Project 1, Draft 1

The phone call disturbed me, but I tried not to let it effect me too much.  I kept thinking to myself that it probably was not anything too serious.  I even expected to arrive at the hospital, only to hear my brother complain about some diminutive problem that had occurred on the ride over in the ambulance.  Little did I know that the scenario that my family and I were about to walk in on would involve nothing of that minute magnitude.  Little did I know that a fear would be implanted inside of me and would still somewhat be there 6 years later.  A feeling that I thought I would never have to experience towards my brother was about to take over my whole entire body and mind, and it was not going to diminish over time very easily.

            Growing up, my brother Andrew, one could say, was a ‘typical’ older brother.  Being twice the size of the petite thing that I was, he used it to his full advantage to intimidate me.  He liked to pick on me, and sometimes left me feeling unsettled and aggravated.  There were times, though, that he used his role as the big brother positively, like the time Alex from up the street punched me in the stomach while we were all outside playing.  I will never forget the look on my brother’s face when he saw me clutching my stomach, tears streaming down my face.  A look of pure anger washed over not only his face, but his eyes as well, as if to say to me, “don’t worry, I got this.”  Of course I did not notice it then, but now that I think of it, on that day, my brother showed an almost burning need to protect me as he raced up the street to “take care of” Alex.

            As I got older, I suppose Andrew’s outlook towards me began to change.  He no longer viewed me as the obnoxious little sister who he could boss around.  Rather, he started looking to me as an equal, someone he could actually hang out and get along with. He had started seeing Patty, a sweet and bubbly blond girl who quickly became a part of our family.  Though shy at first, I soon adored her, and looked up to her like the sister that I never had, yet so desperately had wanted for so many years.

            Andrew and Patty were fun together.  I considered them to be adventurous, because they were always going out and doing different things.  Being 13 years old at the time, going out without my parents was only something that I had only dreamt about, which is why whenever my brother invited me to join the couple on their escapades, I was beyond ecstatic.  Before I knew it, I was joining them on their “adventures” almost on a weekly basis. 

Years went by, and the couple was still going strong.  I was all set and ready to start my senior year of high school.  The summer of 2004 was great-my best friend Jen had gotten her license in June, so we were taking full advantage of the fact that we did not have to rely on our parents for rides anymore (needless to say, we were at the mall about every other day).  I was working as a camp counselor for the second summer in a row-something I both loathed and loved at the same time.  Regardless, I had my own money in my pocket for once.  I suppose one could say that it was my summer of independence-I was 17, I had money, and a friend who had a car. I had everything.

            Halfway through the summer, things started to go sour for Andrew and Patty.  They soon broke up, and my brother’s attitude quickly changed.  His temper, which had always been pretty short, grew even shorter with us, and he began lashing out at my parents on a regular basis.  Looking back though, I cannot really remember my brother being too angry with me.  There was no instance where he lost his temper towards me. Funny to think that at one time, I was the only one he really geared his anger towards. 

            Andrew turned 23 on October 10, 2004.  He had moved out of our house only a few weeks prior to his birthday. We all felt, at first, angered by his sudden and harsh decision.  My mom had taken it the worst, of course, because she felt that her role as a mother was being tested to the extreme, and took it very personally when notified of his decision.  As the weeks went on, though, we realized that perhaps the distance could actually help to regain the strength in all of our relationships to Andrew.  Seeing and speaking to him everyday would only lead to fights and deeper rifts, so the distance was starting to help a bit.

            On Friday, November 5, I had achieved the ultimate goal of a 17 year old senior in high school-I had passed my driving test.  I was thrilled, and was even happier when Andrew made a special trip home to congratulate me and celebrate with my family.  For the next 3 days, I had not a care in the world.  I picked up my girlfriends, drove to the mall, and went out to eat.  I began thinking that the old saying was right-that senior year truly is the greatest time in a teenager’s life.  I thought too far ahead.

