The Biggest Cost of The Help You Give

A warm spring morning arose, sun rays dancing through the windowpane and resting across the face of girl, not so young anymore. The still, silence cloaking the household only interrupted by a few chirps of birds, was suddenly torn away by the loud, obnoxious beeping of an alarm clock. A school day again, and on my seventeenth birthday. I have never made a huge fuss about my birthday, it is just the day I was born, nothing too momentous to celebrate there but something this year seemed more off than normal.
Not being able to decipher my emotions I began my conventional morning routine; brush teeth, comb hair, style hair, spend twenty minutes trying to find the right outfit, and then crashing out the door into the fresh spring air, which is heavily gulped in while running to the bus stop. A very normal start to a seemingly normal day.
Arriving to school with friendly greetings and chantings of annual birthday regards, the day was still young leaving plenty of time for chaos to reign, and reign it did. After a full day of grilling my brain for academic purposes I then moved to my first love, cross country, in specifics a game of ultimate frisbee with the helpful disguise of a ¨meeting¨ to talk about the impending season. The game always full of laughs and amazing catch phrases including the infamous ¨where’s my orange¨, ¨this is why we’re losing¨, and the assured chanting of some odd scheme to distract the other team and ensure they were rolling on the ground wheezing for an easy win.
It is a well known fact that the team I am placed on usually wins (especially the dream team of Hunter, Tommy, and I being placed together), but this time coach decided to place me with the underdogs. Those that did not know how to play well, or wanted to win but never had just enough spunk to get the frisbee over that line before it is violently smacked down into someone´s head. These kids needed the help and I was more than willing to sprint around the field to give it.
After a riveting game resulting in a big L for my team (although lots of kids who did not normally achieve a goal, or even have the frisbee scored due to me forcing them to take the flying disk of doom) everyone was jovial all the same. This event led into the major event of the night, the spring concert. Singing in VOC and the general choir I was exhausted but ready to show my passion to the audience after the dwindling hours until the concert surpassed.
In the passing time I attempted to track down someone important in my life who said they would show up. My best friend after talking me out of moping helped me search and eventually the person was found, reminded of the impending event and each went on their merry way. Me to my friends house to prepare, and him to his home where he would await the opening time and come to support (disclaimer he did not- which is another thing friends helped me to cope with as dramatic as it sounds).
After singing my heart out on stage with blinding lights and faithful friends, the night had begun and we each said our goodbyes and headed for home. It was at home that my suspicion of the day turned to paranoia. My mother and siblings had skipped the concert, due to the fact that HE was coming over and things needed to be prepared (disclaimer again- he never came).
As I was furiously texting away at my phone my brother seemed to fade. My mother had told me he had gotten sick to his stomach helping with the arrangements to make my day special. It wasn´t until moments after that we realized just how sick he was. After stumbling around the house, he suddenly jolted to the bathroom and proceeded to violently vomit. Trembling legs collapsing beneath him and we all prayed it was just sickness, but it wasn´t.
There was my baby brother, losing consciousness in his own bile. The dreadful feeling I had been experiencing seemed almost as a foreshadow to this event, leaving me frozen in the doorway staring. A frantic voice yelled to call 9-1-1, pulling me back to the present. Panicked adults ran around like chickens with their heads cut off grabbing epi-pens and trying to revive the small boy who was in one of the stages of death. Running as fast as my legs could carry me I reached the phone. My shaking hands punching in numbers they haven´t for years. A lady picks up ¨9-1-1, what´s your emergency¨. I began sobbing into the phone pleading for an ambulance, telling useless symptoms and eventually racing to the end of the road to flag down one of the many ambulances barreling toward my home. Thoughts of the boy on the floor fading into the black, heart stopping, seizing, the only thing keeping him alive, a steroid and needle.
It was hours later that I saw him again after the ambulances arrived. His condition so poor they had to leave one in the driveway and take both medical teams to keep him stable. By the time I arrived to the hospital, he was being prepared to be flown to Portland. He was breathing, but barely, unconscious, with a team of medical staff flying around every corner. The one thing I wanted to know, ¨would he be okay?¨ my feeble voice sounded. I was assured the doctors would do everything they could to help him, to help us, and they did. Three weeks later my brother was released from the Barbara Bush Children´s hospital. I bought him a $50 stuffed tiger while he was there, hoping to make his stay a little less tortuous. He still sleeps with it every night, saying it comforts him and helps him sleep.
If it weren´t for those doctors help we would have lost him as quick as the attack started. If it weren´t for the help of others I would still blame myself (more than I currently do) for him deteriorating so badly. It was the help received that day and after that makes the day ingrained in my mind. The thoughts of what may have happened if I was focused upon helping my family more than helping those on my team for a stupid game, or helping to support the sound for VOC. I knew he wasn´t feeling well, so why didn´t I go home? If only we knew what would lie ahead before we give the help we give.


Photo on Foter.com