I remember that night like it was yesterday, back in August of '93. It should have been one of my happiest times, my last summer before college, but you were angry that night. You didn't say much, but you sat there fuming, refusing to strap yourself in for the long ride. Dad tried to soothe you, but you would have none of it. I could feel the tension build, as road signs flew by at 70.
Before I knew it, your door was open. Dad's quick reflexes saved you. He pulled you back inside the car. He pulled off the road, parking in the gravel shoulder. You fled the car, determined to strand yourself in the desert. Dad and Robert caught you, wrestled you to the ground. Mandy was crying. I was in shock. Dad and Robert pulled you into the back seat. Mandy moved to the passenger seat, and I took over driving. I'd never driven this car before. The gas and brakes were much more sensitive than I was used to, and you were in the back seat, kicking me as I tried to drive. I could barely stay on the road.
I don't know how many miles I drove. There were too many. Mandy kept sobbing next to me, and you were still struggling behind me. Finally we reached a small town, and we pulled into a parking lot ' a fast food joint, empty, late at night. Mandy and I got out of the car. Dad and Robert were still struggling with you. I ran inside to call 911. I told the operator what was wrong, told them to send an ambulance, then I went back out to hug my sister and stare at the car. All the windows were fogged up. I could see steam rising, and knew it was only the sweat rising from the bodies of you, Dad, and Robert.
I waited much too long and no one came. I went back inside, called 911 again, told them I was serious, and to send help. I went outside again. Mandy was still crying. I tried to be strong. I was so confused. Still no help had come. I went inside again, called 911 again.
"I'm not FUCKING joking! Send help now!" I think it was the first time I'd ever used that word.
Another fifteen minutes before we saw anyone. We flagged down the ambulance. I don't think they were even there for us. They surveyed the situation. You were exhausted. Dad and Robert finally got out of the car. Columns of steam rose from their bodies. The paramedics shook their heads.
"We don't have the right equipment. We need to get the other truck."
They left and we waited again ' another half an hour. When they returned, time began to move again. We drove 80 miles to the hospital. We waited for hours in the lobby. They couldn't do anything, couldn't even hold you there. They released you into our care again, hoping you'd let us take you home.
You didn't struggle. You were wearing those paper hospital clothes. We got you home, where you changed, and ran away again. For two days we worried. I postponed my flight to college, but finally you came home, apologizing.
None of it was your fault. It was all the disease, That Disease, and now you are dying. I saw you just the other day. You looked so fragile ' bruises all over your face, your body so slight, a loose drape of skin over bones. You can't move, speak, and I can see the pain in your eyes, and I want to cry.
I want to let out a howl, scream to the sky. I want to rage and fight, and pull down heaven. I want to slap God in the face for what's been done to you ' done to us. And yet I go on. So numb to everything, wishing I felt more, wishing I could let it out, but knowing I can't. Knowing it won't come, and maybe, just maybe, it's better that way.

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