I have now entered the world of "person with a bad neck/back".  This was a situation that I really had no knowledge of before.  Oh sure, I would look at people who were wracked and contorted with back spasms and think "Ahhh, God love her" but then I would briskly walk away, a smug-non-injured grin on my face.  That...was...before.  I have now joined THE CLUB.  It started back in January when I was attacked by a first grader (don't laugh...it was really scary.  Really.) and originally injured my neck.  After much muscle relaxers and medicine it seemed to get better.   Then  this Monday I woke up and I couldn't move my neck.  I was stuck in a head slightly tilted to the right pose.  It was a quizzical look for me, like I was just about to ask a very profound question such as "And what is the meaning of it all?"  But instead of philosophical discussions, I just moaned in pain.  And so here I sit, before you all (in a virtual way), head tilted slightly to the right, left shoulder jacked up near my earlobes, right one hanging down by my waist, mouth turned down at the corners and a look of absolute concentration (pain) on my face...but, because I am a trooper I am still feeling good.  I give credit to my wonderful attitude.  It also might have a little to do with the fact that I am completely stoned on Vicodin and muscle relaxers.  Maybe.  Just a little.  Oh.  My brother?  Yeah, that's right.  The blog is about him, isn't it. 

Sam is fine.  Fine, fine, super fine.  He is gone right now, taking his psychology exam that I guess is really hard but I'm sure he'll find some way to maneuver his way through it. 

They (obviously) have returned from California and, in hindsight, I am SOOOO glad that I didn't go.  Oh, the joy that was had on that trip.  My dad was like a very angry monkey on everyone's back (he doesn't do well on vacations), Sam had an adrenal crisis and went into full-blown grand Mal seizure mode in the hotel room (don't cry hysterically...he's fine), my mom had some serious chest pain and is now getting her heart checked out and Heather got to go to the doctor and let medical folk pick at her spots... overall, it sounds like a perfect time of joy and happiness.  Wee hee!  Glad I was left behind and abandoned. 

Report from the doctors in California...Heather's spots (the ones already removed) were squamous cell carcinoma.  She is the first person in recorded medical history to have a cutaneous lymphoma turn into a skin cancer.  It's magic!  They love her so much--they want to write all different articles about her.  I think they even bought her flowers.  She is such a medical oddity.  Show-off family.  First my brother, who came back from the edge of death and survived unsurvivable injuries, and now my sister who can magically turn one disease into a different one,  with just a flick of her magic wand.  Spooky.  And then there's me.  Becca, the girl with a cricked up neck.  Man...no matter how hard I try, I can never be as medically interesting as my siblings.  I'm just the one that writes it down.  Bluck.

I finally got to watch the medical show about Sam.  Boy, my sister sure does cry a lot.  And then there is me.  Laughing.  Looking a little to thrilled about the whole situation.  Like I was recalling a fun time we had at the park, rather than my brother being in a long, drawn out coma.  I think I even giggled and swung my hands all over the place.  I would have rather been the crying one.  In fact, I had to watch my part twice, just to make sure that I looked as pathetically callous as I thought I did.  Nice sister and bad sister.  What can you do?

Today is March 22nd and I can't help but think about what I was doing two years ago.

Two years ago Sam was still in a coma. 

He was still in ICU. 

His eyes were half way open and staring at nothing. 

He still hadn't moved to command. 

He had horrible bedsores. 

Lines and tubes were everywhere. 

The beeping and alarming was constant. 

Low SP02...low SP02 was his body's mantra. 

We shuffled through the halls of ICU every fifteen minutes.

Night and day. 

He could never stay medically stable. 

Fine...then dying. 

Fine...then dying. 

Doctors were telling us to "let him go". 

Whatever.

We walked around in hospital in scrubs and stocking feet. 

We ate yogurt and jellybeans. That's it.  Nothing else.   

Heather and I started dozens of crossword puzzles and then never finished them. 

My mom walked around with a stone angel hidden in her bra.

Really...she did.

We based Sam's survival so far on the magic of a "voodoo" cracker.

We draped all different saints and charms to his IV pole.

We pinned a picture of a holy man to his pillow.

We stuck pins on a map to show where people were praying for Sam. 

We read everything we could find on severe TBI. 

My mom made a list for rehab. 

Diapers.

Helmet.

How depressing was that.

Everything we found told us that it was hopeless. 

He would never talk again.

He would never walk again.

He would never think again.

He would never wake up.

So give up.

We would just shrug and keep on believing.

He would twitch and we were sure he was coming around.

His blood pressure would rise and we were sure he was coming around.

Everything was a sign pointing to his survival. 

We yelled in his ear.

We clapped our hands.

We screamed WAKE UP, SAM!

Many times.

Didn't work...yet.

So two years ago we were watching and waiting for my brother to come back. 

Surviving on yogurt, faith and jellybeans alone.

Just believing that, in the end, everything would be okay.

And now it kind of is.

Okay.

--Bec

P.S. If this post sounds odd or makes no sense, please remember that I am heavily drugged on a strong narcotic and it might just be the Vicodin talking.  Whatever.