Valentine’s Weekend 2011

 I have such a wonderful significant other.  I’m not quite sure why I got so lucky, but I really did.  Not only does he humor my obsession with holidays, dressing according to themes, exchanging thoughtful gifts, trying out whatever new event I’ve read about, etc.,  but he also claims he enjoys everything as much as I do – maybe that’s a lie.  Maybe he enjoys everything almost as much as I do.  This year for Valentine’s Day, we decided to celebrate for the entire weekend.  We began on Saturday by volunteering at a food pantry.  From there, our activities picked up speed.  We decided to try out a scavenger hunt in the Carmel art district I had read about in Nuvo.  Not only was it free, but it was such a blast.  The weather didn’t end up being too chilly, and the exploration was reminiscent of our semester in Europe.  There were nine stops along the scavenger hunt, and each spot had a free little something.  Most of the stops had elegant pastries and desserts; one stop had a professional photographer who allowed us to download the pictures free of charge.  Another stop had a professional artist on site who gave us instructions on how to paint a candy heart for 20 minutes; we even got to take the canvases with us!  At the end, each couple won a prize goodie bag and was eligible to put their names in for a bigger drawing.  After our two and a half hour scavenger hunt, we did a little shopping at the Castleton mall.  I think every man in Indianapolis had forgotten Valentine’s Day was coming up.  We got out of there as quickly as possible.  After our shopping escapade, we stopped by Steak’N’Shake for dinner.  It was delicious; I had forgotten how much I love chocolate, banana shakes.  We had a deep discussion in which we discussed whether or not heaven exists.  After dinner, we drove back to Butler, and I studied for my Spanish exam.  On Sunday morning, Brendan made us chocolate chip pancakes, and we ate them while playing cards.  After brunch, we exchanged gifts.  He got me a cookie cake and a voice recorder.  I thought that was such a romantic gift – I would rather have something thoughtful like that over jewelry any day.  After our gift exchange, I studied for Spanish, and we got ready to go to mass.  Mass was especially beautiful, and after, we watched the movie Fireproof and discussed it as part of the mini-retreat I had spent three weeks preparing for.  It went wonderfully, and I think all 15 people in attendance learned a lot.  After our retreat, we drove to Oishi Sushi on the east side, and Brendan tried sushi for the first time.  The restaurant was very authentic.  We had our own room that had a curtain in place of the door, and we sat on blue cushions on the floor.  As an appetizer we had yaki ika (BBQ squid with teriyaki sauce).  For our main courses, Brendan tried the Fire Dragon rolls (California roll with salmon and avocado); I tried Cali-Mango rolls (California rolls with mango on the top and mango sauce); and we shared the crab meat rolls.  For dessert we shared a fried banana.  I think that was the second best part of our meal.  The first best part was the conversation.  We talked about favorite childhood memories, books, games, and anything else that came to mind.  The weekend may not have been as memorable as our last Valentine’s Day in Paris and London, but it was certainly relaxing and renewing.  

Personal Essay

So it seems like the only thing I’m inspired to write about these days is Eric.  The following is a personal essay I wrote for my journalism magazine writing class:

Being in his room has become an addiction.  When I’m not here, all I can think about is getting here, and when I am here, I never want to leave.  I can’t stand the thought of him waking up alone.  He hates being alone; he’s always hated being alone. 

            Since he arrived two weeks ago, someone has been with him around the clock. His feeding tube bag, his IV fluid, and his antibiotic hang side-by-side, hooked up to three different machines that pump various fluids into his veins.  At the foot of his bed is his catheter and ventilator, which snakes its way over to the left side of his bed.  It’s like a monster with large, vacuum-like tubes coming out of it.  My 19-year-old brother’s head has tape on it, covering the incision from his first brain surgery and his drain from his second.

His face is consumed by his breathing tube.  I like that tube the least.  Each time he goes to breathe, he starts to choke.  Every 20 minutes he is forced to cough in order to remove the phlegm that is causing the pneumonia he developed since being in the hospital.  His coughs turn into choking when the accordion cord is wound from the back of his throat to the front and pushed back down again.  His hands are restrained like those of a prisoner so he can’t pull out his tubing, and he’s covered by a white blanket with a yellow one on top, signaling to the nurses that he is a patient who can’t get out of bed. 

            All I can think about is how I wish it had been me and not him.  I hold back tears that seem to trickle through my body, beginning in the backs of my eyes and seeping down in my chest past my stomach and into every fiber of my being.  I never let them out.  I stay strong for the little brother I love.

            I close my eyes and hit my head against the back of my chair.  I tighten my grip on my brother’s cold, limp hands and stare in shock at the machines that are keeping him alive.  He has dozens of wires hooked up to his heart, hooked up to his hands, hooked up to his brain.  A white sock hat keeps the wires attached to his head in a bundle, wires that tell the doctors what’s going on inside.  I want to go inside his head – to tell whatever’s hurting him to stop. 

