 She is everything in the world to
me: my little sister, only sister, and best friend, all wrapped up in one -- and now
she is unreachable. She is right here before my eyes, yet so far gone, in a deep
coma, hours from death. Her brain is swollen and damaged, her arms and legs
lifeless. A machine is breathing for her, pumping air in and out of her chest, and
doctors are performing tests to see if even a sliver of hope remains. It does.
But time is running out.
This is entirely unbelievable and absolutely
overwhelming, the type of thing you hear about from time to time, but always happening to
someone else, not you and your family. Wendy is only twenty-two years old. She
has always been so healthy, and this has been so sudden. There has been no time to
prepare. Then again, how would you prepare for this?
Before now, my only images of a coma have been
supplied by a newspaper article here, a movie scene there. So vague and so scary.
"Vegetable" is the term that keeps popping into my head, no
matter how many times I force it back out. Even if Wendy is able to hold
on -- and that alone would take a miracle -- is she destined to be a vegetable? How
long will the life-support machines stay on? And who will decide?
None of this makes any sense, even as I stand
next to Wendy's bed in the intensive-care unit, slowly caressing her hands and arms,
staring at her, speaking softly, begging her not to give up. Not yet. Not
ever. "We're not gonna leave you, Wen. We're right here with
you." My parents and brother are also here, and we're all equally consumed,
struggling in our own ways, parts of ourselves being destroyed with each tick of the
clock.
"Hang in there, Wen." I'm just
able to get that out. "I love you." Each word requires tremendous
effort. "Keep fighting, Kid."
Wendy has been off on her own for a few years
now, and has accomplished so much in so little time, but to me, she is still
"Kid," as in kid sister. Always has been, always will be.
I hold my head in my hands, and I pray for
Wendy. I ask for the biggest favor in the world -- and promise I'll never again ask
for small favors. Still, despite all of our prayers and despite all the medical
technology in this hospital, I have accepted the realization that there is only one way
Wendy will have a chance to survive. I am not one to wish harm upon another human
being, and certainly not one to wish death, so this troubles me deeply. But Wendy
means too much to me, and I know exactly what she needs to start fighting for a comeback.
The thought will not vanish: For Wendy to
live, the right person has to die.
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