Alex Ayers
Darting from the kitchen and across the living room like a seasoned waitress, Alex toted a plate of fruit and toast in one hand and notecards with equations and questions in the other. Making her way down the hall and mumbling aloud, she entered her brother’s bedroom to find him happily reading atop his bed.
“’Sup, Sis.”
“It smells in here, Ty. Leave the door open.”
Setting the plate on his nightstand, she made her way to his closet, fetching a thick sweatshirt from a flimsy hanger.
“Eat, Ty. I don’t have much time.”
Leaning forward, coughing as he did so, Tyson reached for the plate. “Oh shit. Your test is today, right? Isn’t today your test, Alex?”
“Yep. Last one and I’ll be registered.”
“Aren’t you registered already? Oh yeah…different list all together.”
She shot her brother a smirk and walked to him, brushing his sandy blond hair behind his ear. “You’re hilarious, Tyson. Eat. We’re doing manual this morning.”
“Noooo.” Whining, Tyson plopped a strawberry into his mouth while adjusting the oxygen cannula in his nose.
“Please, Ty. Don’t argue. We did the vest three times yesterday. Manual percussion with proper positioning.”
Cystic fibrosis—every morning twenty-three-year-old Alex usually began her day by beating the hell out of her younger brother in an effort to keep his lungs clear. Cupping her hands, she would position Tyson about the bed while she pounded on his back and chest. After the chest physiotherapy, Tyson would typically cough and spit mucous for a solid five minutes.
Despite the oxygen tubing and the dark circles residing under either eye, Tyson Ayers appeared in reasonable shape and typically in good spirits. A natural on the pitcher’s mound, the seventeen-year-old had made a reputation for himself—one that didn’t include “that sick boy.”
“What time do you have to leave, Alex?”
“My test is at eleven. I’m leaving here at nine.”
Always quick to claim the hours spent in the gym were an extension of physical therapy, Tyson had spent the majority of his high school days concentrating on his health, grades, and baseball. The perfect patient in many senses, Tyson’s pediatric pulmonologist often used him and his situation as a “what to do,” example.
And then it happened…the big one. The act of maintaining may seem so boring and even leave one complacent—that is until maintaining is no longer an option without extensive intervention. What started as a week in bed with pneumonia, escalated into something much more sinister. Tyson’s health as a whole declined rapidly.
Dean’s Honor Role, Gifted and Talented Club and the Varsity Baseball roster were all lists that Alex’s little brother had strived to attach his name to…the waiting list for a miracle was something he’d hoped to escape—out of sight type of thing. He wasn’t so lucky. His name now sat among several others waiting for new lungs…several others counting days and praying for miracles.
Alex was pained not only with the task of ensuring proper therapy was applied in a rigorous and stringent manner, but she was also seated front row to her baby brother’s decline.
“Tyson…your oxygen saturation is eighty-seven percent.”
Instantly diverting eye contact, Tyson swallowed what he’d been chewing. Staring at his bed sheets, he inhaled deeply and smiled at his sister. “I’m okay, Alex. It’s going to be okay. And you…are going to be okay.”
His tone…his soft demeanor and tired, passive proclamation left Alex’s mouth agape as she sat next to him on his bed. Taking her brother’s hand, cool and clammy, she raised it to her mouth and kissed the back of it. Her brother’s skin was salty as she pressed his flaccid hand to her face.
“I love you, Baby-Ty. I’d take your place this second if I could.” Cracking and soft, her voice nearly gave out on her as tears pooled in either eye.
“Hey…no crying, not today. Today’s your day, Ms. Respiratory Therapist.” His smile always charmed his sister from sadness—she too smiled through her few tears. “Now…kick my ass so you can kick ass on that test.”
“I love you, Ty.”
“Love you too, Sis.”