The Story Behind Burden to Bear

Back in 2018, when I first set out on my journey as an author, I wanted to master the art of writing short fiction.

Short stories have a way of unlocking the imagination—offering a creative playground where a tale can take shape in hours or days and be refined within a couple of weeks.  

To sharpen my skills, I joined a writing community called The Story Cartel, now known as The Write Practice. Their mission?  

To turn aspiring writers into published authors through deliberate practice.

It was in this group that Burden To Bear was born.  

The Write Practice emphasized critique, helping writers see their work through the eyes of a reader. I quickly discovered that what I thought I had written and what actually landed on the page weren’t always the same—sometimes the gap was wide enough to drive a truck through. But through rewrites and feedback, I learned to bridge that gap, making my story clearer and more impactful.  

My background in psychology, nutrition, and business has shaped much of my perspective, but growing up in rural Saskatchewan left an even deeper imprint—especially when it came to the silent struggles surrounding mental health. At the time, conversations about mental illness were hushed, spoken about only in whispers. I often wondered: What triggers mental illness? What causes the mind to fracture?

Then, I came across an article exploring the potential effects of "earables"—those tiny in-ear devices that have become so common today. The question lingered: What if identical twins wore them, and one was later diagnosed with schizophrenia?  

That curiosity led me to write Burden To Bear, a story I’m excited to share with you. I hope it makes you think, wonder, and perhaps even see the world a little differently.

Burden to Bear

Exactly 15 years ago today, our mother was driving back from a meeting with government officials. The police officers stood at the door, hat in hand, while they shared the tragic news. A drunk driver who had a blood alcohol content over twice the legal limit hit Mom head-on. Her bubbly laughter and gentle hugs died with her.

After completing our university degrees, Sandy and I enjoyed quality time at home. Our best-selling author father was busy writing the next book in his series about crime-fighting officers on Mars’ first-ever space station.

Collaborating with Mom and MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving), Sandy had been working on a project to persuade our elected officials to strengthen the laws against drunk drivers. A mere three months before, a drunk driver had smashed into his best friend, who was walking on the sidewalk near the park and killed him instantly. Doing something that honoured his friend was how Sandy coped with grief.

Two months later, Sandy was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

There is no doubt in my mind that the emotional trauma of witnessing the spacecraft blown to smithereens with five astronauts on board—two of them his friends—contributed to a full-blown manifestation of this condition; only one episode, though, typical of 25% of people diagnosed with schizophrenia. Sandy displayed no other symptoms.

Sandy accepted his diagnosis, but I did not. Everyone knew us, the identical twins, so brilliant and handsome; eyes, a sky blue colour, and hair that matched golden wheat shimmering in the August sun.

Our life was perfect before the diagnosis. Yes, I enjoyed being the centre of attention for positive things. Before Mom’s death, we were going to solve the world’s problems—Sandford and me.

We were brilliant; an IQ of 165 is pretty darn exceptional—not the top of the scale, but darn excellent, if I must say so myself. Well, OK 165 for Sandford. I had five points less!

Identical? Why don’t we have the same IQ? I ask myself, yet again. The number of sunsets in my life equals the times I asked that question.

Our parents often say to us, “No being the same for you, even though the good Lord created identical twins. No siree. He also gave you free will. Both of you have it. Throughout your life, people will compare both of you. They’ll see similarities where none exist and miss others that are right there.” Heck, my parents even gave us very different names because they thought we should be raised as individuals. 

Rapid-fire thoughts roll through my mind. Sandy got sick, but that’s him—not me. My brain is fine. I’m using it to help our world with new inventions. My brain is firing on all cylinders. I didn’t get sick when Mom died, Sandy did. Not me! He had a best friend who died a few months before Mom did. That is an enormous burden to bear, but it’s not me. My thinking is solid. I’m using my intellect to help the world.

Small-town Saskatchewan, where everyone knows everyone, was not a good place for me to be when Sandy was first diagnosed. I could see the pitying looks people gave us when they said hi, then glanced away. They never quite grasped what to say to a crazy person, and they didn’t want to be embarrassed to say hi to the wrong twin. 

The soft and loud whispers at the next table in a restaurant or a line-up at a store bothered me the most. I guess when the condition afflicts seven people out of 1,000 on average, there won’t be many who understand in this little town of 20,000. Even though this rate of affliction is six times that of the rate of insulin-dependent diabetes, its acceptance is not. No one understood. Nor do they understand what schizophrenia does to a person, to their family, to me!

“Isn’t it tragic?” they’d whisper. “Such nice young men–so smart, attractive, and athletic, too. Their mother just died and now one of them has schizophrenia. I can’t tell them apart, but I am certain it won’t take long until the other gets it, too. They are identical, after all. I don’t understand why the one with schizophrenia could keep his job, though. They should put him in a home.”