            The phone call was the first notification that anything was wrong, and I was on its receiving end.  I stayed home from school the following Tuesday, November 8, because I started to develop a really bad cold.  I was in my room watching TV when the house phone rang around 3 o’clock.  I picked it up, only to hear my aunt’s voice on the other end (she and my brother had worked together for about 2 years now).

            “Something happened at work.  Your brother collapsed, and he’s at the hospital.  Call your mom.”

            I was confused, and started to ask questions, but my aunt did not really know any details.  I hung up and called my mom, who then went on to call my dad, and before I knew it, we were all in the car on our way to the emergency room.

            “Everything’s fine, Ma.  He just started taking those diet pills, right?  I’m sure he just didn’t eat enough and they made him dizzy.  It’s fine.”  My mother even went as far as to chuckle a little and say, “Yeah, I’m sure when we get there he’s going to be all annoyed that we took too long to pick him up or something.” 

            We arrived at the emergency room and did not hear any of this.  Instead, we arrived only to hear my brother screaming in agony while vomiting profusely. 

            Confusion quickly took over, and nobody knew what to think.  I looked to my parents for closure, some kind of answer, but all I found was an equal amount of bewilderment written all over their faces.  It only grew worse when the emergency room doctor came in and told us that after a CT scan, blood was found on Andrew’s brain.

            “Huh? What?  What does that mean?”

            “It means that there is something seriously wrong with him, and we have a neurologist on the way.”

            The ride home that night is something I will never forget.  Endless questions filled the car, a need and a want for answers.  When is he getting the surgery?  Is he going to live through it?  Why did this happen?  I could understand my parent’s agony and helplessness, but why was I feeling it too?  Is that the role of a sister?  Is it normal for me to be feeling like this? The only thing I remember once I got home is going into my room, turning off all the lights, and crying into my pillow.

            Andrew received his emergency brain surgery a day later at Overlook Hospital in Summit.  After numerous tests and countless CT scans, it was determined that he had an Arterial Venal Malformation, or AVM.  An AVM occurs when the nerves in the back of the brain do not form properly, and create a blockage, which either starts to leak, or eventually burst.  It is a “sister” to an aneurism.  The AVM was removed and his surgery went very well.  He was placed in the ICU for about 2 weeks, and we were thrilled when we were notified the day before Thanksgiving that he was being taken out and placed into a regular room.

            Before we went to my aunt’s house for dinner on the morning of Thanksgiving, we went to visit my brother.  We trailed my mother as we walked through the hallway, my father and I, so we were not able to feel the initial shock that she felt.  All I remember hearing is my mother screaming, “Where is my son?”

            “Oh, his fever went back up, so we moved him back into the ICU,”  the nurse nonchalantly replied.

            My family and I were livid at the thought that we were not notified, as well as terrified at the fact that my brother began to regress.  We ran over to the hallway leading up to the ICU, a place we thought we would never have to see again.  The hallway seemed longer today, the walls, which were a usual shade of off white, seemed dimmed and yellowish.  I glanced over into the waiting room, only to find more families, just like us, with helpless looks stamped on their faces.  I almost felt guilty walking into my brother’s room, all dressed up with my high heels clicking, about to go indulge in a delicious Thanksgiving meal, surrounded by our family, while my brother laid there all alone, unsure of what was going on, what was happening to him.

            “Hey, how are you feeling?” I quietly asked when I walked up to the side of his bed.  I stared at his half shaved head, his battle wound which was so deep and long, I was sure it would never fully go away. 

            “Not too good.  Not too good,” was all he could say.

            Overnight, my brother’s fever went up to a staggering 104 degrees.  He fell into a coma, and was pretty much guaranteed to die.  I happened to be out with some friends when my mother called me and told me to get home as fast as I could.  When she told me of my brother’s condition, I did not immediately comprehend it.  I replied with something ignorant, something along the lines of, “Well why do I need to come home?”  She immediately began screaming at me, “Do you even care?  Do you understand what is going on?”

