Afraid of Hospitals

My brother Michael and me

     Today I got my first call for a substitute teaching assignment.  Even though I could really use the money after my dead broke summer, I had to turn it down.  Why?
      My brother needs me.  Last week the nursing home called to say my brother refused, literally kicking and screaming, to go to the hospital for a check up with the neurosurgeon.  The poor guy looks exhausted when I go to see him later that morning.
     So I explain to the nurses and the social worker that my brother is terrified of hospitals.  After three brain surgeries and 39 years of being subjected to long hospitalizations to test the latest psychotropic drugs, who wouldn't be? 
     I promise I will accompany him to his next doctor's appointment, warning them not to mention it's at the hospital.  Truthfully, I'm not sure I can get him to go.  My brother can be stubborn and not even the bribe of his favorite strawberry shake can get him to do something he doesn't want to do, like take a shower.
     When I arrive at the nursing home around 7 o'clock this morning, Michael is lying down fully clothed on his bed.  He gets up immediately when I call him, with a smile on his face, expecting his usual snack of a banana, chocolate pudding, and a can of pop.  Today I come empty-handed. 
     Still he follows me down to the dining room by the nurses' station for his breakfast of cereal, juice, eggs and toast.  He doesn't ask where we're going when we take the elevator down to the lobby, where a CNA is waiting for us.  I can tell she's nervous about how my brother's going to react this time, as she gestures for me to go ahead.  
     When Michael sees the medicar waiting outside, he freezes.  Seeing the raw fear in his eyes, I blink back tears.  Keeping my voice light and casual, I say, "It's okay, Michael.  I'm coming too.  C'mon, we'll be back in no time."
     I'm not sure what he will do as I walk towards the door.  After a moment's hesitation, he follows me.  Wheeling himself to the ramp at the back of the van, he allows the van driver to strap down his chair.  I climb up to sit in a seat close to him. 
     Although he doesn't say much, I notice that Michael is looking out the window at places he hasn't seen in months.  That's when I get the automated telephone call on my cell phone for a job, which I ignore.
     When we arrive at the hospital, I'm relieved that Michael doesn't cause a fuss.  He waits patiently for the doctor's assistant to come in to take his blood pressure and temperature, not the least bit interested in the paperwork the CNA has given me from the nursing home detailing his diagnoses and medications.  She stays outside in the waiting room while I go into the examining room with my brother.    
     Seated companionably beside me, Michael follows another associate's instructions to close his eyes and hold out both his arms.  Then he firmly squeezes the two middle fingers of both the doctor's hands and grasp his wrists.  When asked, he gets up and walks briefly.  
     While he answers the doctor's questions when prompted, Michael keeps his head down most of the time, waiting to get back to his own internal conversations.  I can always tell when he's hearing voices, because his lips move soundlessly and sometimes he laughs for no apparent reason.  He's learned not to talk about them, however, telling me once, "I don't hear any voices and I'm not going back to the hospital!"
     Finally, the neurosurgeon comes in.  He shakes Michael's hand, asking him how he's doing.  Michael looks straight at him and says, "Fine."
     After a few more questions about any residual pain or weakness on his right side, with Michael shaking his head in response, the doctor says everything seems fine, but he would like him to get a CT scan just to make sure.  When I ask if any more visits to the downtown hospital are necessary, he says no.  That's a relief. 
     So we wait for the scrip for the CT scan, then for the medicar to pick us up, getting us back to the nursing home in time for lunch.  Before I leave, my brother has one last request for me.  Can I get him a can of pop?  
     Of course I can.  I buy him a Pepsi on the first floor at the little candy store and bring it back up to him, promising I'll be back to see him in a couple of days.  Tomorrow I'm taking my mother to the doctor.