One day Andrew fell over. He just couldn’t hold himself up. Now he lives in a wheelchair in a rehab center and his ex-wife has Power of Attorney. No one seems to know what he ‘has’.

From my home, it would take at least 19 hours and 24 minutes to drive to Andrew, not counting the ferry or an overnight stay or a coffee, or delays at the border. Instead, I dial the switchboard at the Nurses Station. Usually, the receptionist is friendly.  I tell her my name.

“I’m calling from Canada trying to reach my brother, Andrew.” And before she can patch me into his room, I quickly add: “He’s locked in; he can’t speak, he can’t walk; I don’t think he can even hold the phone. Can you help me reach someone who can hand him the phone?” She reassures me she will page his nurse. Sometimes when I call, it’s too close to lunch, or he’s already in rehab.

The first time I reached him this way, I could feel it over the lines: he was glad to hear from me. He mumbled a greeting, which I understood! He knew it was me. I told him I just called to say ‘I love you.’ And I’m sure he said “I love you” too. Then, after a few minutes of him mumbling, and me cheerleading ‘you’ve got to try hard in rehab’ ‘you’ve got to get strong’, somehow, I understood him say that he was cold. I called back and asked the receptionist if she could make sure he got one of those magic blankets that they put in the dryer. She promised.

I was thankful when another one of my sisters drove up from Southern California to visit Andrew, a distance of 302 kilometres, or the plus side of three hours. I heard that she told Andrew she is the only family member who loves him enough to visit him in person. But that’s not true, is it? My problem is: I live in Canada, and they won’t let us cross the border. Last Christmas I sent him a package of thick socks, a scarf and a hat to keep him warm; I don’t even know if he got it. Apparently, stealing is de rigeur there. He lost two cell phones this way.

The last time I called, when the nurse put the room phone up to his ear, Andrew shook his head, ending our conversation. Maybe he doesn’t remember me anymore. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he believes that no one cares for him. It’s hard to know.

I have a friend who sings. And she used to tell me about her brother who was ‘locked in’ with ALS. She would visit him where he lay in bed and she would sing to him.  She opened her mouth and let her love out in the form of a song. They would look deeply into each other’s eyes because that’s all they could do.

We don’t know how long Andrew has. Or how long I have! But I have to tell you a significant factor in the wonder of that question:  I belong to a group I never joined. We are the Unwashed. The Lepers. Those who Resist. They have a name for us. In case no one can find a scapegoat, they point to us.

I know I am surrounded. I understand: these are words that cannot be said.

People in this group refuse to do things like injecting themselves with an experimental substance that has killed thousands, and has seriously injured hundreds of thousands. We refuse to pull the trigger on a gun that sometimes has a bullet in the chamber, and other times, just makes a harmless clicking sound.

I know I am being punished for my disobedience. It’s familiar, that I am being made an example of. Just like when, as a child, I dared to speak what I knew was forbidden.

Then, I understood that I would get a spanking if I said another word. Or the belt on my bare bottom. All watched in silence, just like now. And, Daddy had that belt in his hand. Whenever he had that belt in his hand, we all shut up.

If nothing else, it was Daddy’s message: we needed to take heed. He set the laws of the land.

So I get it, that I’m forbidden to cross that border to reach my brother, unless I harm myself.

My brother Andrew, whom I helped to learn to walk as a baby, who now lives in a wheelchair. Who can’t communicate, can’t hold the phone when I call, who struggles to take a step, who has been isolated with another bout of COVID, in spite of being ‘fully vaccinated’ and boostered. Andrew, he’s locked in.

And I’m locked out.