No, they shouldn’t! I felt like shouting. You’re talking about my brother. He’s capable of living on his own. Over 50% of people with schizophrenia live on their own and most of the rest can live independently with a little help. Why don’t you know that?

I wanted to tell them to look at Dad and how he’s handling it. They were like two peas in a pod—Mom and Dad.

Dad has his books to write. The tough emotions invariably show up in his books. For example, the scene—of my mom dying—ended up in one of his books. Sure, it was a favourite male character who died at the hands of a drunk driver, but the premise was the same.

His fans loved him for it and cried with him.

Meanwhile, I would hear, “Poor things, and only eighteen and all. They were so handsome and so smart. Now this! They could have gone far. They are identical twins, and we know what that means. Both will have schizophrenia. Tsk. Tsk.”

What do you mean, we were handsome? Our looks haven’t changed! It took all I could muster not to shout at them.

The conversations sounded like a recording. Different settings and people, same words. In this town with best-selling authors as parents and one of them dying, plus having the IQ of geniuses, we were small-town celebrities, and I liked it. It meant we had no trouble working at the gas station and local café while growing up. Everyone wanted us to work for them. We didn’t want to, but having the parents we did—they insisted we learn where money comes from. Sheesh!

The knowing nods and the judgment kept coming. Tumbling thoughts kept rolling through my mind. Hell, Sandy could have still invented things. His IQ didn’t change! We could have been great together. Sandy and James Taffering—inventors of cold fusion or graphene-based ultra-capacitors. Chemically modified graphene is called CMG for short. We need great semiconducting material for future electronics. It could make every story in my dad’s books come true. Well, OK some of those stories.

We had a letter of acceptance to study with the world’s most highly regarded physics professor. She had agreed to take both of us on to study CMG. But no, Sandy wouldn’t go. He stayed home. He wanted a different path.

I guess it was Dad’s influence that helped me to decide on a space-related career, one that took me away. I realize it was our mother’s influence that guided Sandy to study mental health and why he accepted a job as the Executive Director of the local Canadian Mental Health Association, aka the Centre. Now, a decade later, he works in the hospital. I search for Sandy’s office. As I trudge down the corridor, the smell of disinfectant hits me and the sound of machines beeping dissipates.

Aren’t you glad you don’t have that burden to bear? This thought pops into my head unannounced as I turn to my destination.

“Hey, glad to see you,” Sandy smiles at me.

We spend hours sharing childhood stories. No one discusses the diagnosis. We talk instead of when I get out and what we’ll do, as if we’ve been doing things together forever. As if there was no decade divide between us. A decade when we did not talk. When I moved to another country where no one recognized me. Whereas… don’t you love that word whereas? Whereas Sandy didn’t leave. 

We shared stories about Mom and her lasagna, pies, and Christmas dinners. How she laughed and skipped rope when we were kids. That cavernous wound, held together with thin strips of fond memories, still festered for Sandy. Our primary focus lies in uplifting stories, but it doesn’t guarantee laughter. The tears sneak out of his eyes, creating small rivulets running across his firm chin while he uttered, “Mom was the greatest. I never had to say much. She understood me.”

Thoughts whirl in my mind like clothes in a dryer. The day I left, I stopped at the Centre to say goodbye. Someone yells, “Hey Sandy, or is it James T?”

Sandford did not forsake his town or his people. He never left. Sandford worked in the local Canadian Mental Health Association organization. Organization? Hell, I figured it was a coming-and-going of derelicts, disheveled people with slurred speech, of those who walked slowly in a stupor, and medicated to stop whatever horrible demons possessed them.

I could see that Sandy saw them as those trying to find common ground, of those discarded by the world with somewhere to belong. Sandy was unfailingly patient with me. “No, not all people with mental illness are here. There are many with active lives, jobs, and families to care for, similar to me.

I witnessed smiles and high-fives in front of the TV when the Saskatchewan Roughriders won the Grey Cup with a last-minute field goal. Wow! That was a lifetime ago when I visited the Centre to say goodbye.

“A noble occupation,” Sandy called it, “to help those that are sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, and cousins.” 

“No, it isn’t! No. It. Is. NOT. Jeez! For Pete’s sake! With an IQ of 165, be a physicist, a doctor, or an aerospace engineer. Don’t waste it on this!” Those were the very last words I spoke to him before leaving so long ago.

He just smiles, hugs me, and says, “I love you, bro. Go build that space station.” 

Over the past week, I saw people from the Centre visit Sandy. Every time those people come, he shines with an inner peace, a gentle knowing. No judgment.

He says to me, “Aren’t you glad you don’t have those burdens to bear?”

My father had arrived at the hospital, and we were in the cafeteria, having a cup of delicious coffee. It defied the standard stereotypical hospital food is crap.

