A legacy lives on through his mom
At hospice site, woman shares stories of her son, Dale Brown
Dale Brown, of Rensselaer, didn’t grow like other babies. He barely grew at all.
Dale was born with a severe form of osteogenesis imperfecta, brittle bone disorder. He suffered countless broken and mended bones throughout his life. Dale’s parents cared for him until his death in 2006, with special help from his favorite nurse, who tragically followed him into the same cemetery a few months later.
As a baby, Dale’s father carried him around in a makeshift carry cradle. To church, the store, out to eat — Donald Brown didn’t mind a bit. Dale was a beacon of warm smiles in a sea of cold stares.
JoAnn Brown, a longtime Jasper County resident, is now in hospice care at an assisted living facility in Lafayette. At 86, she enjoys sharing her firstborn son’s life with staff and fellow residents there.
Dale was born by cesarean birth. A natural birth may have killed him.
“He screamed in pain every time we picked him up. We hoped to God we didn’t hurt him,”
JoAnn told me when I first wrote about her son’s extraordinary life.
A doctor told JoAnn after Dale’s birth, “Something is seriously wrong. Don’t expect him to live very long.” Another doctor told her, “Don’t treat your child any differently than you would a normal child. Wherever you go, he goes.”
The Browns followed his advice. They brought Dale everywhere they went, strapping his frail body into makeshift cradles so he didn’t fall out and hurt himself again.
“We just did what we thought was right, like any parent would do,” JoAnn told me.
She did most of the talking when I visited their home in 2007. Into Dale’s adulthood, Donald’s muscular, tattooed right arm hauled him just about everywhere. “Pure determination, nothing less,” said Dale’s little brother, Kerry Brown.
His father was a man of few words, even within his own family. Before his death in 2014, Donald lost the ability to speak. It seemed a cruel irony.
“He was always such a quiet man who never spoke much,” Kerry said. “But then, when he could no longer speak, he finally wanted to talk. It was so frustrating for him. And for us to watch. I joked with him, ‘Dad, you had your whole life to talk to us.’ ” Donald Brown was 81.
As a young child, Dale was homeschooled by visiting teachers. He picked up everything fast, except for large textbooks with his small hands. As a teenager, he stayed mostly at home. Still, he was a happy young man, always smiling. Pain was as natural to him as breathing. He rarely complained.
At 19, high school officials invited him to take part in the official graduation ceremony. He figured it would be a day of normalcy in an otherwise abnormal life. It turned out to be a day of triumph. When his name was announced, fellow graduates rose to their feet in applause. Dale’s parents were floored. Their son — who never once stood on his own in his life — received an emotional standing ovation from everyone in the gym. “Proud,” his father said afterward. Dale lived a life he wasn’t ex
pected to survive as a toddler. His small body didn’t grow length-wise, but he gained weight, up to 70 pounds. His father continued to carry him from his bed to his wheelchair to the bathroom to the American Legion hall for bingo.
That’s where Dale celebrated his 40th birthday and where he hoped to celebrate his 50th. In his mid-40s, Dale decided to move into an assisted living facility near his home.
“He felt like he was a burden to us,” Donald once told me. “But he wasn’t. Never was. Not once.”
At the facility, Dale used a motorized wheelchair to zip around the hallways, a luxury he didn’t have inside his small home. His parents visited him daily, usually finding him chatting with his favorite nurse and close friend, Lisa Stone. She was the only nurse Dale trusted to lift him alone. Dale had her autographed photo on his wall.
“There was just something about him,” she told me. “He was so happy to be alive. He was the sweetest, most compassionate person I ever met. I loved him.”
As Christmas approached in December 2006, Dale battled a lingering cold. During his parents’ nightly visit, his mother asked, “Dale, what’s wrong?” He replied, “I’m just tired.” His parents tucked him into bed and said goodbye. At 4:30 a.m. the next morning, Dec. 9, JoAnn got a phone call. Dale died in his sleep. No one knew why. He was 49. An autopsy was suggested. His parents said no.
“He hurt enough during his life,” his mother said. “I don’t want him hurting anymore.”
Dale’s funeral was well attended. His family was touched.
“We want the world to know about our son,” JoAnn told me afterward.
Stone did, too. She wrote to Dale in a handwritten letter: “You were my best friend, my strength and my pride. Only God may know why, but I will get by… I’m sorry I never told you all I wanted to say. Never had I imagined you leaving without just a goodbye.”
Stone died in April 2007. “She lost interest in work after Dale died,” her mother told me.
Stone was buried in the same cemetery as Dale.
“I go there often and always go by Dale’s gravesite too,” her mother said. “Lisa is with Dale and I’m sure he has a new body and they’re having fun.”
JoAnn’s chronically poor health has worsened these past few months. She has dementia. Her children began hospice care for her.
“She’s transitioning,” her son told me.
He and his sister are appreciative how many readers still remember Dale, whose legacy outgrew him since his death.
“Dale’s story has touched so many people, and most of them never met my brother,” Brown said.