Mohamed Arif Manjothi

I didn’t talk about my brother often, but it wasn’t because I didn’t love him.

Mo was 10 years older than me, so in 1978 when I was born, he was a tall brown Muslim kid in a small French, Catholic town in Quebec. He was hard to miss in a crowd.

He grew up during a time where it wasn’t commonplace to test kids for learning disabilities or neurodivergence. As a result he had a difficult time in school and holding down jobs. He didn’t always make the best choices.

But he was something special.

Mo was creative, resilient, resourceful and street smart. He loved all kinds of music from the blues to heavy metal.

He made friends easily and everywhere.

It wasn’t uncommon for people who barely knew him to be rooting for him because he had such a big heart.

Mo loved cars and cartoons and was a big kid at heart. He was protective of his three younger sisters and was quick to scare off guys who dared flirt with them in his presence.

He loved mom’s cooking and respected his dad very much.

In April 2021 my brother suffered a heart attack and while the doctors were able to revive him after very aggressive efforts, they weren’t sure if he’d wake up, and if he did - if he’d have significant brain damage. He was hooked up to machines that were keeping him alive.

With a very heavy heart, my father called each of us to ask our opinion on how long to continue extraordinary measures to keep him alive. We all went to Mohamed’s bedside to say our final goodbyes and tell him he could go if he was ready.

Later that night, my dad received a call from the hospital. Expecting the worst, he was shocked to hear my brother’s voice on the other end asking if Dad could bring him some running shoes and decent food to eat and chatting as though absolutely nothing had happened.

We were stunned.

But this wasn’t Mohamed’s first close call, and we joked that he really did have nine lives.

He was discharged from the hospital and for the next four years, carried on marching to the beat of his own drum.

He was admitted to hospital once again on Jan 5, 2025 with pneumonia and covid. Despite being in heart failure for 4 years, his doctor was shocked to see him make a full recovery from both. We weren’t surprised though - at this point he just seemed invincible.

After more than 2 weeks in the hospital, Mo was smiling and joking and talking to the doctor and social worker about turning his life around and quitting smoking and drinking for good once he was discharged.

He had a good appetite and was wheeled outside to get some fresh air. The hospital was making plans to find him appropriate assisted living housing given his precarious medical condition.

However on the morning January 22nd at Verdun Hospital, my brother suffered his third cardiac event while asleep. This time he left his body for good.

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If I could use one quote to sum up my brother’s life, it would be one attributed to Nietzsche: “To live is to suffer. To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering”

As I begin this new year with both my father and brother now departed, I think of the mindset those two men definitely had in common:

Don’t sweat the small stuff… and it’s all small stuff.

Thank you, Mo, for the life lessons. You drove me crazy many times but you will not be forgotten. Rest in peace bro. I love you.