Frances was a mother’s day gift, born in 1962, the 5th child to my Catholic parents and the second with Down Syndrome. I can’t imagine what that was like for my parents. I recall my dad telling me at some point, when I was older, that his worst fear was having what was referred to back then — a retarded child. As a child aged 6 or 7, I recall them visiting institutions for the mentally retarded in Ohio. My parents bucked the standard medical advice of institutionalizing Peter and Fran. I wasn’t privy to their conversations, but my next clear memories are their meetings with other Catholic parents around our dining room table to start an organization supporting the efforts to raise what would eventually be called special needs, differently-abled, and disabled children. Mainstreaming was not yet in fashion, but Fran did go to Montessori for years. As a result, she learned to read, write and do math. Those skills kept her very busy at her desk doing her “work” for years to come and I received many cards over the years from her.

Both Peter and Fran loved music and I remember them sitting in front of the record console dancing stuffed animals to various albums. Peter, 2 years older, died at age 6 and Fran remembered him fondly over the years. When she was upset she talked about “missing her brother” and became tearful. As the oldest, I was often in a caregiver and protector role for both of them. I recall reporting to my parents that a priest friend of the family had exposed his genitals to Fran. My parents took my observation very seriously and the disclosure revealed a cascade of other activities by the priest and he never visited the farm again.

For me, the gift of Peter and Fran was an awareness of each person’s unique gifts. As I became busy with school and moved away from Dayton, I had less time for Fran, but I often took her swimming when I was in town. Having learned to swim in the pool on the farm, Fran took to the water like a fish. I didn’t share her love of television and Kenny Rogers, but we both relished swimming. As we aged, Fran grew more arthritic and moved from her group home to St. Leonard’s after a serious hospitalization. My time with her included wheeling her along the paths through the woods to the pond and we fed the fish with bread that I brought with me or got from the kitchen. The huge catfish were obviously well fed by many residents and visitors on the property. We also stole a few cherry tomatoes from the community gardens, popped them in our mouths and savored the summer sweetness. Please, don’t tell!

Fran could be stubborn and her obsessive/compulsive personality became more evident as she aged. Moving fast, I was often impatient, but I learned to count as she repeated herself six and seven times. It was my way to slow down and honor her need to be understood. In fact, as our relationship grew long distanced again and FaceTime became common place, I talked with her several times a week. She became very perturbed when I didn’t understand her, even spelling out words. During her last years, I started reading her chapters from books, showing her pictures, revisiting many of my childhood favorites: The Secret Garden, Charlotte’s Web, and combing the library for more modern authors like Kate DeCamillo. For the last year we read Never Girl stories, a continuation of Tinkerbell’s community of fairies and the adventures of four preteen friends, who slipped through a loose board in the fence or passed through the back of the closet to visit Neverland. Fran seemed the most entranced by those tales and we read our way through all thirteen and were just starting again when she died. Perhaps she loved those stories because she identified with the fairies’ secret powers.

Fran did have special gifts and I learned much from this younger sister. She had the ability to see the best in everyone. She didn’t dwell in the boredom of the mundane of routines. I would ask her how her day was and her usual response was, “Fantastic.” I asked her what she was doing, and she often responded, “Taking it easy.” Fran always thanked me for talking to her, thanked me for being her sister. She often told me I was her best sister, although I knew she said the same to her other sisters. Fran helped me be a better human being, a more grateful and kinder individual. Our world needs more of Fran’s energy, especially now. I am thankful to have been Fran’s sister.