I asked my dad, “Why did Sandy use the name Sandy and not Sandford? If only he had kept his full name and used the brains God gave him, us. Sandford and James Taffering would be an unbeatable pair who made a difference! Why did Sandy use earables? I know earables aren’t appropriate for people with schizophrenia.

Dad’s eyes squint as he stares at me. Despite his empathic aptitude for understanding people, I could not tell him about the latest diagnosis.

The sound of jackhammers pounds through the room. The backfiring of a truck driving past adds to the noise, and he asks, “Are you OK?”

“Why do you ask if I’m OK?”

“Well, you nearly jumped out of your skin just now. It looked like you were turning inside out.”

My mind wanders. Sandford—born five minutes before me—was my older brother, the one I looked up to, always the one …

“What?” I whisper aloud, unaware of my surroundings. My mind keeps analyzing and I talk to myself. OK, OK! He wasn’t someone I looked up to. I envied him those extra five IQ points. Now? Now I think he can have all the extra IQ points he wants. I’m glad I don’t have those burdens. Schizophrenia robbed me of my brother: me, the one who is now the Space Corps Captain. 

Silent words slide through my mind like neon flashing, digital scrolling billboards: embarrassed…embarrassed…embarrassed….

“WAS embarrassed, I mean!” This time the words escape, muffled in my sleeve, my arm wiping my face.   

Hell, who am I kidding? I ask myself. Feeling embarrassed about having a brother with schizophrenia used to be the case for me. It still is. Yes, I’m glad I don’t have a mental health issue.

No.

That’s not it.

I’m glad I’m not crazy. Crazy means you’ll be hanging out with the crazies. Those that are a drain on society. Those who can’t keep a job because the pressure is too great.

Jumbled thoughts continue to stumble through my brain. They nose-dive from the cliff of self-control to the abyss, picking up speed on the way down. Pressure? Pressure! They don’t understand pressure, and I’m not referring to pressurised space suits, airlock living domes, or space baubles. My niece called them baubles when we first blew soap bubbles across their lawn.

Little and three years old, with sparkly blue eyes and curly hair, she says, “Uncle James T. You live in baubles.” I didn’t correct a three-year-old.

Now I remember my dad is here. He’ll listen. 

I say, “I made sure not to use hearables, earables. It doesn’t matter what they call them. Those new-fangled, computerized ear-sized headphones that fit in your ear canal. It wasn’t worth the chance that having voices coming into my brain every day might trigger schizophrenia. No siree! Not me! I was aware of the odds of both twins being diagnosed with schizophrenia. Statistics were easy for me. For both of us. Sixty percent.”

Dad’s blue eyes, which are identical to Sandy’s and mine, stared at me under his furrowed brows.

I stopped talking, lost in my thoughts. They administered the tests and observations three times before allowing me to become a backup astronaut, ready to fly into space if something happened to one of the team. Sheesh! I understood the implications of a forty percent chance. I was safe. There was no way schizophrenia would get me.

“Jeez, Dad. It’s common knowledge that science has advanced DNA tests to predict this crazy disease called schizophrenia. How come it takes so long for others to realize this?”

Dad tilts his head to one side, raises an eyebrow, and asks, “Is everything OK, James T?”

“Ya. I told you the odds. Sheesh!”

“James. James T. JAMES TAFFERING!” Sandy’s voice increases in volume as he tries to get my attention. He is standing behind me, ready to leave the hospital.

His voice softened, and he says, “You didn’t tell Dad, did you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Tell me what?”

“I have PTSD.” My voice is muffled as I lower my head, staring at the floor.

“Please! James T,” Sandy says. “The treatments nowadays are way better than they were a decade ago. You need to take treatments. You are capable, energetic, and resilient. Your psyche is even more vigorous. You always handled the stressors that came our way. You were the strong one I looked up to when Mom died.”

My head raises and I look at Sandy with wide eyes.

Sandy continues, “There is no shame in needing help. Dad and I are here for you. I will be at your side.” 

Dad says, “Of course, we’ll be right here for you. I’m proud of you, of both of you.”

He looks from me to Sandy and continues talking. “Going to another country to pursue your dream is admirable. We are very proud of you. But it doesn’t matter how tough you are, seeing your friends blown to smithereens in a spaceship heading out of Earth’s orbit is tough. I can’t even imagine it! A team built that ship. Not you! I’m glad you are back in Canada. I’m right here for you.”

“But I don’t want to have PTSD. And I sure as hell don’t wish to be crazy!”

“No, we do not ask for our afflictions,” says Sandy.

  Dad says, “Modern-day PTSD treatments are very effective, but they are hard work. James T, treatments work if you work at them. Effort is required to deal with PTSD.”

Sandy cut in. “I’m right here. I’ll even go with you to the treatments. Please, say you’ll go to treatments.”

“OK. I’ll go. But don’t label me as crazy.”

“Hey James T. You. Are not. Crazy.” says Sandy. “Aren’t you glad you don’t have that burden to bear?”