Michelle Boisot
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHELLE
Today Michelle is 18 years old. On the day she was born, I remember feeling a little scared of her – I didn’t even
know how to change a diaper. Yet, I was in awe of her. She was so small – a little peanut – and she had already
changed my life in big ways.
Michelle was little more than two years old when I told her another baby was on the way. She could hardly wait
for Ben to arrive. And, she was three years old when he did.
“God knew he needed us,” she would say a year later during a moment of retrospection.
Michelle has been able to put Ben’s contact lenses in and take them out since she was four, been through
dozens of seizures and waves of paramedics storming the house on a biweekly basis – she even saved his life a
few times.
I called her from the Pediatric ICU thirteen years ago, and overwrought with sadness I had to tell her, “Michelle,
Ben is probably not going to come home again.”
“Mom, you tell him I said he had to.”
So, I did.
Michelle trained Ben’s animal shelter dog, Bob, to be his Therapy Dog so he could visit him in the hospital where
he often had to stay. She never let Ben’s wheelchair prevent him from enjoying any aspect of life - we even went
hiking on a dirt trail up a steep hill one time during the rainy season. (This was Michelle’s idea, not mine.) Hiking
up the hill wasn’t so bad; however coming back down was a bit hair-raising. Wheelchairs slide around in the mud
on steep downhill grades, and twenty foot cliffs might as well be 100 feet.
“Michelle, I’m never doing that again!”
“Me neither, Mom.”
Michelle and I have driven Ben 100 miles to Disneyland every year for the last several years. Unfortunately, he
likes the scariest and fastest rides the park has to offer. During every ride, we girls scream so loud and hard,
our hair stands on end.
“I hate that ride, Mom.”
“Me too, honey.”
When the ride is over, Ben just grins as if to say, “What on earth is wrong with you two?”
Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it is the screaming that he enjoys more than the ride.
When she was in first grade, Michelle helped her elementary school understand why Ben should be included at
school too. How could they not understand? Her attitude about disability, and her love and acceptance of her
brother - say it all.
Ever since, she has been a walking talking Abilities Awareness program and has helped pave the way for Ben’s
inclusive and full life.
Michelle has never hesitated to change Ben’s diapers and has been doing it for almost fifteen years. She even
gets after those of us who don’t do as good a job as she does.
“Mom, let me demonstrate how this is done.”
For fifteen years, Ben’s sister has been picking him up and carrying him from place to place. Her physical
strength has grown commensurately with his weight. He weighs 110 lbs and she picks him up as if he were as
light as a feather.
He ain’t heavy he’s my brother.
Michelle has never forgiven herself for not saying what she was thinking to that one doctor who said, “There is
nothing I can do, he is disabled.”
“Boy, I wish I told him what he could do with himself.”
In truth, her words were a little harsher; I just don’t think I can share them here. It was one time I didn’t get after
her for inappropriate language. I felt a little inappropriate myself.
When she is in public with Ben and can feel the stares across a room, she leans over and gives him a kiss.
“I love you, Ben.”
When she has encountered a school mate who didn’t know about Ben, she would proudly introduce them to
each other. She helps people feel good about knowing Ben.
Michelle has kept me company for hours by Ben’s hospital bed and we worried and prayed together. And, when
Ben was writhing in pain from hip surgery she would ask if she could relieve me.
“You’re so tired, Mom.”
She was only fourteen.
For many years on Saturday morning, Michelle would hop in bed with Ben and they’d watch cartoons together. I
don’t think Ben could see them, but he didn’t care.
When I was diagnosed with skin cancer, she made me drink fresh vegetable and apple juice – she borrowed a
friend’s juicer to do that. However, it was the fresh broccoli juice that did me in. “I’m sorry, Michelle, but this I
just can’t drink.”
“You eat what I say, Mom. We can’t live without you.”
“Okay, kid.”
Michelle has loved us, cared for us and saved us.
Now, she has embarked upon a life her own. Man, we sure do miss her.
Take care, honey. Have fun on your journey, find what makes you happy - whatever that is - and never let it go.
We love you.
