Senior Jacob Stirling lies on a bed in room 11 of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) of Children’s Mercy, blankly. Machines lay all around, continuously beeping, keeping his vitals on their screens.  A breathing tube lies in his mouth, down to his lungs, assisting his breathing. There is an open foot-long incision from the bottom of his stomach to the bottom of his chest, with a wound vacuum atop, sucking fluid and blood from his organs underneath. To the left of the wound, lie drains going into his colon and pancreatic areas, taking more fluid out of the area.  

Unable to eat or drink, a PICC line pumps TPN and lipids straight to his heart, keeping him alive. Along with nutrients, drugs flood his system: morphine, acetaminophen, ibuprofen; as well as blood pressure medication and sedation meds. Most importantly, infection medications fight off the infection in his colon and pancreatic areas. 

An NG tube sticks down his nose, into his stomach, suctioning his stomach fluid out.

Stirling starts signaling with his hands that he has to cough. Unable to normally cough, the nurse shoves a tube through his breathing tube to suction up the cough. 

“Good, Jacob, good,” his mom says. 

“Keep coughing it up,” his dad says.

After Jacob finishes coughing, his eyes roll back, and he falls back asleep. The only thing he can do and has done for the past week. 

***

I know this route like the back of my hand. Shawnee Mission Parkway to I-35 North to I-70 East, then off exit 2W. I never knew this route before, but now I can never forget it. 

I get into the parking garage and park, check in, get my visitor sticker and then start the walk to 4-West. The hallways wind, left, right, left, then right. I’ve walked these hallways so many times they don’t feel real. The pale tiles and the illuminating hospital lighting all make it feel like a dream. Finally, I made it up the elevators and to his room. 

As I walk in, he’s half asleep. 

“Hey Gussy,” my mom says. She’s in the recliner next to his bed.

I go and sit on the long couch. I should be in 4th hour right now, finishing my newspaper stories. But I would rather be here. 

Nurses come in and out, taking vitals and checking his meds. I’ve managed to drown out the constant beeping of the meds being done at this point.
After a while, he has to use the bathroom. My mom stands next to him and helps him get up. He struggles to get to sit up on the bed. He stands up to start walking with his walker. 

Wrinkles from lying too long form all over his back. He has lost all his muscle. I can see his calf and arm bones through his skin. 

All from one unlucky football tackle in the playoff football game. 

The same man I knew, who was incredibly ripped and always at the gym to build the best body he could, now stands in front of me, struggling to stand up by himself. The same one who wouldn’t stop talking and always talked to anyone he could, now struggles to talk. The one I could always count on to be there whenever I need him is in a place I have to drive 30 minutes to reach. 

Jacob and I haven’t always had the best relationship. We’ve argued all the time about stupid things and have always hated each other in a sibling way. But in this moment, I didn’t think about any of that. It meant nothing.

I hug him. He struggles to hug me back.

“I love you, bro,” I say.

“Love you too,” he raspliy whispers back. 

After he used the bathroom, we started heading outside. This is his first time outside since he was admitted 3 weeks ago.

Michael, the pain nurse, wheels him outside in a wheelchair, through the winding hallways, out to the chapel. 

The fresh air hits Jacob. It’s cold outside, but not too cold. Jacob starts heading towards the fountain. 

As he touches the water in the fountain, tears slowly fill his eyes.

***

Stirling sits on the hospital bed, anxiously awaiting the discharge papers. 

Michael walks in, holding the papers.

“You ready to head out?” he asks.

Stirling stands up and hugs Michael. Then, he starts heading out the door.

He opens the door. Outside the door stand almost 30 people. The nurses, the doctors, and the social workers who stayed with Jacob through his hospital stay line the hallway, cheering him on as he walks towards the elevator to leave.

After 52 days, a week in the ICU, 6 surgeries, 2 blood transfusions, and being hours away from dying, Stirling walks out of Children’s Mercy.

When we finally get home, my brother lies down on the couch and settles back into the house. I sit down next to him and check my phone.

A smile fills my face as I see the Life360 notification I haven’t seen in forever.

“Jacob arrived at home.”

***

A week before he went into the hospital, he was in the kitchen working on Calculus 3 homework. I rush downstairs from my room, tears filling my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I didn’t want him to leave for college. The house wouldn’t be the same without him. The stupid arguments we had, the post-work dinners we shared, the math homework we did together and all the times we hung out would all be gone in a couple of months when he went to college. I didn’t want him to not be at the house. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being away.

“I might be 45 minutes away, but you know I’m always a call away,” he says.

“I’ll always be here Gus.”

And he was right. 

He may be 45 minutes away, and I won’t see him every day. 

But at least he’s still here.