All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
That kid, I swear, drives me mad enough to slam my head into a wall. He's annoying, loud, immature, and copies every joke and word that slips from my mouth. But I swear, that kid, is worth dying for.
After all, he is my brother. So would I be OK with some man I don't know digging sharp, deadly utensils into my brother's head? No. No I wouldn't be OK with that.
It was Friday. Now, I don't know about you, but Friday's are VERY important to me. That is my "Ahhh, finally. Freedom" day. The day I can feel relaxed, happy, free from the school I dreaded. But instead, this Friday, I'm in a chair. In a hospital. Half tempted to just walk out and go home.
My family, thank the Lord, is typically a healthy one. My mom, dad, me, and Jacob never really get sick or injured. I'm not used to this hospital thing. And quite frankly, I never will be used to it, or like it.
Jacob can't hear well. His eardrum has a hole in it, and sure it's not deadly, it's not cancer. But it's still my brother, and I know how close to his brain, and eyes, and important organs they were planning to poke knives near.
We were all scared for Jacob, even Jake was scared for himself. We arrived at the hospital. It was a nice one, the fawn brown and olive green colors gave the place a safe look. I was expecting the typical mysterious white walls and blood stains splattered on the floor. I was well relieved, and realized I watch to much T.V.
We met the nurse at the desk, and were moved to the waiting room. Then a doctor came and delivered us to another doctor, and we went from that doctor to another. We were located to the pediatrics wing, and Jacob was laid in a bed and injected with the good stuff. I saw his face slowly taking on that chill, mellow look. His eyelids lowered, his smile went crooked, and he began laughing like a lunatic. I laughed to. I tried to talk to him, but he was in his own little world, he was blissed out, and I didn't think he was scared anymore.
Before his gas, he was really nervous. He joked around, tried to mask his fear and save his "manhood" in front of my dad, but I knew. He knew I knew.
On his medicine, he giggled and pulled my hair and rambled about Adventure Time and race cars and pretended to ski with the bars on both sides of his bed. He was having a great time, then the skimpy nurse arrived. She smiled warmly at him, and said the typical, cheesy nurse stuff, "Hey there Jake, how ya feeling? Were gunna start the surgery soon alright? Your gunna do fine." Then she chuckles along with us as he acts silly. I'll never forget the look he gave me though.
The nurse was done with her cliche spew of phrases, and began to wheel him away, I looked at him, suddenly the laughs, the smiles were gone, and I was scared. I looked at my drugged up brother, and he looked at me, and he looked at me like an animal being lead to the slaughter. He looked scared, he didn't smile or laugh. His brow was deeply creased, his lip pouted, his eyes screaming "No! I don't want surgery! I'm scared, sissy."
I turned away. I didn't want him to go. I didn't want them to mess up. I knew he'd be miserable for the rest of his life if he couldn't hear... this surgery did have a chance of being fatal...
What would it take? A slip of the hand? Accidentally tripping? A wrong move, a quick infection? Then that would be it, he'd be gone. That, or he'd never be the same. He wouldn't hear, he wouldn't think right. The uncertainty of the whole surgery made me feel sick.
My choice of apparel was a bad one. I choose skin tight jeans and a sweater for the occasion. The sweater was fine, but the skinny jeans started to become a huge discomfort. I sat in the chair for 7 hours. 7 hours of sleeping, complaining, fear, and hope.
I grew impatient as I kept thinking about that look he gave me. All I could think was "poor kid". I wished the whole 7 hours that I could take this surgery for him.
She came out. The nurse came out of the corner, a smile on her face. That reassured me. She lead us (again) into a consolation room. The doctor walked him, he was old and cheerful looking. He smiled and sad "Jake's doing great. He's sleeping right now. There were no problems, nothing went wrong, the only thing that's a bit of a stinker, is that he's sleeping longer then usual. But that's not a big problem, he did fine."
I was restored, and more then ready to go home. My mom went alone into the room where he was sleeping and slowly woke him up. She then called the rest of the family into the room and they crowded around him, hugging him, kissing his cheek, saying I love you. But I stood by the wall, looking at his face. He looked at mine, and we smiled. He was okay. He's alive, he can hear.
From that moment, how am I supposed to take his life for granted? Since that Friday, I've cherished my annoying, loud, stupid brothers presence. Because I'll never forget the look he gave before the surgery, and the look after. He's worth dying for, hoping for, protecting. He's my brother.