John & Francis Part II

It will be the first time I've seen Francis since he fell into the pond, and I'm worried about what he will look like, how he might have changed.  Everyone says he "almost drowned", and that's scary because I don't really know what that Means.  So far, it feels to me like when you first lose a tooth... the tooth isn't in my mouth anymore but my tongue misses it and keeps going to check to see if it's really gone.  I know that my tooth is still around, it's just that I put it somewhere else (it's under my pillow until the tooth fairy finds it), but I have to keep going back to check under my pillow to make sure it's still there.  That's Francis - he's not at home and I keep noticing he's missing - from beside me on the bench at the kitchen table, when we're playing outside, at bedtime - only I can't go and check to make sure he's over there at the hospital.  I'm worried that God will go and get him, like the tooth fairy takes my tooth from under my pillow, but I won't know for SURE until I can go to check.  I know it must be even harder for John, so I try to play with him and keep him company when I'm not at school.  He's pretty quiet about it all and hasn't said much about it; I don't ask him because I don't want to make him sad.

Francis almost drowned.  At school, I repeat it often as I try to make sense of it.  "My little brother almost drowned," I say to my teacher, to my friends, in the hope of getting an answer back that somehow explains it all.  My teacher, Mrs. Crewe, is extra nice to me and lets me erase the blackboards and clean the chalk brushes, a job that everyone wants because you get to leave the class early and go outside to do it.  That's nice, but it doesn't really help.  My friends want to know more about what it was like, but I wasn't there and I don't know.  "Did he turn blue?" "Was he all heavy and waterlogged like a stick?"  Not hearing anything from me, some of the kids tell me what they know about it, which is far worse than I could ever have imagined on my own.  I pretend it is helping but it doesn't, it just makes me even more worried.

At home Saturday morning, we're all dressing up like we're going to church.  Mom inspects us as we head outside to the station wagon to make sure faces are washed and teeth are brushed.  We all tumble into the car and settle in - John's on Mom's knee; Paul beat me into the front seat between Mom and Dad, so I'm on Tom's knee in the back seat with everyone else. As we pull out of the driveway, I look back through the car window at the house and wonder if the house misses us when we're not there?  Can it tell that someone is missing?  I think it does because there has been a different feeling in the house lately.

In the car on the long ride to the hospital, Mom and Dad tell us all that the hospital is full of very sick people and we must do our best to be very quiet as we go to see Francis.  I've never  been in there as far as I can remember.  Hospitals are for bringing babies home from, and when that happens, we kids just wait in the car; its a happy time.  Mom and Dad say that we're not going to be able to bring Francis home with us this time, we're just going for a visit.  Now my tummy is really full of butterflies and I don't feel very good.

Dad parks the car and we all pile out.  I hold tight to my Dad's hand as we cross the parking lot.  Mom is carrying John who is quiet, but Paul and Philip have raced ahead to the big hospital doors.  The doors here are like the new doors at the grocery store - you step on the mat and they open!  That is just the greatest thing, and I let go of my Dad's hand to try them out with Paul and Phil.  The older kids are rolling their eyes at us, but that's okay, I can tell we're not doing anything bad, and we're still being very quiet.

As they go in through the doors, I notice Mom's purse as it bumps against her hip, the straps looping around her elbow and both hands holding John on her other hip.  I've peeked into her purse before and it's full of kleenex.  Mom and Dad go over and stand in front of some doors - can it really be an Elevator?  I've only seen those on TV - the Get Smart show, where there are so many elevator doors and at the end the doors close on Agent 99's nose!  Sure enough, a little bell rings and the doors open, and we all get inside.  Dad presses the 4 and as the doors close, everyone is quiet; I look up at everyone, and I think it's not just me with a butterfly tummy.

When the doors open, we follow closely behind Mom and Dad, the older kids farther behind.  It's all very bright, and white, and clean, and it smells funny.  Then, suddenly, in a room with a glass wall and a television and toys, there is Francis!  In his pajamas!  He sees us and breaks into his big smile and dimples, and in a second he's up in Dad's arms, then in Mom's along with John.  I am so happy to see him too, but I wonder, why is he still in his pajamas?  Don't they know it's almost lunchtime?  We're not allowed to keep them on at home... oh right, unless we're sick.  Now that I've figured THAT out, I notice that the boys have found some good stuff in the play room so in I go to join them.

We are having a great time at the hospital, there are so many toys, and big windows to see the lake and trees and the parking lot from so high up.  Our car looks like a big bug on the pavement.  We forget where we are a little and a nurse tells Paul and me to stop running in the hallway, which makes me feel Very Embarrassed.  We give up that game and head back into the playroom where my family has taken over - not that anyone else is around.  I think to myself that Francis is SO LUCKY to have this big, beautiful playroom all to himself!  I bet the television in here has even more channels than just CBC, and no-one to tell you to turn it off and go play outside.

The next thing I know, it's time for us to go.  The big kids are already waiting over by the elevators, and Paul has pushed the button.  But it's not good, Francis is crying, really crying, and we have to leave him there.  I see him in the doorway; a nurse is holding him now, but he's holding his arms out to all of us as he sobs.  I look up at Mom and Dad and they are smiling, saying "We'll see you again, soon!  Be Good!" as they slowly walk away, and I'm holding my Dad's hand again but I can't take my eyes off of Francis.  I don't understand why he has to stay "just a little bit longer".  In the elevator, John is crying too and I'm staring at the floor.  I feel like we are so MEAN to visit him and leave again.  When I look up, everyone else has tears in their eyes too.  Mom pulls a kleenex from her purse.

As we cross the parking lot the sun is really shining and I skip a little.  I can see some dandelions coming out between the cracks in the pavement and that makes me feel a little better.  I suppose that "almost drowned" is like being sick, really, really sick so you have to go somewhere else to get taken care of.  Dad tells us that it will just be a few more days and then Francis will be well enough to come back home.  I look back up at the hospital, at those big windows that look out over the lake, and wonder if Francis can see us.  I give a little wave, just in case, and then race to get a spot in the front seat.

It's a funny thing, being in a big family.  I never get to be alone but I want to be; I feel lonely when everyone is around but I don't want to be.  I think about my tooth back at home, under my pillow, and I know that Francis is NOT like a tooth.  I've already started feeling my newer, bigger tooth coming in, but there's no-one that could EVER replace Francis.  I think that maybe mom can help me and John to make some cookies for when Francis comes home, or maybe even some cinnamon rolls.  Something Special, just for Francis.