From Ant to Eagle(25)

“Clear out, we need room here!” a teacher yelled over the cries of worried children.

“Someone call an ambulance!” another yelled.

I fought my way through the crowd too—pushing and pulling at shirts and arms to get closer. Finally, I was able to see him. Sammy, my brother, eyes lifelessly rolling around; still open but not seeing.

“Is he okay?!” I screamed. “Is he okay?!”

It was a stupid question.

“Clear everyone out of here!” one of the teachers yelled and I felt strong arms pulling us back. I fought hard to stay near the front. I fought hard but I wasn’t strong enough. I was pulled back with the crowd as two of the teachers knelt beside Sammy frantically trying to stop him from shaking.

“He’s my brother!” I yelled, trying to break free as they herded us into the main building. “He’s my brother!”





CHAPTER 15

BEFORE THAT DAY I HAD NEVER BEEN IN A HOSPITAL—ASIDE FROM being born, I guess.

Dad and I sat in the emergency waiting room. We were told by Dr. Mitchell—a tall man with a big nose and short hair—to wait while they got Sammy into a room.

I looked around the waiting room. It was full. Every seat held someone sitting and waiting. Across the room, a boy about my age sat holding his arm to his chest while his mom rubbed his back. His baseball uniform was dirty and ripped. I had never broken a bone in my whole life, or even had a cavity for that matter. I was always lucky like that.

Two seats down from him, a lady sat with a baby in her lap. The baby was crying as she rocked it back and forth in her arms. I couldn’t imagine being that small. I could barely remember kindergarten. My earliest memories were from grade one when Sammy, still a toddler, was learning to walk and speak. I remembered holding his hand on the way to school and begging my mom to let me bring him in for Show and Tell.

After an eternity of sitting and watching people go in and out, it was our turn. A lady in what looked like pink pajamas led us down a white hallway decorated with cartoon characters on the walls—Mickey, Pluto, Donald Duck—all smiling and looking happy, masking the reality that hid behind every door. Sick children—sick children like Sammy.

When we arrived at Sammy’s room Dad rushed in and grabbed Mom’s hand where she sat next to a tired, pale Sammy. There was something ominous about that simple gesture that made me worried. I couldn’t place it exactly, but something didn’t feel right—as if they knew something I didn’t.

The room was simple—a bed, three chairs, a sink and a bedside table on wheels. Behind the bed, tubing and wires went in every direction like roots from a tree. Sammy’s finger glowed red and a wire led from it to a machine that blinked and beeped. Numbers flashed on a screen that I couldn’t hope to understand.

I stood pretending to take in the room but was really thinking of what to say. I didn’t want to let on how scared I was but the image of Sammy’s flailing body on the playground kept repeating in my head.

Finally, after a long, awkward pause I said, “Hey, Sammy, sorry you’re not feeling good.”

I walked over to the bed and gave him a playful punch in the arm.

“Cal!” Mom said from her seat next to him.

“Oops, sorry.”

I remember being struck by how white Sammy looked. The sheets were only slightly paler and his cheeks looked hollow, his eyes sunken and dark.

“Hey, Cal,” he said back.

“Sammy played one heck of a game today,” I said, half to my parents, half to Sammy. “He beat Joey and all the other kids in his grade. I was pretty sure Joey was going to punch you square in the face before you…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how exactly to describe what I’d seen and I felt pretty sure Sammy wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. “Anyway, I brought cards if you want to play Crazy Eights or something.”

Mom gave me a look that said, “He’s tired, we should let him sleep.” She looked tired herself.

“I’m okay. We can play,” Sammy argued, but his voice sounded frail and he didn’t attempt to sit up in the bed.

Just then, the door opened and a short, chubby lady walked in. Her blond hair was tied in a messy braid and she was humming under her breath. She smiled at us as she set down a plastic bin on the bedside table.

“How’s it going, love? You feeling any better?” she asked Sammy. “It’s time to do your blood work. It will only take a minute.” She motioned for me to slide down the bed and sat next to Sammy, “You’ve got your whole family with you, I see.”

Mom and Dad introduced themselves. The lady said she was Sammy’s nurse.

“And you must be the big brother,” she said, looking at me. “You guys look so alike.”

I cringed. Why did people keep insisting we looked so alike? Especially when—at that moment—Sammy looked more like the Grim Reaper than himself.

As the nurse prepared the needle, I felt myself getting queasy. I hated needles. Not that anyone really likes them, but I’d go so far as saying I had a phobia. I remembered back to when I had to get my Hep B shots in grade, what was it? Three? And the nurses that came in said it wouldn’t hurt a bit. Well, it hadn’t. I’d passed out in the chair at the sight of the needle and never felt a thing. It’s not that uncommon—or so they told me.