            The accusation of the fact that I did not care that my brother was on his death bed hit me hard.  I drove right home, but by the time I had gotten there, my parents were already on their way up to the hospital.  I will never forget the loneliness that smothered me at that very moment.  The house, dark in the dusk of early winter, suddenly did not even feel like my home.  I felt as though I did not even know this place, this chilly, uncomfortable building that was supposed to be filled with warmth, with smells of leftover pumpkin pie.  I just could not bare the thought of losing my only sibling.  As selfish, and moody, and pompous as he could be, he was my brother-the only one I’ve ever had, and the only one I was ever going to get.  Though it might sound overly dramatic, it was at this point that I dropped to my knees and just cried.  I cried for my brother.  I cried for my parents, at my mother’s agony over the thought of losing her child.  I cried for me, for being the selfish and immature 17 year old that I was. 

            Andrew’s condition plateaued for the next few weeks.  He did not get better, but he did not get worse. He had come out of his coma within a day or two, but we soon realized that he had lost all control over his body.  He was mostly paralyzed on the right hand side, and was not able to either speak or eat by himself.  His surgeon told us that he had developed Menengitis, and that the infection had caused his brain to swell immensely.  On more than one occasion, the doctors even had to open up his incision and clean out all of the bacteria that was infecting his brain.  The one comforting aspect of this whole ordeal was the nurses who took care of my brother nearly 24 hours a day.  My family and I were able to find solace in the fact that they felt so dedicated to his recovery, and fought for him, just as much his team of doctors were fighting for him. 

            By the last week of December, the swelling had significantly subsided, and the doctors felt as though my brother was well enough to be released to Kessler Rehabilitation Center.  His speech had been so badly effected that we were barely able to understand him.  Once he realized what was going on, he became frustrated and embarrassed.  Andrew had always been an outstanding intellectual, and for him not to be able to speak properly and get his points across, came as a huge blow to his ego.       

            While I tried to be as encouraging and positive as possible, I too started becoming frustrated.  I was angry because I realized that my brother may not ever fully be the same as he once was.  He could barely walk, barely talk, and was almost crossed eyed.  His vision was effected so poorly, that he had to wear an eye patch over one eye, just so he did not see double of everything.  I don’t quite know who or what I was angry with, but my guilt was immense.  Was I actually mad at my brother?  Though I knew it was not his fault that this happened to him, I couldn’t help but gear some of my inner irritation towards him.

            Andrew had made enough progress to be released to our home right before my 18^th birthday at the end of January.  Though his grueling recovery in rehab to regain control of his movement took a toll on him both physically and emotionally, it slowly worked.  It was not until the spring of that year that I really noticed my anger reeling.  When I observed that he was not back to normal within 3 months, I became impatient with him.  He would stutter and lose his balance when he walked, and I would think to myself, “why can’t you just go back to normal?”  I cringe when I think of this now, because I know that he was just as angry as I was.  He did not ask for this.  I had to stop being so selfish and overlook the fact that he may never be fully back to normal.  I realized that I had to get over my anger.  I was not the one who had been lying in a hospital bed for 41 days.  I was not the one who had to learn how to walk and talk all over again.  If I truly loved my brother, I had to accept the realization that this is now who he was.

            Almost 6 years later, I find that I still have some underlying and undisclosed anger about my brother’s illness.  With time, though, I have learned to not gear this resentment directly at him.  Life does not always go according to plan.  Many things can happen to throw a person’s life completely off track. Usually, the most unfair and devastating life occurrences are completely unexpected. People get sick, they cope with it, and they heal-that is, if they’re lucky enough to.  Instead of being a martyr and asking why this happened to us, I now try to focus on the fact that my brother did in fact survive, and was able to recover almost one hundred percent.  Though Andrew and I have endured our fair share of rough times together, the rollercoaster of emotions that I felt for him during his illness is something that I will never be able to forget.  Sadness, animosity, fear, and resentment will always be dominant, but the most important emotion that a sister could ever feel towards her brother, is love.