Taken

Yes, normal exists. We are living normally, we are examining the world with curious eyes and open minds, wondering, questioning. As the book suggests, many of us Eat, Pray and Love. Childhood is our kiln; we bake until hardened. We ripen under the sun and grow from love. And so, now I can accept my own place in this world, my own normality; now I embrace it, because I remember grabbing a jar of crunchy peanut butter and sitting down with my brothers and digging spoons into the jar. We devoured the peanut butter, our bellies bursting, and I thought, "I never want to see peanut butter again." What is more normal than that? But sometimes interruptions come. Sometimes we are taken out of the kiln before we are done. Sometimes we are removed from the vine unripened, only for someone to tape us back up after taking a bite and deciding that we were bitter. And so, this is how I felt when I was taken.

We were young. My brother was 5, I was 7, my youngest brother at the time was 3. It was a time when we played and laughed and were care-free, and although I had my own room, I would occasionally sleep in my brothers’ room, telling them stories. Trying to scare them so bad that they wouldn't be able to sleep. Tickling them until they begged for mercy. Sometimes doing arts and crafts with them. One night, after a day of crafts and fun, we were cutting out drawings we had just colored, we each got under the covers and we began an epic tickle fight. Rolling beneath the covers, tossing sheets, laughing until we drooled. Then, suddenly, there was a scream, no a shriek. A high, trill sound, piercing me. Something was horribly wrong.

My mother came running into the room. She grabbed my brother from under the covers and examined him. He was cut. She wrapped him in a blanket, threw a coat on over her night gown, and rushed to the hospital leaving my younger brother and me with her boyfriend. In between the hours of her departure and return I replayed everything in my head. We were having a tickle fight. There was paper and scissors on the bed, but the scissors fell behind the bed while we were kicking and squirming. As only a child's mind could, I drew the conclusion that I scratched him with my nails. I bit off my nails as I lay in the bed and cried. It never occurred to me that my brother was cut by the scissors and didn't feel it until after they fell to the floor. No, it was my fault, I was the oldest and it was my fault.

When my mother returned, she wasn't alone, police followed behind her, but there was no brother. The police asked me what happened, I told them the truth as I knew it, that we were playing and I scratched him with my nails. My mother was hysterical. I later learned that my brother had been taken into foster care due to the severity of his injuries. The only saving grace of the situation is that my uncle and aunt were allowed to act as his foster parents.

Months went by, it seemed as though we lived in family court. I was interviewed several times by several people and it was always the same. They would ask me what happened, I would tell them, and then they would tell me their version of what happened. According to my interviewers, either my mother or her boyfriend held my brother down and cut him in some ritualistic practice. I vehemently denied this, but they always 'comforted' me and told me that I didn't have to take responsibility for what I didn't do.

One day, after a grueling interview that lasted for what seemed like hours, my brother and I were herded into a room. When I looked towards the courtroom, I could see my mother being escorted out by paramedics, she had fainted. People were rushing by, my thoughts were a jumble, I didn't understand what was going on. A woman approached my brother and me. She had a friendly face and a soothing voice. She led us away from the chaos of the crowd. We went to an office and she ordered us sandwiches. She explained that my brother and I were going into foster care. I asked if we would be going to my uncle's house like my brother, when she said no, I didn't know what to think.

We were herded into a car, and several hours later we arrived at an older couple's house. We saw our other brother sitting at the kitchen table. The woman asked us if we were hungry, by then it was past 8pm, we said yes. She fed us spaghetti. Silent tears fell to our checks as we ate.

Tomorrow, Life In Prison. . .

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

I'm still searching for "normal" people. Still searching for what I know exists, but have never experienced. I guess it's because I'm afraid - afraid that I will never have peace, afraid that I will never be fully accepted, afraid that my life will go by without me being able to live a life I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. That dream was where I escaped to during some of the most traumatic times I've experienced, and I had company. My brothers. My first loves, the ones I cared for, cooked for, told stories too, disciplined, the brothers I fought for. And no, they too, are not normal.