Today Michelle is 18 years old. On the day she was born, I remember feeling a little scared of her – I didn’t even
know how to change a diaper. Yet, I was in awe of her. She was so small – a little peanut – and she had already
changed my life in big ways.
Michelle was little more than two years old when I told her another baby was on the way. She could hardly wait
for Ben to arrive. And, she was three years old when he did.
“God knew he needed us,” she would say a year later during a moment of retrospection.
Michelle has been able to put Ben’s contact lenses in and take them out since she was four, been through
dozens of seizures and waves of paramedics storming the house on a biweekly basis – she even saved his life a
few times.
I called her from the Pediatric ICU thirteen years ago, and overwrought with sadness I had to tell her, “Michelle,
Ben is probably not going to come home again.”
“Mom, you tell him I said he had to.”
So, I did.
Michelle trained Ben’s animal shelter dog, Bob, to be his Therapy Dog so he could visit him in the hospital where
he often had to stay. She never let Ben’s wheelchair prevent him from enjoying any aspect of life - we even went
hiking on a dirt trail up a steep hill one time during the rainy season. (This was Michelle’s idea, not mine.) Hiking
up the hill wasn’t so bad; however coming back down was a bit hair-raising. Wheelchairs slide around in the mud
on steep downhill grades, and twenty foot cliffs might as well be 100 feet.
“Michelle, I’m never doing that again!”
“Me neither, Mom.”
Michelle and I have driven Ben 100 miles to Disneyland every year for the last several years. Unfortunately, he
likes the scariest and fastest rides the park has to offer. During every ride, we girls scream so loud and hard,
our hair stands on end.
“I hate that ride, Mom.”
“Me too, honey.”
When the ride is over, Ben just grins as if to say, “What on earth is wrong with you two?”
Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it is the screaming that he enjoys more than the ride.
When she was in first grade, Michelle helped her elementary school understand why Ben should be included at
school too. How could they not understand? Her attitude about disability, and her love and acceptance of her
brother - say it all.
Ever since, she has been a walking talking Abilities Awareness program and has helped pave the way for Ben’s
inclusive and full life.
Michelle has never hesitated to change Ben’s diapers and has been doing it for almost fifteen years. She even
gets after those of us who don’t do as good a job as she does.
“Mom, let me demonstrate how this is done.”
For fifteen years, Ben’s sister has been picking him up and carrying him from place to place. Her physical
strength has grown commensurately with his weight. He weighs 110 lbs and she picks him up as if he were as
light as a feather.
He ain’t heavy he’s my brother.
Michelle has never forgiven herself for not saying what she was thinking to that one doctor who said, “There is
nothing I can do, he is disabled.”
“Boy, I wish I told him what he could do with himself.”
In truth, her words were a little harsher; I just don’t think I can share them here. It was one time I didn’t get after
her for inappropriate language. I felt a little inappropriate myself.
When she is in public with Ben and can feel the stares across a room, she leans over and gives him a kiss.
“I love you, Ben.”
When she has encountered a school mate who didn’t know about Ben, she would proudly introduce them to
each other. She helps people feel good about knowing Ben.
Michelle has kept me company for hours by Ben’s hospital bed and we worried and prayed together. And, when
Ben was writhing in pain from hip surgery she would ask if she could relieve me.
“You’re so tired, Mom.”
She was only fourteen.
For many years on Saturday morning, Michelle would hop in bed with Ben and they’d watch cartoons together. I
don’t think Ben could see them, but he didn’t care.
When I was diagnosed with skin cancer, she made me drink fresh vegetable and apple juice – she borrowed a
friend’s juicer to do that. However, it was the fresh broccoli juice that did me in. “I’m sorry, Michelle, but this I
just can’t drink.”
“You eat what I say, Mom. We can’t live without you.”
“Okay, kid.”
Michelle has loved us, cared for us and saved us.
Now, she has embarked upon a life her own. Man, we sure do miss her.
Take care, honey. Have fun on your journey, find what makes you happy - whatever that is - and never let it go.
We love you.
Permission to reprint granted by TheArcLink, Incorporated at www.TheArcLink.org
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