“Did Tom have a good birthday?”I asked, pushing the question past the lump in my throat.
Mom nodded slowly but didn’t speak. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, purse handle secure in the crook of one elbow. I still didn’t understand why staff made them meticulously change and prep to visit me, yet mom always came in armed with her bag.
“Did… did he have a theme or anything?” I probed, hoping for tiny morsels. Tidbits of my sibling’s life, so I might pretend I was part of his childhood.
Mom rolled her shoulders a little, then sighed. After the sound, she looked a bit ashamed. The smile she slapped on next before answering was almost worse than her obvious irritation at my questions.
“We did a sports theme. Basketball and soccer decorations. The cake looked like a football field. We rented an air hockey table. That sort of thing.” She made it sound so mundane, like it wasn’t a big deal to have a real birthday party. Did I ever have a birthday like that before getting sick? If I had, I must have been too little at the time to remember.
“And his friends came? I bet Tom has a lot of friends.” My voice was almost wistful; I couldn’t help it.
“His teammates came and a handful of other school friends.” Mom’s smile faltered. Was she imagining what kind of birthday I might have if I was a ‘normal’ child? That’s what I was doing. There were rainbow decorations dotting every surface in our house, fringe curtains across each doorway, a sea of balloons swimming across the ceiling. Maybe I’d wear a party hat and have a sash announcing that I was the birthday girl. And I’d wear those things for an entire week, riding high on sickeningly sweet cake and the utter joy of being born.
“That sounds nice,” I finally said after an extended silence. I glanced over at Dad, who hadn’t said a single word since arriving.
Dad paced the small room, stopping occasionally to examine the equipment or peer at my chart. He'd always been a man of action—a construction foreman used to solving problems with his hands, so when I became something he couldn’t fix with tools and grit, his entire sense of self shifted. My illness had rendered him helpless, and he didn't wear helplessness well. With determined steps, he suddenly moved to the foot of my bed and grabbed my ongoing chart from the slim holder.
“Different antibiotic the past few days," he mumbled under his breath as he read, stumbling over long prescription names and doctor’s jargon. Every diagnosis, every hospital transfer, every infection scare, he’d tried to stay on top of things, yethe was always behind the times. As soon as he researched and figured out a new issue with me, another would pop up.
I shrugged. “White blood cells were a little high. No big deal.”
“And your CRP too,” he added, brow scrunched as he scanned the rest of the recent chart notes.
“What’s that again?” Mom asked, voice sort of faraway. When I glanced over at her, I saw a telltale, glazed-over expression on her face. It betrayed her deeper thoughts—mentally she was far, far away from this hospital room and physically she didn’t want to be here.
“C-reactive protein,” I answered before my dad could, “we’ve only heard it about a million and one times over the years.”
“Right,” mom nodded, standing a little straighter away from the wall and trying to focus on the world around her. “Of course I knew that, I’m just tired today. Your brother had back-to-back games yesterday and?—”
“Has he had games every day for the last eight weeks?” I spit out, bitterness flooding through me as if it had mingled with my blood and was being actively pumped through veins by my shrinking heart. “I’m amazed you fit me into your schedule.”
I really didn’t mean for my voice to sound so cold. I really didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. Yet, when guilt flashed through my mom’s eyes, I felt the tiniest morsel of satisfaction.Why did I want to be mean today? Why did I want to say even uglier things?
Dad came to mom’s rescue, taking a step towards me. “Your mother is under immense pressure right now. She’s got your brother to take care of, her new job, the house has to be packed up for the move. On top of all that, she’s been on the phone nonstop with this hospital and insurance trying to get things covered for you.”
A new job? The move?I didn’t know about any of that…
But I didn’t ask for details. I just felt angry.
“I didn’t ask for her to do that,” I grumbled, knowing I was being unfair and cruel and childish. But if they thought they were tired of it all, what about me? I was the one poked, prodded, caged. They could at least leave here and live an actual life—a life I knew very little about apparently.
My words triggered an immediate response—both parents subtly shifted away from my bed. Mom slid against the wall a few feet further from me, closer to the exit. Her hand moved unconsciously to adjust her mask. Dad glanced at her, his face pained, and then he checked his watch. I wondered if he was deciding if they’d visited long enough, and if it was reasonable for them to leave already.
In the past, I could pretend not to notice the little signs that they were uncomfortable around me. In the past, I could ignore the little comments that compared my situation to my brother’s.
I was sick. He was healthy. I drowned in melancholy. He existed in joy, always laughing. I was trapped by IVs and diagnoses. He was freer than I could understand, even in my wildest daydreams.
I was difficult.
My brother was so very easy.
Blinking slowly, taking mental snapshots of my parents, I saw mom glance at the door and dad drop his arms limply to his sides. Mom was in flight mode. Dad had no fight left.
My chest ached.
A tickling in my throat preceded a bout of coughing. I knew it was coming but could do nothing to stop it. I reached for the glass of room temp water on my hospital tray. I sipped it as hacking began to shake my body. The water dribbled and sprayed as I tried to keep drinking. The attack lasted for a solid ten minutes. By the time I could properly breathe again, my earlier venom was long gone. Mom and dad had moved closer to my bed. Mom’s hand rested awkwardly on my back between mypronounced shoulder blades. Dad was standing at the foot of the bed, staring. He’d run his hands through his hair more than once while I’d been indisposed; it was a mess now, sticking out at all angles.
The tension in the room was thick, suffocating almost. I tried to cut through it with the first topic that came to mind. “Nurse Dee said she'd bring me extra pudding cups after my scan today," I blurted out, trying to fill the awkward silence. "She thinks chocolate is medicinal."