            I continue to squeeze his hand as the doctors and nurses enter the room.  We spend 20 minutes trying to wake him up.  I talk in a soothing voice.  I yell.  I cry.  Other nurses gather at the door.  We can’t wake him up.  Nothing is working.  I numbly watch as a nurse shines a flashlight in his eyes five different times.  Each time he doesn’t respond, can’t respond.  His eyes stare back, lifeless and empty.

            I don’t know if he’s hurting.  I feel like I don’t know anything.  I want to scream, “Fix him!  Bring him back to me!”  And I do, but only in my mind.  Nobody hears me; nobody listens; nobody fixes him.

            I remember growing up how he was always the fixer.  He was the funny one, the one who could make everyone laugh.  When he was a blonde haired, blue eyed pixy-sized boy, he would put on our daddy’s boots and walk across the room pointing imaginary guns, saying, “How ya doin’ partner?”   For years, we put on plays for my parents and sold tickets for a quarter apiece.  When we got really crafty, we started to draw pictures and sell them to the neighbors.  That stopped after a while, though, because my parents were embarrassed by our artistic ability.

My little brother was the one who could never remember the words to songs but sang along in his off- pitch voice anyway.  He was the sentimental one – the one who insisted on sleeping on the floor of my room every Christmas Eve, even when we were too old to believe in Santa Claus.  He was the ornery little boy who snuck Halloween candy into the back closet and proceeded to eat the entire bowl full before my dad found him.  He was the sweetheart who called to tell me about the promise ring he bought for his girlfriend he had loved since preschool.  He was my partner in crime when we drove to high school with our heads out the windows because we were too late to scrape off our frosted windshield. 

But now, when I glance at the shapeless form on the bed next to me, I see only a shell of the person my brother used to be.  I am reminded of all I want him to be, all he should be.  The range of emotions I feel starts to swell inside of me again, but this time I am not able to contain myself.  Choking and sputtering, I stop at nothing to release the dam that has formed in me over the course of the last few weeks.  I hunch over and let my body shake.  I finally free myself.

And in that moment I realize whether my brother recovers or not, the most important thing I can do is allow myself to feel exactly what it is I need to feel.  Life experiences make you into the person you are meant to be.  And right now, I know I am meant to be right here, sobbing beyond control, next to the man I am so proud to call my brother.   

Snowpocalypse 2011

Officially, it is the third snow day of my college career.  The wind is raging; the ice is thick; and the snow just keeps coming.  Meanwhile, I am inside – warm as a snuggly buggly.  The weather channel says the wind is blowing upwards of 32 mph, and the snow is not supposed to stop anytime soon.  Looking outside, it doesn’t seem like the snow is our biggest problem; it looks more like the thick layer of ice coating everything is what is causing safety threats.  The ice, however, makes everything beautiful.  Yesterday Brendan and I walked around campus taking pictures of what everyone is calling snowpocalypse 2011.  Starting off, it didn’t feel too chilly, but the longer we were outside, the more I felt like my limbs were going to fall off.  By the time we made it to Brendan’s apartment, we were running, and I was fairly certain I did not have a nose.  Luckily, that was not the case; my nose is still on my face.  We warmed up by watching Lilo and Stitch with his roommates, eating dinner, and then watching Good Will Hunting.  I think the latter movie is one of my new favorites.  This morning, though, I woke up in a panic thinking about all the homeless people who don’t have a way of escaping from the blizzard outside.  Each time I hear the wind pick up, I feel an overwhelming amount of worry for them.  I’ve been thinking for a few months now that my new dream job after Teach for America is to start or run a nonprofit organization, but it’s been very difficult for me to funnel all my interests into one organization.  At this moment, I think I would like to help homeless people turn their lives around.  I think that would be rewarding, eye opening, and meaningful.  I would love to reunite people with their families, to help them quit addictions, and to get mentally ill people the help they need.  I know there are a lot of homeless shelters already, but I don’t think those shelters are meeting the needs of all the homeless people out there.  I think homeless shelters, like other nonprofits, need someone who is passionate running them, and I think I am just the person to do that.  If I don’t run a homeless shelter, I think I’m interested in helping refugees, immigrants, children, and/or the environment.  I guess that list isn’t exhaustive, but it encompasses everything I can think of at this moment.  Mainly, I just really want to help other people.  I want to make their lives more fulfilling and meaningful.  I want to make them self-sufficient so they are able to feel like they are contributing to society.  For as long as I can remember, people have been telling me I can do anything I put my mind to, and I have finally discovered what it is I want to do – I want to run a nonprofit organization.  

Pictures from Brendan's 21st Birthday Weekend