Imagine it.
Imagine my kitchen, the cabinet to the left of the stove.
Imagine the blue, white and yellow bottles pushing on the cabinet door, threatening to jump every time the hinges are pulled open.
Imagine the Pharmacy bags which litter the counter, the extra bottles hidden in the Mixer. The cookbooks peeking out from under the blue and red bags of medicine.
Imagine his bedroom. The camera wires sticking through the bookshelves, the white nightstand next to his desk, the constant scent of death lingering in the corners of his room.
Imagine my bedroom door. The hinges falling off, the small hole he created last winter, the faded white paint peeling off of his scratch marks.
Imagine my door knob. The screws falling loose worn from everytime he has tried to push his way through, the chains from the deadlocks clanking, and the silver piece of metal constantly turned left in cases of emergency.
Imagine my Mother’s room. Boxes littering the floor, medical records, emergency meds, and the bulky spare magnet attached to the dresser handle.
Imagine my sister’s car. The stuffing peeking out from her backseat, his hand print on the back of her headrest, the slight resistance in her car door from him.
Imagine the floor. Blood stains scattered about the carpet. His head hits the warm carpet, over and over as his seizing progresses. Ambulance lights flood the living room window, illuminating the saliva dripping from his mouth as his VNS continues to fail. Death lingers at my front door, I push him back and beg him to leave.
Imagine my version of nostalgia. The neon lights surrounding the parking garage, “VISITOR” plastered onto my pink, fluffy jacket. The jungle animals on the tile floor leading to the elevator, the tubes and wires hanging from his body, the dark and dreary hallways which echoed the Heart Rate monitors in perfect harmony.
Imagine my doctor. The bright fluorescent lights beaming onto my forehead as I sit on the paper wrapped bench. The doctor’s voice echoes through the hallway, as she pushes the brown wooden door open revealing the pink walls with jungle animals and marine life plastered throughout the room. I sit there patiently scrolling through my social media as my mother runs through her list of questions regarding my brother; only to be met with more questions.
Imagine my normal. His medicine, his magnet, his Doctor’s appointments, his papers, his bruises, his scratches, his emergency protocol, it’s all his.
Imagine his hard nights. Where I barricade my door, push the two deadlocks into place and sit cross cross on my blanket, avoiding his screaming, ignoring his pounding. No tears drip off my cheek, my breath does not quicken, my heart does not pulse, my mind does not race. I simply sit there, still as a rock. This is every Monday-Sunday. This is routine.
I lay awake at night, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and imagine a universe where my world did not contain him at every turn. I see my uneducated peers, asking me questions, I wish I didn’t know the answer to. I envy their ability to be so ill informed on seizure protocol, on the names of every medication, on the possibility of CBD curing Epilepsy.
I envy those with an annoying younger brother, who clings to them and runs to Mom at the slightest inconvenience.
I envy the minds that are so easily coerced into believing this isn’t hard to deal with.
I envy the sisters who don’t have his doctor on speed-dial,
I envy the brothers who don’t know what an Epileptologist studies
I envy the siblings who can call those exhausted siblings “selfish” for crying
Death constantly hunts him down, and I’m so scared that I can’t save him.
So Imagine, my life, without illness, without him.
Imagine my life without the guilt of wanting a life without him.
Just Imagine.