Two years ago, I was in between jobs, at home with my husband. It was a beautiful July day and we were goofing off. My phone rang. . .my phone rang, I thought it might be a recruiter so I interrupted my day of nothingness. I thought it might be a job. It was almost 2pm, and my phone was ringing. When I picked up, I was confused. It was a doctor, and he was saying that my brother was in the hospital. He had a motorcycle accident and it was serious. My breathe was gone. I felt light-headed, I felt nauseous, I felt scared, I felt nervous, I felt anxious, I felt WRONG - like I was in bizzaro land. I admit, this tragedy is truly owned by my brother, but it felt like mine too.

My husband and I took a cab to the hospital. We held hands on the way, I was struggling to breathe, and I was struggling to live. Things were passing by so slowly in my mind - we weren't moving fast enough, but inside, thoughts were flying like a barrage of arrows. I couldn’t keep track of them. What did I say the last time I saw him, what did we do, why don't I tell him really and sincerely how much I love him, why am I so superficial?

When we arrived we raced to the 2nd floor, the ICU, the place where many die. When I first saw my brother I was outside of the "containment unit" and could see wires and tubes and wraps and machines and bags of fluid - and I could see that he wasn't awake. I couldn't go in, I didn't know if he could hear, but I didn't want him to hear me crying like some giant baby. It took me a few minutes to compose myself.

Stepping inside of the room, with its transparent folding glass front wall, I felt exposed. Exposed to grief and pain. No doctor explained to me the injuries he suffered at that point, but it was as though my foot had been crushed and rubbed out like an eraser on the head of a pencil. It was as though my spleen had burst, my ribs broken, my femur splintered, my arm cracked, my unconsciousness. and i was terrified. and i prayed.

My mother entered the room with me, I could barely see her through my watery veil, I could barely speak through the emotions in my heart flowing up through my chest choking off the words. But I watched, I watched as she gently stroked his head and called his name, and the miracle was - he opened his eyes.

The doctors had a conference with us a few minutes later detailing his injuries. They were particularly concerned with his foot. It had been stuck under the motorcycle and dragged along the asphalt. There was a great deal of flesh missing and crushed bones. They wanted to try to rebuild it, but they would not promise that he would be able to walk again. They explained that he had been in the hospital since the early morning hours and it had taken them a while to get into his blackberry and call us. All I could think was - he's been here all alone. My heart had nowhere else to sink - it hit bottom.

We came up with a loose schedule of people who would stay with him over night. I stayed the first few nights, we had him moved to a room with a view of the river. His second night in the hospital we watched together and alone the 4th of July fireworks. Their reflections dancing on the water, so prettily, while inside we stared. I held his hand, I spoke to him, though he couldn't say much in return. I sensed that he was frightened, when he slept he had nightmares - he would try to scream. My vigil was sleepless. I wanted to remember everything and I wanted to be awake when he said my name.

Every day there was a new surgery. Screws and rods to place, a foot to re-build. Every day there were medications to administer, fevers and infection to stomp out, blood to be drawn. He was getting stronger though, and I was there helping him when he made his first attempt to stand up. Supporting his weight firmly, and securely. Watching his diminished frame straighten into an upright position. Most days, while he was sleeping I watched him and thought how gaunt he looked, I thought, "where did that spark go?", that spark that made my brother who he was.

When he was awake he smiled, he asked us not to cry, he tried to laugh and make jokes with us. It was an exercise in strength of spirit for him.

Sometimes my husband and I pulled the night shift together, particularly when my brother was transferred to the step-down unit. But as the weeks went by I needed to be home more, to prepare for interviews. He asked for me, I felt so guilty - after a few months, my husband had spent more time with my brother than me, and that hurt. I started visiting during the day, watching the small progressions back to health. Thanking God for the things we take for granted every day, thanking Him for allowing my brother to regain the use of his body.

Soon he moved to physical therapy, surgeons had transferred stomach muscle to his foot to try to rebuild it and he could start to walk on it again. There would be revision surgeries to correct the look and function; at the time the transplanted muscle almost looked like a grapefruit attached to the side and top of his foot, but he kept going, he kept fighting for mobility, and today, fully clothed, no one would ever know he was in an accident. No one would ever know that he nearly lost his life.

Tomorrow, the death of an uncle. . .