5 days ago
A Short Life, a Large Loss
After my younger brother, Adam, was born three months prematurely in May of 2002, my mother, father, and I spent most of our time in the hospital. He weighed less than one pound and spent every moment under the care of a loving team of doctors and nurses.
I remember waving to him through the glass of his incubator, observing him like a guppy in a fish tank. 'I love you, little brother,' I would whisper after overhearing an adult say we should talk to him because the sound of our voices would comfort him if he was in pain.
Unfortunately, pain was part of Adam's daily life. After being born prematurely, Adam had very little vision or hearing. He would never be able to talk, and if he lived past infancy, would never be able to walk. His condition was caused by a long list of complicated medical explanations, none of which ultimately mattered. His doctors did not think he would survive for long after his birth, but he simply did.
Despite my young age, my parents chose to be honest, but gentle, about my brother's condition. I knew that he was very sick and that he always would be. I became deeply attached to the idea of being a big sister, a caretaker, and a protector. While some siblings of sick children may feel invisible, that was never the case for me—I wanted to make things better for him.
When he eventually came home, my parents were delighted at the natural excitement I had to take care of Adam, just as I saw the nurses do. We gave his life color in a way that hadn't been possible inside the muted pastel walls of the hospital. Our on-paper perfect family—two parents with a boy and a girl—appeared complete. But in reality, my dad taught me, age 5, how to adjust his baby-size oxygen mask when it slipped down his face. My mom dressed him in Oshkosh overalls and checkered bucket hats like other babies his age—a sweetly stylish uniform for weekly house visits from physical therapists.
