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Twins Levon and Aron were identical, yet different
in so many ways. Here Aran Morland, 22, explains...
Dear Levon,
Poor Mum was
in for a hard time. Gritting her
teeth, she pushed once again. With
a final heave, the baby popped out. “It’s
a boy,” said the midwife. But it
wasn’t over yet. Ten minutes
later the midwife said: “It’s
another boy”. Exhausted, Mum lay
back on the pillow. Two bundles
were placed in her arms. She
nuzzled one brow, then the other.
“Identical
twins”, said the midwife. You’d
been the first to be born, Levon, I was the second.
It was
Mum’s job to choose my name. “Aran”
she told Dad. “I love the sound
of the name”. Then it was Dad’s
turn to name you. He was a big fan
of the Seventies group called The Band. One
of its members was called Levon. “That’s
the name I want,” he said.
Soon we were
taken home to meet our brother, Brendan. He
was eight years older than us.
Years passed
and we grew up side by side. Then
we decided to look for a job and called into the newsagent’s together.
“It’ll be our business partnership”, I said when we got home.
Next morning I struggled out of bed.
It was pitch-black. “You
can do it tomorrow”, I said.
We took
turns doing the paper round. At the
end of the week we divided the money evenly.
Few could
tell us apart. “Let’s have some
fun,” I suggested one day on the way to school.
I went to your classes and you went to mine.
We did it several times and the teachers never realised.
But then you
decided we wouldn’t do it again. You
were brighter than I was. “I
don’t want you spoiling my grades”, you said.
You were more academic, but I was better at sport.
I ran for the cross-country team. One
year we came first in the county and the team was summoned to have its photo
taken for the local newspaper. But
I was off sick that day, then the PE teacher spotted you.
“Levon,
come here,” he yelled. “Pretend
to be your brother.”
So there you
were, beaming proudly from the picture, wearing the school colours.
“At least they got my name right,” I grumbled, when I found the photo
in the sports pages.
The
following year, the team won again. This
time I took my rightful place on the team photo.
I showed you the paper.
Giggling
helplessly, you pointed to the caption below.
“I don’t believe it,” I sighed.
This time they’d used your name instead of mine!
You were 12
when we found out about your illness. The
first time it happened you suddenly said, “I’ll have to sit down.”
You were breathless, but you hadn’t been running.
Two minutes later you were fine.
A few months
later it happened again. Mum took
you to the doctor. Tests were
carried out on your heart. You were
diagnosed with Wolfe Parkinson White Syndrome, a dis-rhythm of the heart that
makes it race. “It’s very
rare”, the doctor said. The
attacks could last a few seconds or a few minutes.
You’d been born with it. I
had tests too. I was clear. “Aren’t you worried?” I asked anxiously.
“No,” you replied. “It doesn’t last long and then everything is back to
normal. It’s just a nuisance.”
And that was
your attitude. You suffered an
attack about once every two months but, as soon as it was over, your mind
quickly turned to something else. Regular
checks over the years showed the condition wasn’t getting any worse.
By 18 we
were displaying different characteristics.
I was happy and settled at home with my girlfriend, Kim.
But you wanted adventure. You
became a travel rep. Postcards and
photos arrived regularly. And there
you’d be, grinning and clowning around. You
were clearly enjoying yourself. Kim
and I visited you in Magaluf. Everywhere
we went, people stopped to say hello.
“Do you
know everybody here?” I asked. “Just
about”, you laughed. You’d
always been outgoing and friendly, but now I saw how good you were at your job.
You were posed, self-assured and confident. Your easy manner made you popular. One night we went to a nightclub where Errol Brown, the
singer from Hot Chocolate, was performing.
I could barely believe my ears when he began swaying to the sound of You
Sexy Thing and announced: “This is for Levon”.
You burst
out laughing in surprise and delight.
“You’re
the life and soul of the party,” I said, admiringly.
You spent
the next two years working abroad for six months, then coming home to School
Avenue, West Rainton, Co Durham, when the season finished.
We’d have
rows and I’d tell you off: “You’re
getting Mum to do your washing and you’re not paying any board.”
But I couldn’t be cross with you for long.
That’s how it was with you and me.
At one of
your check-ups, the consultant told you an operation could cure your illness.
But, he warned, there was a 10% risk you wouldn’t come through.
“What’s the point?” you shrugged.
“It’s not worth chancing it on the operating table.
I can live with it.”
Your next
big adventure took you to America, where you taught roller hockey and physical
education at a camp for children in California.
Then you traveled to Mexico.
“It was
from there you phoned Mum.
“I’ve
had another attack, but this time it lasted three hours.
I had to go and lie down.”
After your
trip, you came home. “So what’s
your next big project?” I asked.
“I’m
going in for Big Brother,” you replied.
“You’re
joking,” I said.
“No, I’m
serious,” you insisted waiving an application form you had been filling in.
Later that
night, we went out to the pub to watch a football match.
“Goodnight,” I said as we parted.
You were going back to Mum’s, I was going to Kim’s.
In the
morning there was a phone call from Brendan.
“You’d better come home,” he said.
“What’s
the matter?” I asked.
“Just come
home,” he said.
I rounded
the corner of the street. There was
an ambulance in front of our house.
I rushed
inside. Mum, Dad and Brendon sat in the front room.
You weren’t there. They
didn’t need to say anything. I
knew something had happened to you.
Wordlessly,
I rushed upstairs to your room. I
pushed open the door. You still lay
wrapped in your bed clothes.
The coroner
said you’d probably died at about 5am. You’d
had an attack while you were asleep and your heart had given out.
You were 22. My legs gave
way.
I didn’t
know you could die from Wolfe Parkinson White Syndrome.
If I had, I’d have made you have the operation.
But it was too late.
After your
funeral I came across the application form you’d filled in for Big Brother.
One of the
questions asked: If you were selected to
go into the house, which members of your family and friends would you miss most
and why?
Your answer
was: My identical twin brother. We
argue like mad and are still best mates two minutes after we stop.
My eyes
moistened.
Another
question asked you to complete the sentence: The
way I live my life is…
You’d
written: …Worthwhile and I try to get as much out of life as possible.
You’d
certainly done that. You called Mum
the ‘perfect mother’ and described Dad as ‘cool’.
When it came
to your own characteristics, you’d said you were: fun,
wild, enjoyable, loving and plentiful.
Here on this
form you’d written your own epitaph. Perhaps
subconsciously, you’d known you would have a short life, so you lived it in
the fast lane.
Finally
they’d asked: Why do you think people would want to watch you?
Because
I have a gift for making people my friends, you’d answered.
You were
right. I couldn’t have put it better.
I
miss you, and I always will.
Aran has donated his £300 fee to the charity Cardiac Riask in
the Young, CRY
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