Ms. Lynn, an after-school program supervisor, called my name from across the multipurpose room.  It was 5:30, and I was waiting for my mom to pick me up.  I swiftly got up from the elementary school cafeteria bench and started to walk over to the exit of the building.  On my trek across the cafeteria, I glanced out the window and saw the day turning to night.  I shifted my vision to the exit, and my mother was nowhere to be seen.  I timidly scanned the crowd of adults and saw my mom’s coworker, Carol.  Apparently, she was there to pick me up.  I went with her to her car and did not question a thing.

“Your brother was taken by an ambulance to the Emergency Room,” she explained.  An overwhelming feeling of fear jolted through my body.  I felt like a deer being approached by quickly moving headlights.  My entire world felt like it was closing in on me.  An enormous amount of questions and worry were racing through my mind.  I immediately asked Carol an absurd amount of questions in a very short amount of time.  She said she was as clueless as I was.  I was meant to “chill” at her home for a bit.  I was not the least bit chill.

Before going to her townhome, Carol took me to rent a movie.  We went to a DVD store where she told me to choose a movie.  I walked through the aisles, running my index finger on the spines of the DVD cases.  I stopped at a new movie that I had been eager to watch: “Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life”.

Carol’s home was cramped, yet tidy.  I sat down on the gray couch.  She went to set her things down.  “Start the movie!” Carol yelled from the kitchen.  I detached the DVD case from my sweaty, right palm.  I took the disc out, and my quivering hand, vibrating like a plucked guitar string, attempted to place it in the DVD player.  I missed the disc slit by a mile but got it on my second try.

The movie slightly calmed my nerves.  Near the end of the movie, there was a knock on the door.  It was my dad.  Sweet relief!  I thought to myself.  That was incredibly uncomfortable.  While walking out the door, I yelled, “Thank you!” behind me.  I scurried down the stairs and hopped into the passenger seat of my father’s car.  “Are we going to the E.R.?” I eagerly asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened to Matthew?”

“We don’t know yet.”

We found my mom and Matthew as soon as we walked in the E.R.  My brother was lying on my mother’s legs.  His body took up three seats.  He looked as pale as a ghost.

“Hi Matthew, how are you doing?” I asked with tears swelling in my eyes.

Matthew wouldn’t respond.  He couldn’t respond.  He was in excruciating pain.  I stared at him helplessly.

It had been a very long night.  It seemed like we were waiting for hours and hours.  The doctors informed us that they discovered something on the CT scan but were unable to resolve the situation.  Matthew was being transferred to the Loma Linda Hospital from the Hemet Hospital.

By midnight, my brother was on his way to Loma Linda via ambulance.  We went home so my mother could change her clothes and pack some necessities.  My father bought some food to eat on the way to Loma Linda.  Mom didn’t have an appetite.

When we arrived at Loma Linda Hospital, my brother was already hooked up to all sorts of intimidating machines in the PICU.  A doctor pulled me aside (alone) to briefly explain what was happening.  My brother had an AVM (arteriovenous malformation) and a brain aneurysm.  I wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

The nurse left the room, and we all sat in silence.  We were then informed that only one parent could stay with my brother, so my father and I went home with extremely heavy hearts.

I could not wait to see my brother the next day.  We stayed with Matthew for hours.  Then I asked, “Mom, I’m hungry.  When can we eat?”

“They have a cafeteria downstairs. We could check that out,” Mom replied.  “Matthew, is that okay with you if we can leave for a little bit?”

“Sure,” Matthew barely managed to mumble.

We took the elevator and found the hospital’s cafeteria.  The right half of it looked like a restaurant with many tables and chairs, while the other half looked like a grocery store.  Mom let me pick something out.  I opened the cold, glass door of the dairy section and picked out a single, brown chocolate milk carton.  I also got a cookie because I barely had an appetite.  Mom went to the register to pay, so I sat with Dad at our table.  Mom came over and handed me my “meal”.  We started chatting, and my mother suddenly broke into tears.  “What if something bad happens?” she wailed.  It was a vague question, yet we all knew the true meaning.

“Mom, it’s gonna be alright. Nothing bad will happen,” I calmly said, trying to soothe her.  I kept hugging her, and she eventually calmed down.  At the time, I didn’t even believe what I was saying.  I had been asking myself the same, exact question.

After an MRI, the neurosurgeons were talking about performing brain surgery on my brother.  I was in disbelief.

Fortunately, following an angiogram and deliberation by neurosurgeons, they opted to do another treatment, called embolization, as an alternative to brain surgery.  Embolization is like inserting glue or cement into a blood vessel in my brother's brain.  My aunt said that I could call Matthew a blockhead because he literally has a cement-like substance in his head.

It has been five years, and Matthew is alive and well.   I learned to value life and my family even more, since nothing is permanent.   This experience drew me closer to my older brother.