Happy Birthday, Mark!

May 17 is my brother Mark's 46th birthday.

Mark is the baby of the family. I was in first grade when he was born, old enough to appreciate having a new baby in the house. I still remember my pride when my first grade teacher, Margaret Chriswell, put her hand on my head on the playground and announced to another teacher, "April has a new brother."

Mark was my baby. He was cute: big blue eyes, blond hair, dimples. He was the little brother I walked up and down the big hill, first in his stroller, then holding his hand while he toddled. He's the one I taught to ride a bike without the training wheels. (There is a brother, Michel, in between me and Mark. Michel wrecked my position as "cute youngest child" when he was born, so he did not get wheeled around by me very much.)

I read to Mark, incessantly. One Fish Two Fish, Sam and the Firefly, Go Dog Go. I read The Hobbit to him early on, probably after I'd been introduced to it in fifth grade. In fact, I read to him so much that to this day he only somewhat jokingly blames me for his slow reading. "I never had to read," he'll say with a grin.

I left for college right after Mark finished grade school. Except for intermittent trips back, I was pretty much gone all through his junior high and high school years. So I missed out on seeing him in marching band (he was a drummer), seeing him run track (he was a distance runner), and seeing him take his girlfriend Jackie (now his wife) to the prom.

I was in on Mark getting his learner's permit, though. I was back in Delaware for a few weeks, Mark had just turned 16, and I'm the one who drove him out to BMV to take the test. When he came out grinning with the piece of paper in his hands, I tossed him the keys and let him drive back to our parents' house.

Heck, it was their car, not mine.

Mark has worn many hats over his lifetime. Brother, son, husband, father, friend, runner, Army sergeant, church member, volunteer, rock band drummer, fundraiser, percussion pit parent, Good Guy. Mark's attitude pretty much is "if the hat fits, wear it." He's worn them all well. Mark believes in God, Family, and Country, and is not ashamed to show it.

Mark is the brother you want at the family dinner table for the holidays and celebrations. He will keep up a running patter of wisecracks and funny observations about everyone at the table, including himself. Right after I was diagnosed with bone marrow cancer, we had a family Thanksgiving where everyone talked in hushed voices with tears in their eyes. Mark was the one who walked me out to my car (along with our older brother) and stood telling jokes about my being dead until we were all gasping for breath from laughing.

It sounds morbid, I know. Trust me, it wasn't. Mark was funny. I needed to laugh.

Mark was there for me 1000% when I was really sick and going through treatment. Mark knew the cancer world better than I did, having participated in various Team In Training events for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. He immediately got back into training, this time on a bike, named me his hero, and raised more money than anyone else did in central Ohio for the Lake Tahoe Century Ride that year. Physical problems, later diagnosed as a chronic liver disease, kept him from riding the whole route, but he rode the last 25 miles and called me from the finish line to tell me he had completed the ride. As his teammates came across the finish line, they too got on the phone. I had tears in my eyes listening to the cheers and whoops as they finished.

Mark was my hero when I was ill, and not because he raised money or rode a bike in my honor. No, Mark moved to the top of my Lifetime Hero List because he willingly ran interference for me with Mom, who in her anxiety over my illness would have me stressed out and crying two sentences into any conversation. Mark is the one who gently but firmly laid down the law with her. Mom, no more phone calls about other people's treatments. Or how so-and-so reacted to chemotherapy. And when April says she is tired and has to hang up or go home right that minute, she means it.

It didn't cure Mom, but it did slow her down considerably. Did I ever tell him "thank you" enough for that?

Last month, I got to see another side of my brother. He plays drums in his son's band, November Rain, and the band was in the local Battle of the Bands. Watching my brother transform himself from "just Mark" into a veritable Lord of the Drum Set was pretty amazing. Maybe it was the sunglasses. More likely it was the sheer concentration and enjoyment on his face as he whaled away with verve. Afterwards, I ran into our older brother, who said "that boy's got some talent. Who'd have known?"

For many years, Mark and I have kidded each other about getting old. Although I have seven years on him, he is the one who has taken aging harder. His 40th birthday just about did him in. Our respective chronic diseases have helped him put aging in perspective, even causing him to adopt my slogan: "It beats the alternative." I'm looking forward to his 50th birthday as cause for celebration for us both.

Despite the new attitude, we nonetheless continue to exchange cards harping on aging. Mine are way funnier than his. Sometimes he calls me after he opens them, laughing so hard he can hardly speak.

This year, though, no cards with dinosaur jokes on them ("Hi there, remember us? We sat behind you in homeroom!") or other cracks about his age. No gifts of fossils or dirt (as in "older than…"). All I sent him was a plain piece of paper, directing him to this blog so I could give a heartfelt shout out to my brother.

I have three brothers and one of them is having a birthday today. You know which one.

The one who's getting OLD.

(Love you, Mark! Happy birthday from your chronologically older but otherwise always way younger sister and her wonderful husband!)