by Jesse Cameron Alick

My sister can’t walk.  I fumble with the keys to my front door.  My sister can’t walk.  My eyes are getting blurry.  My sister can’t walk.  My roommate stands behind me, knowing something is wrong.  My sister can’t walk.  Finally I break into the apartment and without turning back I walk to my bedroom and shut the door.  Then suddenly – not suddenly at all, this was building for the last 10 minutes, perhaps quickly is a better word to use – once I’m alone permission can be given and quickly I break down, hands up to face, knees buckling.  And my sister can’t walk.

Three months ago my sister was robbed of the ability to walk by a mysterious degenerative nervous condition that’s yet to be diagnosed.  To fathom the depth of this thing, it’s important to know a few things about my sister.  She’s the hardest working lady I know.  A theater producer, an event organizer, and a brilliant writer.  Truly the majority of my adult life has been spent trying to catch up to her.  Which is an impossible task.  Shes’ the one who taught me that there is no reason to narrow your interests – with the proper scheduling all things are possible in life; so do it all, here now, “with a  quickness”.  So to see this busy, active young person go from being superwoman to being someone who needs a scooter to get around has been hard for her, and hard to watch.  Not that I would ever show that.  I fucking hate it when people lack emotional discipline: When I die, I want my tombstone to be engraved “Jesse Cameron Alick – he was always in control”.  And I especially hate it when people don’t have the sense to know that when someone is going through something difficult, they don’t want to see you cry in response.  You crying only hurts them – and we must avoid harm to other beings at all costs.  My sister is trying to be positive and deal with the changes in her life with optimism – so I do too.  I met my sister at a theater conference last week and seeing her for the first time since she’s been struck ill, I react to her condition calmly: I open doors casually when she realizes she can’t get through them on her own; I pick up papers and pens without comment when the small seizures rock through the left side of her body; when she’s laying down resting I jump on her scooter and pretend I’m going to take it for a joy ride – and she smiles and I smile and we smile.  Because crying doesn’t help.

My roommate sits next to me and we watch some awful science fiction from the 80’s.  I’ve given him an update on my sister on the walk home, felt emotion unexpectedly take over, rushed to my room and locked myself in.  But now, 15 minutes later, I’m in control again.  He looks over at me and knows that I’m not.  “I didn’t know that things were so bad with her.” He says putting a hand on my shoulder.  “Could we not talk about it right now?” I ask him, but it’s too late.  Loosened by red wine and marijuana my emotions overtake me again.  I’m so afraid.  So worried.  What if the doctors can’t fix her?  What if she gets worse?  How worse?  What if she can’t work?  Work is what makes my sister happy.  What if she can’t be happy?  What then?  What happens then?  And I break down.  Really this time.  My roommate looks at me like he’s a child that’s just broken a lamp on accident – shock, regret.  He gathers up the pieces of me in his arms and for a few moments before I break away, he holds me while I weep.