Everything Changes in a Breath

3

It used to be the my other was the one to drag me down to the little country church we attended every Sunday. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, it was always Sunday school, Sunday morning worship, and the evening service. Now, it is me, pulling her by the arm to the chapel in the hospital.

When the priest asks for prayer request, about twenty hands go up. Mine is not one of them. Somehow it feels ironic that the priest would ask for prayer requests; we are at a children's hospital, filed with our dying relatives, don't we all have prayer requests? And yet, I don't want to talk about Joey. Not here in front of all these strangers, at least. It would leave me feeling too... exposed. Not that that would be a change for me. Nobody in the entire town of Casper Creek knew about my Daddy wanting to leave before it was too late for them to care, and he was already gone.

Its not like I told anyone at our old church about Joey dying, and I'm still wondering why I didn't do that. I try to tell myself that its because I was afraid of the stares we would get. Oh! the stares.

They would have stared at us like we were a little puppy dogs who had just gotten kicked in the side. Nobody knew about Joey, but our family and God Himself. I try to convince myself that I'm am only doing this for my mother, that I don't want to burden her with spotlight attention, but I'm more selfish than that.

I might possibly be in a state of denial.

I took a therapy session on denial after my Daddy ran away, and there I learned that acceptance is the first step to recovery from grief.

But how can they ask me to accept that my baby brother is dying?

How can they ask me to accept that I will never again hear her joyful peals of laughter?

How can anyone ask me to accept that Joey will never be my baby brother again?

They can't possibly ask anyone to accept that, because its not the way its supposed to be.

He was supposed to get better. He was supposed to grow up, get married, and have children of his own. And I was supposed to die fist, NOT him.

It was never supposed to be him.

I didn't go back to therapy after that.

Suddenly, the chapel becomes very cold, and I shiver. I can't stay anymore, so I grab my mother by her sleeve and walk out in the middle of the service. This time, I don't worry about the stares.