The Boy Who Almost Didn't Live

Sometimes I would just rather sleep than go to work.

That doesn't mean I don't like my job. It doesn't mean that I have a bad work ethic - it just means that I really, really like to sleep.

Once when I was about twenty-two, I was feeling especially adamant about this particular sentiment. I called work and requested to take the day off - and I was denied. "No no, we'll have none of that, please come get here at your earliest convenience." Oh, alright. So instead, I stated that I would be late, and I curled up and planned to take another few moments of sleep before finally heading in.

I had just started dozing off again when the phone started to ring. I wanted to so badly to ignore it, but instead I did the first responsible thing of the day, and I answered.

"Hello?"
"Yes hello, Cindy, it's person from work. People are calling for you and they say it is important. Here is a number you need to call. Thank you goodbye."

Oh, yes, okay, let's do that. So I called the number I had been given without any sort of knowledge as to who I was calling or why.

"Nurse's office."
"Uh. What. Hello?"
"Can I help you?"
"I have.. uh. No idea. What? Someone from work just called and told me to call you?"
"Is this Cindy Walker?"
"Uh. Yes?"
"Hello we have your brother here, bleeding from the head. Please come retrieve him."

Oh alright, let's do that too. Ben was in school at the time and had apparently injured himself somehow. Since my mother was in California visiting relatives and my father lived forty minutes away, my brother had suggested to the nurse that she call me. He also had assumed I'd be at work (since technically I certainly should have been) and had recommended that she call me there.

So I got up and got dressed and called my boss to let him know that I would be going to pick up my brother at school and that he was broken and I would be needing to see to it that he was repaired. It did not go over well, as I had already tried to take the day off without success, but I said "too bad so sad" and went to save Ben's life.

I arrived at the school and went into the front office where I recognized the receptionist. We made quick small talk, but I knew that time was likely a factor, so I cut right to the chase and asked if I might be able to head to the nurse's office to find my brother. The woman looked at me sideways and sad,

"Cindy, your brother has not gone to this school in many years. This is the elementary school, and he must surely be in high school now."

Oh right, that. I am an idiot. I mumbled some sort of feckless, illogical excuse and went on my way to pick up my brother at the appropriate school. Like I should have done the first time.

When I finally arrived at the nurse's office, I was received with scorn and diappointment - from the nurse. She explained to me that it was imperative that Ben get medical attention immediately, and that the numbers that we had as his emergency contact were clearly out of date, and what if this had been life-threatening, and don't I know the importance of updated records, and wait a second lady I thought time was a factor. Shut up. Give me my brother.

When we were finally alone and on our way to the car, I asked my brother to show me his wound. Apparently he had been shoved into the corner of a bleacher while playing matball, the world's safest gym class game in which large groups of people round bases in unison, and have a tendency to careen into one another while trying not to overshoot third, which in this case was the bleachers, which in this case had very sharp corners.

He slowly removed the damp, maroon-tinged cloth from his forehead and revealed a thick flap of skin hanging precariously above his eyebrow, bleeding violently everywhere for forever. I immediately had him cover it again and tried to stop thinking about it long enough to drive to the hospital.

When we arrived at the emergency room, there was a short line. We waited patiently for our turn, and eventually were able to make our way to speak to someone. The woman asked me what the issue was. I made Ben show her his head. She asked if I was his mother. I said no, I am 22, I am not the mother of a fourteen year old. She asked if I was his guardian. I said no, and I explained that my mother was out of town. She asked if there was a guardian who was not in California. I said that I would contact my father. She said good, and made us go back to the waiting room. They would not clean him up. They would not fix him. They would not even look at him until there was a guardian in the building. (They did, however, give us a paper towel. Oh hey thanks!)

My father eventually showed up after nearly an hour (since he needed to get out of work and drive forty minutes to where we were) and they finally let us into a room. We sat waiting in the room for another long, drawn out period of time, but eventually a doctor came to see what all the commotion was about. He cleaned the wound and stated that it would indeed need stitches, and asked me if I wanted to see it now that it was not swimming in a pool of grossness. I said yes and then OH HEY BEN'S SKULL. I mean, oh, right, Ben's skull. That's normal.

I watched the doctor inject my brother's forehead with novocaine out of the hugest needle I've ever seen in my life, and then I listened to them talk about baseball while he sewed medical thread into Ben's face. I did not watch that part. Eventually, it was done. The doctor bandaged the wound and it was time to leave.

We said goodbye to my father in the parking lot and I drove Ben home. We laughed about how he would have his very own lightning-shaped scar on his forehead when all was said and done.

And then I went to work.