User:MissedLittleOne

This website is in memory of my older and only brother, Calliou. He was a fun loving, adventurous and strong willed young man. Calliou passed away from Neuroblastoma at the tender age of 6. I myself was only 4 years old when he died.

I later wrote books about my brother's short lived childhood adventures. I tell these stories to my grandchildren. They asked if we could make a tv show about Calliou so other kids could see how much fun he had. I was hesitant, but I contacted PBS. They told me that they would broadcast the show under one condition: no mention of cancer or my brother's death. I was pleased with this, as I wanted Calliou remembered as a vibrant little boy. I did however, ask that they draw him without hair. Now I think it's time that my brother's FULL story be told, so here it is:

Calliou Peewee Andrews was born in 1946 to Doris and Boris Andrews. Calliou was a typical, healthy infant until the age of 18 months when our mother started noticing tumors on his thighs. They took him to the doctor, and lots of tests were run. By the time the tests came back (machines were slower back then) Calliou had become very ill. Doctors diagnosed him with the childhood cancer neuroblastoma.

My parents were told that without chemotherapy, Calliou had a 0.0001% chance at beating the cancer. With chemo, the odds would be increased; 3% providing he remained healthy. They immediately started the treatment,but were still in fear of losing their only child. That's when they decided to have me, Rosie. I was born in 1948, and Calliou became bald from treatment. Calliou hated me at first, but we soon warmed up to eachother

My brother's doctors warned my parents to avoid stressing him out because it could cause his immune system to crash. So when Calliou threw a fit or whined, my parents didn't spank him like other families those days; instead they gave him whatever he wanted.

A miracle happened just before Calliou turned 3. He became cancer free! My parents were overjoyed. They took us out to ice cream. Except I was too young to eat any. Calliou even started to grow a little brown fuzz on his bare head. Sadly, tragedy struck again 6 months before my brother turned 4. The cancer had returned. The doctors were 100% that Calliou would die, but another round of chemo would enhance his quality of life, they said.

My parents were devasted. Often when they spoke after this, their voices sounded tearful, yet they tried to remain cheerful. They agreed to let Calliou undergo chemo again, but only twice a month. They wanted him to have the time of his life,and too many treatments would ruin this. He sure did have the time of his life! These are the stories that I tell my grandchildren. Calliou drew lots of pictures, played lots of games, went to the beach,attended daycare, got a cat, had sibling rivalry with me, and plenty more.

Mom and Dad especially let Calliou get his way now. They understood that his whining was probably a result of the pain meds. Calliou made several friends, including Leo and Clementine. Leo bullied Calliou at first, but then realized he was sick and felt remorse. During his chemo, the only thing that would distract my brother was to hum his song, I'm just a kid who's 4...Calliou..I'm-Calliou!

In the winter of 1950, Calliou began to decline. My parents began to ignore me, and this made me angry. I would hit Calliou and get spanked, yet he could push me and he got a hug. This was confusing to a 3 year old. After Calliou turned 5, he was too ill to have any fun. All he could do was lie in bed and listen to his music box. He slept a lot, and was extra cranky when awake. I stopped telling his stories after this, because they would be no fun. Calliou slept more and more, and my parents began to fight. I would hear my mother's bed rattling while Dad was working late.

Calliou was soon admitted to a hospital and went into a coma. Grandma took care of me while Mom and Dad lived at the hospital. One day when I was 4 Grandma drove me there. I wanted to ask her why but I was scared. She carried me to a hospital room. I saw my brother, hidden under tubes, wires and machines, lying in a large hospital bed. My parents were on opposite sides of the floor, My mother in the fetal position and my father kneeling and clasping his hands.

I didn't quite understand what was happening. A nurse in white came into the room and slowly began removing the tubes from Calliou's face ans body. The last thing she took out was a breathing tube in his throat. Grandma and I moved closer to Calliou. He looked like he was sleeping. I thought he might wake up and push me, or say my name in exasperation.

But he did not move. Grandma was crying; I could feel her tears. "Kiss your brother, Rosie." she gulped. She held me close to him. I quickly kissed his bald head. "Calliou's gone?" I asked Grandma nodded. A lump formed in my throat, and I couldn't spreak. My mom and Dad remained in their original poses like statues. The kind nursed reached in her pocket. "I have a surprise for you, Rosie," she pulled out a cloth doll that looked exactly like Calliou. She placed it in my small hands. "Remember your brother. And all the fun you had together."

Things changed drastically without Calliou. A week after he died, my Dad moved out to live with a man named Kirk. Kirk spoke like me and always had his hand raised in air. Grandma and Grandpa stayed with Mom and me. But one day when I was 8 years old, my Mom had taken an overdose of xantax. In the note she left she said that she wanted to be with Calliou and that she loved him more than me.

I lived with Grandma and Grandpa and visited Dad and Kirk on weekends. We seldom spoke of Calliou and there were no photographs of him on the coffee table. But I slept with the doll every night, and I managed to steal a large stash of his photos. In 1962, at age 15, my grandparents became too old to care for me and soon passed away. I left home and got pregnant with my daughter, Daisy.

Gilbert the cat, however, had outlived 75% of the family. He was a ripe old 13 years of age. Gilbert went to live with my Dad and Kirk. I got a job as a playboy bunny. This served me well but I soon realized I could not raise a child on it. In 1970, when Daisy was 7, I married my photographer. We had another daughter, Lily. I wanted a boy to name after my brother, but I had my doll anyway.

In 1980 I went to visit my father in Canada. To my surprise he was in very bad shape. He said he had AIDS. Kirk had already succumbed to it. I tearfully reassured my Dad that he would soon see his only son again. He looked me dead in the eye. "I always liked you best, Rosie," he said softly. "I never thought it was fair thar Calliou gor away with things and you didn't." I looked at him, amazed. "Your mother, she--she was very controlling, Rosie. She hit me. Often." My Dad passed away two weeks later.

My youngest daughter Lily gave birth to 2 children, Barclay and Amanda. Daisy inherited a gene from her uncle and developed ovarian cancer, but thanks to modern technology, she survived. I then began writing Calliou's and making books with his pictures. Barclay and Amanda delighted in the adventures of their late great-uncle, ao ai gave them my doll under the condition that they take good care of it.

They do fumble for it at times, and I remind them to be gentle with Calliou. I also managed to save Calliou's stuffed turtle, bear and other toys. The children often perform puppet skits with them, including a hand made gilbert. My husband died of a heart attack during a photoshoot last summer.

I am relieved, saddened and proud all at once to share the true story of my older brother, the child who was drawn with a smile to entertain billions of boys and girls,, yet held a secret in his heart.

RIP Calliou PeeWee Andrews.