1
I lay in the backseat of my car, hunched over, clutching my chest. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe. Pain escalates with every meager movement I attempt to make. Quick gasps for air, slowly drowning in this car that can’t seem to transport me fast enough to Children’s Memorial Hospital.
My parents help me into the ER, where the doctors ask me questions and check my weight and smile cheerfully as if I was in for a routine howdy-do check up. They want to release me. My mother has something radically different in mind. They wheel me in to the X-Ray lab calmly, as if I had nothing to worry about.
Pneumomediastinum. I can’t even pronounce my own ailment. Coughing brought on by my asthma caused me rupture a tiny hole in my throat, allowing bubbles or air to rise to my neck. The doctors are baffled. Statistically, I’m not supposed to have this. Surgery might be necessary, they tell me. You’ll definitely be spending the night.
My parents are calling my friend who’s supposed to be driving me to school today. One week before Christmas break. An extra week of break, I think. My mother’s having a hard time keeping tears back. Look for the positives.
No one thought it would be this bad. They weren’t even going to take me to the doctors. But I can hardly blame them. If it weren’t for them, I’d be heading back home now. Me and my pneumomediastinum.
Check this out, the doctor says, feeling my neck. I hear a crackling. That was one of the bubbles.
Morphine injected, my feet fall asleep. I laugh a little bit. I fall asleep.
2
It’s 4th period now. One week before Christmas break. I knew the school was beautiful, but this was something much greater. It was snowing outside, and I could enjoy every snowflake that fell to the ground through the wide windows of the dining hall. They were setting up a giant Christmas tree behind a table of theater kids I so desperately wanted to impress. Everything seems so grand through wide freshman eyes. It was the first time I regarded myself as a true Ignatian.
Then I realized I was standing in the middle of the lunch room alone. I head for that table of theater kids to sit with them, and to get a better look at the tree. They don’t welcome me, but they don’t groan at my presence either. They laugh when I say things, even when they’re not that funny.
Do that one crazy thing you do! they shout. I do that crazy thing I do. They laugh. Do it again! I make sure I’m not behind a glass case on display. It’s all up to me.
And I do it again. And the snow keeps falling until the bell rings for lunch.
3
I wake up in a new room. Cords are wrapped around my finger. I don’t even know what they’re for. They could be there for show, like a tag. This person is obviously sick, see? He has cords wrapped around his finger. I’m breathing in air from a mask. It’ll help the air absorb faster, they say. My chest is still sore.
For one brief moment, I thought I was all-alone.
Panicking, I tried my best to turn over on my side, but my mother’s voice told me to lie still. She was still there, and I felt foolish. She would never leave my side. She would be there all through the night, and the next night, if necessary. They would all leave me, but no, she wouldn’t.
4
It was a gradual process, exchanging all my colorful clothing for blackness. I don’t know exactly when I put this blindfold on, but as I entered sophomore year, it had managed its stranglehold over my vision. I “looked” at all those faces I had met only a year earlier. They all fit into the puzzle that made up this singular picture of Saint Ignatius College Prep. It was a puzzle that didn’t want me, a puzzle that didn’t understand what I wanted.
No one took me seriously last year, I tell my friend. I was the crazy kid everyone liked have around so that they could feel good about themselves. Whether or not I had genuine friends would be put to the test. They would be the only ones who knew why I suddenly decided to wear all black. The others would leave me alone. Then I’d be happy.
And the blindfold kept getting tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and…and all of a sudden, I became the opposite of who I wanted to be. I wanted true friends, but all I did was alienate myself. Someone once told me that first impressions meant everything, and if there’s any truth to that statement, I had ruined many an opportunity.
I’m looking forward to Christopher Christmas, though. I like helping people. I like spreading cheer. As I put my name on the list, a person asked if I’d be wearing that to the event, and I laughed and said no, why?
Well, that’s who you are, isn’t it? The all-black? No, it’s not. Then what’s the point of you wearing it now?
5
I’m awakened at midnight to start my treatments again. They ask me if I need any water or if I need to use the restroom. I say no, thank you. My mother goes back to sleep. Well, she tries to at least. She sits awkwardly in a beaten-up chair, her hand holding up her head as best as it can. Her dad, my grandfather, is very sick. She shouldn’t be here. I don’t know it yet, but this is only the beginning for her hospital visits.
I can’t believe I put you through what I did. I don’t deserve your love. I was selfish and wrong. Life is very much meaningful, even if I don’t fully understand it.
The treatment complete, I fall back asleep, fully aware of my mistakes, yet mindful of a hopeful resolution.
6
I became a fan of the Chicago White Sox in 2007, during one of their worst seasons ever recorded. They were an embarrassment, giving away games that should’ve easily been theirs. I had no idea how a World Series winning team could fall so low. It’s almost as if they lost sight of what was really real.
I came home from work one evening and threw out the remaining black school shirts I owned from sophomore year. I needed to make room for something new.
Everyone commented on how nice I looked in color on day one of junior year. I’m not fashionable at all, and I should never have made my clothing a part of who I am. I’m more than just stitching. I have aspirations and fears. I want to be friendly. I want to be helpful. I want to be that Grad-at-Grad. I started off on the wrong path. I didn’t even give Saint Ignatius a chance. I had a dark well to climb out of this year, but I was off to a very good start.
My junior retreat was powerful, even though symptoms for a future hospital visit were beginning to arise. All these poor kids who have suffered in life…these were people I thought had it all. But no one has everything. No one’s perfectly happy. Tears were shed. We were a real community who cared about each other. I recognized then that I had been selfish. I was not the only one who felt alone.
After a day of sledding, we returned to our small groups, where we outlined our hands on paper and pass it around. On these hands, we had to write something positive about that person. When I received mine back, I smiled brightly. People thought I was funny.
That sheet still hangs on my wall today.
7
The doctors came into my room bright and early with wrapped gifts and a big sign that said “Happy Birthday, Brendan!” I smiled wearily, exhausted from the restless night of countless checkups.
It was my birthday. I’m 17 years old. My parents gave me hugs and kisses. The doctors let me eat (finally) and open their gifts, an autographed Nerf football from Payton Manning and an electronic handheld game.
My dad went home and brought me my cell phone. I had text messages waiting for me. Dozens of them. Some of them were even sent during school. I was worth at least two JUGs to someone. People were concerned about me. They wanted me to get better.
I never felt more loved in my life.
8
I’m the leader of the Improv Club now. It’s a notorious club with the administration. It seems every year we find ourselves in trouble. We don’t want to be in trouble, but it just seems to happen that way. I promise you, if you look past our mistakes, you’ll see we have a great club that has something awesome to offer everyone.
I feel like an elder, how a true senior should feel. I’ve seen things at this school that the underclassmen cannot even imagine yet. I’ve been through the rigorous schedule, and I know what terrible things can come of it. But I see the good in it too. I’ve walked through that snowstorm that seemed so impenetrable two years earlier. I know it can be conquered.
I have finally found my place in this puzzle.
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