Spiritual

Anxiety

 February 5th

        The floor is frigid against the soles of my feet. Staring at my moccasins across the room, I pull my knees up to my chest and my feet onto the chair I'm sat in, cringing at the thought of any part of my body touching the ground again. The room is quiet, the air cool. Leaning over to my left, I grab an overly-sized sweatshirt from the ground and slip it over my head. Why are hospitals so damn cold?

        I glance up at the ticking clock hanging about an inch from the ceiling for the 50th time, as it's the only sound I've been hearing for the past hour that I've been awake. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Yes, I've been counting. It's a nervous habit of mine. When I start to feel anxious, I pick out one thing, whether it's an action, a saying or body gestures, and do it repetitively. In this case, I can't stop checking the clock. It seems like time is going by in slow motion, each second elongated far past what it should be. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

        I slowly let my feet down to touch the ground again, and just as quickly as they hit, I'm off of the chair and sprinting to my warm moccasins. Slipping on one moccasin at a time, I reach into my handbag and pull out a tube of chapstick. I spread it across my dried, chapped lips. If they had turned up the heat in this damned place, maybe I wouldn't have this problem. I shove the chapstick back into my handbag as I make my way back to the uncomfortable hospital chair. I place it on the floor, next to my close-to-empty-backpack, and as I turn to get ready to sit down, I see something that sends the chills that I had forgotten for a good 10 minutes right back down my spine.

        I'm staring at the boy in the hospital bed now. His eyes are closed, as well as his mouth, dark-brown hair looking like it hasn't been combed in a week, which is almost an accurate estimate. His skin looks dull, as if all but a small amount of life has been sucked out of him, and his facial hair is out of control. A wave of sadness engulfs me as I approach him. I kneel down beside him, laying my arms on the bed in front of me, one hand over-lapping the other, and my head lying on top of them, staring at him. Tears start to fill my eyes, and more-so as I keep staring at him.

        I listen to his smooth breathing, watching as his chest rises and falls. I bite down on my tongue in attempt to stop the tears that I feel assembling. I can't look at him anymore. I bury my face into my arms, letting the tears stream down my face. I know that if he were awake at this moment, he'd be holding me close to him, comforting me the way he always does. He's always had a way to comfort me, to make me feel safe. I guess that's what big brothers are meant to do.

        Suddenly, my temper rises into my head. I quickly stand up and spin around, slamming my hand against the button that calls the nurse into the room. I pace the floor waiting for her to arrive, my moccasins making friction against the ground, as I'm too worn out to pick my feet up completely. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, are there even any nurses on duty? The longer I wait, the more impatient I grow, and the more anger starts to pile up. 5 minutes pass by. 10 minutes. Where the hell are they?

        Just as I have decided it was a good idea to go off on a miniature journey across the broken hospital halls to look for someone, I hear footsteps. Quick footsteps. Thud, thud, thud. They draw closer and closer, I hear them stop by the door. Knock, knock.  The door creeks open. I look up to see a middle-aged blonde in black scrubs, staring at me.

        "Is everything alright?" she asks.

        I stare at him for another second, then direct my gaze towards her. "Why isn't he awake?" I ask, tears filling to the brim of my bottom lid.

        "Pardon?" she asks with a puzzled, but gentle look.

        "Why isn't he awake?" I repeat more aggressively. "He's been in that coma for three weeks."

        The room is dead quiet, our eyes focused on each other's. I roughly and suddenly kick my handbag, sending it flying across the room. It makes a loud thump on the wall, and all of the items that were inside fall out, each making their own tapping noise against the chilled floor. She flinches.

        I raise my voice, "Three weeks!" I can feel my blood rushing through my veins, each blood cell in a race to the finish, to my head, to fill my head to the point that it explodes with exasperated fury.

        She looks frightened. I can feel the tension between us, and I can tell that she has no idea about how to handle the situation. I take a deep breath, and prepare to apologize to her, but before I can, I hear a deep, raspy voice call my name.

        "Jenna?"

        I sharply turn my head to see him sitting up in the bed, rubbing his left eye.

        "Aaron!" I exclaim. I run to his side and wrap my arms around him. The room being dead quiet, aside from my whimpering, I hear the clank's of the nurse's worn-down shoes slowly becoming more distant, followed by the rather quiet click of the hospital door closing. I feel a huge wave of relief wash over me.

        All I can do is hold Aaron tight. I could stay here for hours... days, even... and not once get tired of holding him. It's been a full three weeks of watching him lay in this dreaded hospital bed, motionless, lifeless... and it kills me. I miss the sound of his voice when he comes to visit home, his eyes lighting up at the sight of our family dog Axel, jotting up to him with his tail wagging. I miss his phone calls when he checks up every week just to see if I need anything. How I can ask to stay at his place when our parents’ home isn't the best option, and he lets me, no matter what his plans. We have this sort of bond that most other siblings don't have, and right now I just want to hold him.