Throughout the week a lot of things get my goat, and they all compete with each other for my blogging attention.

This week I was considering writing about - the 10th year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, or Noel Arrigo's release from 'prison', which to me, marks the umpteenth anniversary of the sorry state of our justice system.

By Saturday afternoon I had decided to write about Noel Arrigo, not because he's more important than the 9/11 attacks that changed the world, but because Arrigo's case is closer to home.

But then it hit me!

This week marks the 30th anniversary of the day that changed my life forever; the day that determined who I am today; the day that established what I stand for, and ultimately what I would kill for.

Thirty years ago my brother David was born, and nothing and no one, let alone Arrigo and his debacles, comes closer to home than him.

I had been an only child for six long years, and I couldn't wait for a sibling. Being the tomboy that I was, I secretly hoped for a baby brother, but whenever relatives asked what I was wishing for, I lied, and repeated what my mother had been saying all along – that the baby's gender did not matter so long as it was healthy.

My mother meant her words of course, but at that age I just wanted someone to toss a ball around with, and I thought that a brother would be more likely to comply than a sister.

Finally, nine long months of waiting later, the day arrived, and my mother was taken into labour. Her sister, who was also pregnant, went into labour just minutes after her, and they both gave birth to baby boys on the very same day.

My brother was a huge baby. He looked perfectly healthy and I couldn't wait to get him home. Thanks to the sorry state that the hospital was in back in the early 80s, it didn't take long for the medics to dismiss them all and send them home, unchecked!

Just days after we brought David home, my mother started noticing strange developments. His skin colour wasn't right, his belly button wouldn't heal, his head seemed too big for his body, and though he seemed famished he couldn't drink because his tongue was too big to fit inside his mouth.

To cut a long story short (a story which deserves a novel in its own right), after six weeks of my mother insisting with various doctors that something was wrong with her baby, a Pakistani doctor at St. Luke's Hospital threatened to sign her off as an unfit mother, and to have her locked up at Mount Carmel if she ever returned to hospital with David.

This was the straw that broke my parents' back, and since they had nowhere else to turn to in Malta, they packed their bags and got onto the first flight to London. As fate would have it they forgot to register David on one of their passports, and whilst they were allowed to leave the island, the moment they landed in London they were accused of kidnapping. They were arrested and David was taken away from them.

My mother pleaded desperately with the authorities. She explained that they hadn't registered him because they had left Malta in a rush because something was wrong with their baby. She begged them to let her feed him and change him, but it wasn't until twenty four hours of anguish later that the Maltese authorities confirmed that the baby was with his rightful parents, and David was returned to them.

Despite the snow-jammed roads, thanks to a massive snow storm that hit London during the night, they somehow made it to Great Ormond Hospital for children. Unlike the doctors in Malta, the moment the first doctor laid eyes on my 6 week old brother, he diagnosed him with hypothyroidism.

My mother says that the doctor knew what was wrong with him just by looking at him, and that the blood tests were done just to confirm the diagnosis.

Unfortunately, although hypothyroidism is entirely treatable with no significant side effects, if left untreated, especially in babies, it can have devastating effects.

And that's what changed my life forever.

My parents flew back to Malta, with an elusive prognosis. The doctors at Great Ormond Hospital had told them that physically, David was going to be fine, but that mentally, they couldn't tell what damage had already been done.

We had to wait and see.

Living with such future prospects is like sitting on a ticking time bomb – on the one hand we were glad that it didn't blow up in our face right there and then, but on the other, the apprehension of not knowing, if, or rather when it was going to blow up, ate us up slowly.

As David started to grow, physically he looked fine. Just like the doctors in London had said, as long as he kept taking his daily pill, physically, he developed normally. To this day in fact, just by looking at David and his twin cousin, there's absolutely no way of telling that David is any different.

But he is. And because he is, I am too.

I write this with tears in my eyes, but with no resentment whatsoever. Despite all our efforts, all our research, and all our alternative treatments, intellectually, David stopped developing at around the age of seven.

This meant that he had to attend special education, which at the time was not inclusive and nothing to write home about. Today it means that he can never leave the house alone, that he will never earn a living, that he will never drive a car, nor have a girlfriend or get drunk.

He will never get to go to university, be part of a clan, or get into trouble.

He will never take a trip to Mexico on his stag night, nor will he will ever get a girl pregnant and hold his child in his arms.

My brother will never have what we deem to be a full life, and I could very easily let the anger take the better of me.

Instead, for both our sakes I've taken his misfortune as my fortune. I've rationalized it perhaps, but I live with his fate in a zen kind of way.

Selfishly speaking, I'm almost thankful he's the way he is, because it's thanks to him that I know what unconditional love is, it's thanks to him that I keep myself on the straight and narrow to be able to care for him when my parents' won't be around.

It's thanks to him that I don't take life's little mishaps too seriously, and it's thanks to him that my Saturdays are full of childish colouring, fun and games.

So, happy birthday my dear brother. If you could read this you'd know, that thirty years later I'm still grateful that I got the brother I asked for because, not only did I get a brother to toss a ball around with, I got a brother who, no matter how old and grey we both grow to be, will always toss that ball back in the playful way only a seven year old can.