe. He’s not only embraced change, but has learned to adapt, exceeding everyone’s expectations.

My brother has certain quirks as well—like raising his eyebrows in a condescending manner. When he thinks someone is acting like a fool, the eyebrows and the attitude come out. He refers to my sister and I as his “staff,” embracing the 1950’s like nobody’s business. Sadly, he is also an accomplished liar. But it’s what makes him, well…him!

I wish that people who continue to stare and whisper knew my brother. I wish they would see him as a person. I wish they knew how he struggled to come into this world and how he struggles to survive in it. That he has known challenges, tragedy, and unspeakable loss.

Wesley is resilient, takes things in stride, and is unruffled by the insignificant stresses of everyday life. He does not complain or demand. Ever. He’s social, happy, funny, and kind. He’s adventurous. He loves to travel, and no matter the question, his answer is always a resounding “Yes!” or “I’ll try it.” After all, he’s making up for lost time.

He likes to dress up, is meticulous with his attire, and has more shoes than Imelda Marcos. He’s the life of the party, and enjoys his superhero costumes and being the center of attention. He also has a great memory. Ask him anything about Star Trek and he will recite a constant flow of trivia that would wow even the most die-hard Trekkie.

After spending years being excluded and ignored, he has discovered self-esteem and loves having his picture taken. And should a camera or cell phone pop up—even if it’s not pointed in his direction, he cocks his head to one side and poses, smiling widely. Mr. GQ is ready for his closeup. One can never be too prepared.

Today, my brother turns sixty. For some, this might be just another birthday to mark off the calendar, or a reason to grumble about getting older, complaining of the expected aches and pains that come with age. It’s a milestone that sadly, many people with Down Syndrome will never reach.

So to my amazing brother, I say this: Happy Birthday! I hope you know how special you are, and how loved you will always be.