wonât survive.
âIâll never forget when you were in first grade. We were walking home, and you wouldnât talk to me because the teacher made you miss recess when you didnât get a perfect score on your spelling test. She thought that because we have the same DNA, weâd have the same brain, the same likes and dislikes, the same drives. But the truth is I had to learn those words. Maybe itâs that oldest child syndrome or something. I had to get them right, but you didnât. You could have if youâd wanted to, but you didnât, and thatâs okay. Hell, thatâs great, as long as you know you could have.
âI regret now that I studied for those stupid tests. I mean, really, who cares if a seven-year-old can spell umbrella or a ten-year-old can recite the fifty state capitals? It doesnât say anything about who we are. Not really. If I had to do it over again, I wouldnât have taken Calc 2 or Spanish 4. I donât think I would have even gone out for track or football. Not because I donât think education is important or because I donât love sports, but because thereâs no achievement in my life that means as much as being able to walk the path with you. You are my brother . . . and I love you.â I say these words slowly because they are for me. They are mine. âNothing means more than that. And to all of you out there who have ever called Kyle âConnor,â and especially to all of you who ever judged my brother for not learning his spelling words or his state capitals or his quadratic equations, this is for you.â
It doesnât say anything else, but I know exactly what Connor intended to do. I look out at the young and old and middle-aged faces. I take a deep breath and, with tears burning in my eyes, extend my middle finger to the crowd.
10
I hate doctors and doctorsâ offices. I hate needles, X-rays, and nurses who say this will only hurt a little as they jab giant syringes filled with radioactive isotopes into your veins. I hate being injected with something called radioactive isotopes. It just sounds like a bad idea. The dentist puts that lead jacket over you so your organs wonât absorb the radiation from your annual bicuspid photo, and the cardiologist thinks itâs a good idea to put nuclear waste right into my veins. Of course Iâm reassured that itâs not harmful; I just have to avoid using public restrooms for the next twelve hours lest I spray someone with my radioactive pee. Peter Parker gets bitten by a radioactive spider, and he can scale buildings. I get injected with the stuff, and I have twelve hours to stop bad guys with my stream of death.
The autopsy report, which took almost three weeks to get back, confirmed that Connor died of a heart attack. The report also showed that his arteries were clear. It was like his heart stopped for no reason. So now a machine is taking continuous pictures of my heart. Itâs just a precaution; Mom and Dad both said so. Just a precaution to make certain everything inside me is working fine. But according to the autopsy, everything inside of Connor had been working fine, until it suddenly wasnât.
This last test is supposed to take forty-five minutes.
The walls are a dingy green. The molding has been stripped from around the doors and the floor, and there are signs everywhere apologizing for the mess while they remodel. ITâS ALL FOR YOUR COMFORT the signs read. Do they think a new paint job will make people comfortable here ? I feel like Iâm in some sci-fi movie. Or worse, one of the docudramas Mom likes to watch where some beautiful woman finally meets the man of her dreams, only to discover he has a rare disease. I donât have a rare disease. Iâm fine. At least, Iâm pretty sure Iâm fine. Connor was fine.
But there had been something.
Maybe if the skinny nurse with smokerâs breath had pumped shit into his
âIâll never forget when you were in first grade. We were walking home, and you wouldnât talk to me because the teacher made you miss recess when you didnât get a perfect score on your spelling test. She thought that because we have the same DNA, weâd have the same brain, the same likes and dislikes, the same drives. But the truth is I had to learn those words. Maybe itâs that oldest child syndrome or something. I had to get them right, but you didnât. You could have if youâd wanted to, but you didnât, and thatâs okay. Hell, thatâs great, as long as you know you could have.
âI regret now that I studied for those stupid tests. I mean, really, who cares if a seven-year-old can spell umbrella or a ten-year-old can recite the fifty state capitals? It doesnât say anything about who we are. Not really. If I had to do it over again, I wouldnât have taken Calc 2 or Spanish 4. I donât think I would have even gone out for track or football. Not because I donât think education is important or because I donât love sports, but because thereâs no achievement in my life that means as much as being able to walk the path with you. You are my brother . . . and I love you.â I say these words slowly because they are for me. They are mine. âNothing means more than that. And to all of you out there who have ever called Kyle âConnor,â and especially to all of you who ever judged my brother for not learning his spelling words or his state capitals or his quadratic equations, this is for you.â
It doesnât say anything else, but I know exactly what Connor intended to do. I look out at the young and old and middle-aged faces. I take a deep breath and, with tears burning in my eyes, extend my middle finger to the crowd.
10
I hate doctors and doctorsâ offices. I hate needles, X-rays, and nurses who say this will only hurt a little as they jab giant syringes filled with radioactive isotopes into your veins. I hate being injected with something called radioactive isotopes. It just sounds like a bad idea. The dentist puts that lead jacket over you so your organs wonât absorb the radiation from your annual bicuspid photo, and the cardiologist thinks itâs a good idea to put nuclear waste right into my veins. Of course Iâm reassured that itâs not harmful; I just have to avoid using public restrooms for the next twelve hours lest I spray someone with my radioactive pee. Peter Parker gets bitten by a radioactive spider, and he can scale buildings. I get injected with the stuff, and I have twelve hours to stop bad guys with my stream of death.
The autopsy report, which took almost three weeks to get back, confirmed that Connor died of a heart attack. The report also showed that his arteries were clear. It was like his heart stopped for no reason. So now a machine is taking continuous pictures of my heart. Itâs just a precaution; Mom and Dad both said so. Just a precaution to make certain everything inside me is working fine. But according to the autopsy, everything inside of Connor had been working fine, until it suddenly wasnât.
This last test is supposed to take forty-five minutes.
The walls are a dingy green. The molding has been stripped from around the doors and the floor, and there are signs everywhere apologizing for the mess while they remodel. ITâS ALL FOR YOUR COMFORT the signs read. Do they think a new paint job will make people comfortable here ? I feel like Iâm in some sci-fi movie. Or worse, one of the docudramas Mom likes to watch where some beautiful woman finally meets the man of her dreams, only to discover he has a rare disease. I donât have a rare disease. Iâm fine. At least, Iâm pretty sure Iâm fine. Connor was fine.
But there had been something.
Maybe if the skinny nurse with smokerâs breath had pumped shit into his
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