In a Crisis

Don't think I'm heartless if I smile and dance and sing while my brother fights the war of his life, sedated and on a ventilater in a Salt Lake hospital room. Don't think I'm cold as ice if I throw a Derby party and watch the ponies race while my family gathers in prayer, pleading for the strength to manage this crisis. I do it for the kids; wouldn't want them to worry, to see how my heart is breaking for their father and uncle.

Just a year and a half ago I got a call from my niece saying something like "My mom's on the floor and the ambulance came." At that time, Benjy and I ran to the hospital to be with our sister and her little family after she suffered a terrible stroke. I didn't cry then, either. I packed a bag of books and treats for my niece and tried to act thrilled to be visiting the hospital waiting room.

Thursday, when the phone rang, it was my other niece saying something like "My dad's on the floor and the ambulance came." I hurried to Benjy's house--passing the ambulance on the way--to be with my nieces again. And now, even though I want to cry, I hold back the tears, the worried expressions, repressing the questions I want to ask so my dear nieces (my own children, too) won't be worried. Instead I'll bake them cookies, play video games with them, and watch movies until my mind is numb and they are once again acting like healthy, happy children: carefree.

Now Mindy is on the way so we can go be with our brother, cheering him on in his sedated battle with a crippling pneumonia. I'll continue to choke back my fears and worries that my brother may not pull through this. I'll let it all out when the crisis has passed.