Yesterday, I Cried_ Celebrating the Lessons of Living and Loving - Iyanla Vanzant [42]
When Ray wasn’t having an asthma attack, he simply had very little to say. He always said good morning and good night; he answered when called by name. But as far as general conversation was concerned, Ray was mute. It didn’t matter to Rhonda; she loved him no matter what. But she also knew how to get a rise out of him. If she took his toys or stood in front of the television or pinched him while he was doing his homework, then he’d have something to say.
“Leave me alone, Ronnie!”
“You’re such a baby! I wasn’t bothering you!”
“Were too!”
“Was not! Baby! You’re just a big crybaby. Crybaby, crybaby, crybaby!”
“I am not a crybaby!”
“Are too.”
“I’m telling!” And Ray would scream at the top of his lungs. “Ronnie’s bothering me! She won’t leave me alone!”
Once Ray started hollering, some adult would come into the room and either slap Rhonda or order her to leave the room. The consequences of their sibling rivalry were consistent. Rhonda was always the one at fault. She didn’t care. Once the adult had left the room, she would go right back to teasing Ray just for the sake of conversation. But she did understand that if she upset Ray too much, he might have an asthma attack.
Ray’s asthma attacks were a source of devastating fear and turmoil for Rhonda. So far in her young life, Ray had been the only constant. When Ray was gasping for air, Rhonda tried not to bother him or ask too many questions. Ray’s chest would swell to three or four times its normal size, his eyes would run, and the wheezing sound of his attempts to breathe would fill the entire room. Rhonda would sit as close as she could to him without causing him more discomfort. She would pass him clean tissues, and collect the dirty ones. If Ray was having a really bad attack, one of the adults would put a big lump of Vicks VapoRub in the humidifier, and Ray would sit as close to it as possible to let the soothing steam fill his chest. Because Rhonda was on tissue duty, she got to sit in the warm mist with her brother. If Ray needed something, like water or more orange juice, he would try to speak, but his words would come in painful gasps. So he and Rhonda developed a code. A flipping hand meant something to drink. Rubbing the nose or eye meant he needed a tissue. When he wanted to lie down, he would pat his lap, signaling for Rhonda to come sit next to him. When he reached out and grabbed Rhonda’s hand, she knew it was time to go to the hospital. It made Rhonda feel good to know that even though it was never reciprocal, when her brother was feeling bad, he would reach out for her.
Poor people who couldn’t pay for medical attention went to Kings County Hospital. It was the last place you wanted to be if you were sick, which is why people waited until they were in really bad shape before going there. As concerned as she was about Ray, Rhonda could barely contain her excitement about the prospect of having Tootsie Rolls drop out of the machine into her hot little hands. County was bad, but it had candy machines. They all knew there would be a minimum three-hour wait in the noisy, crowded, chaotic waiting room before Ray’s name would be called. During that time, Rhonda would have to sit quietly and anxiously on a hard bench in a filthy room and listen to her brother wheeze and gasp for his every breath.
On one memorable trip to County, Ray almost died. When they arrived, Ray was barely conscious. Nett carried him into the waiting room and propped him up on a bench between two strangers: one drunk, one bleeding. Then Nett walked right past all of the people in line and asked the nurse at the reception desk to please take a look at her son. The nurse politely ignored Nett. When she persisted, the nurse told her to take a number. Nett, who was always as cool as a cucumber, began to scream at the woman, “I don’t want a damn number! I want you to help my son!