Strange Days

I just finished working a 13 hour shift at Starbucks, and I came home to my mother calling 911 because my brother Brian needed to go to the hospital. It was a pretty standard thing, as far as Brian needing to be in a hospital, but when he needs immediate oxygen and it is nighttime, it gets a little more tense, and not for reasons most people would think. It is more of a distress for my family to clean up our house for all of the firemen and paramedics that will soon be barging through our door than it is to deal with Brians STAT levels being low. Brian is always teetering on the brink of needing to be hospitalized, which my mother and family are all quite accustomed to. But our house is always teetering on the brink of being unfit for my moms standards of what a clean house should look like when expecting guests. So when that phone call must be made, a preliminary mini-whirlwind of cleaning is immediately thrown into action.

I always know when this cleaning is going to happen, because my mom comes from Brian's room, where she has been for the last 15 or 20 minutes trying all she can to equalized Brian's heart rate and oxygen levels, and she sighs loudly as she briskly walks past the living room and right up the stairs to her bedroom where she changes from her pajamas into something more presentable to emergency response personnel. Its kind of silly how I can gauge Brian's condition by the amount of time my mom allows us to clean up before the call to 911 is placed.

So far, the times I have experienced feel like those five rushed minutes before the first house guests of a large party are expected to be arriving, where all the basics are reexamined: There are parking spaces available in the driveway, the path between the door and the Man of the Hour are clear, and the place looks organized. My mom usually does not allow any more time for frivolous deeds, such as preparing a pot of coffee for those hard working EMTs, or going through the fridge to find some finger snacks for them to sample while they redirect Brian's oxygen supply from the house tank to the sheik new ultra-slim mobile model.

The first thing I always notice when the ambulance and multiple firetrucks arrive and the emergency crew make their way into Brian's room is how serious they are. They sure do prepare themselves for some tense moments ahead. Tonight, officer Smitty, a policeman I have known decently well for most of my life, was the first to come in the door, looking out of breath and concerned. I did not expect him, and my surprise and delight at seeing him surprised and confused him in turn.

"Oh, hey! How are you, Smitty?"
"... Uh... ok, how are you? Huh? Is there an emergency?!"
"Oh, yeah. First door on your left down that hallway."

Fortunately for the rest of the firemen, paramedics and police officers, I did not know any of them. Instead, it was my crazily popular father. There wasn't one man who entered our house that my dad didn't know by their first name.

"Johnny, how are ya? Bill, lookin' good. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy, you rascal. Uh oh, here comes trouble..."



It was a hilarious procession of people changing polarized emotions much faster than they had expected, going from concerned people trained to deal quickly with a wide variety of different medical situations, to old friends and neighbors who haven't caught up with the happenings of each others lives in a while. It was silly, and it was weird, and it was normal. My mom handles every situation like the one tonight with grace and authority, my dad was some grounded comic relief, and I just had to keep up. Another night with the McDonald family. This must be the place.