I have been having a hard time finding the motivation to write lately.  My heart is breaking.

My brother was diagnosed with a very serious illness in May of this year, had surgery in July and has been suffering from one complication after another ever since.  I go to the hospital to see him almost every day, and every day my heart breaks just a little more.

His most recent stint has been about 3 weeks so far and he will most likely be there another 2.  My husband works at the hospital, so I usually go in with him around 2 and leave with him at 10:30.  I stay and sit with my brother.  I talk with him and watch tv with him if he doesn’t feel like chatting.  I knit while he sleeps.  I help him with his food tray and straighten up the hospital room. I find the nurse if he needs help.  I think about how unfair it is that such a good person has known so much suffering. My heart breaks.

I find myself wishing I could do more; wishing I could shoulder some of his burden.  All I can offer is company and love.  It never feels like enough.  I come from a family of doctors and lawyers and the higher educated; I am the artist, the freak, the black sheep, the blind girl.  Artists don’t read medical charts, freaks get frightened sidelong glances, black sheep never get heard and blind girls can’t show up at a moments notice.  But, I am also a sister. Sisters can comfort and reminisce, chat and laugh and get the inside jokes, share the childhood baggage, and simply listen. I savor every precious moment when it is just my brother and me.

But every night when I leave the hospital I feel frightened and guilty.  I don’t want to leave him alone.  I don’t want him to feel afraid.  I don’t want him to be sick.  My heart is breaking.

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