Confessions of a terrible, horrible person

Today is my birthday. As a gift to myself, I’m going to suspend the guilt trifecta (culture, religion, personality) that normally filters what comes out of my mouth but has no control over what goes through my head, and indulge in some self-absorbed brattery.

Yesterday morning I woke up feeling kind of crappy. So I called in sick with the justification that my brother will probably be going back to school sometime soon, and the more time I can spend with him the better. Plus, spending time would constitute lying on the couch, which would work well with the feeling crappy. It was a good thing I was around, too, because while things had been looking good all weekend, my brother woke up covered in a red (almost purple in some spots) and extremely itchy rash all over his body. Usually we would try to wait it out, but last year he had what turned out to be a severe allergy to a drug called Keflex that was pretty dangerous and had started the same way. So we went to the emergency room.

After several hours of shivering in the ER, they let the kid go and said that they'd stop the antibiotics (which make food taste like sawdust) and give him some pill for the rash. Unfortunately, that rash remedy is a steroid, which will lower his immune system's effectiveness, which makes him more susceptible to an infection, which is what they were trying to prevent at all costs with the nasty antibiotics in the first place. A vicious cycle to say the least.

The rest of the day went by as usual, with my brother claiming the BLT I'd made for him was the best he'd ever not tasted and showed his appreciation by not throwing it up. This was especially good because it was pretty much the second actual meal he's kept down in the last couple of weeks, and we're all very glad because he's not a big guy and has dropped 15 pounds since his surgery. (Bulimia must be a very powerful disorder indeed if people force themselves to live that way on purpose.)

At about 11 pm, he starts yelling and screaming that something is wrong with Mom. I guess she was having some sharp chest pains, so I went down the heart-attack checklist to figure out what to do next. The problem with having a nurse for a mom is that she is extremely quick to dismiss medical concerns because the rest of us are "laypeople" who obviously don't know what the hell they're talking about. Because of this, she is also a terrible patient. It turns out that she had forgotten to take her thyroid medication for the last two days (which my brother would NEVER be able to pull off without getting his ass kicked) and she said the pain was just a reaction to that, but that she'd wait and see if it came back enough to go to the hospital. So while I was one foot out the door in my pajamas to make a second trip to the emergency room, she calmly took her own blood pressure (is that even accurate?) and turned on a Hindi soap opera.

People like to tell me they think I'm overly paranoid and to "just chill out," "let it go," or "don't worry so much." But honestly, if a reminder that you could lose the things you care about most in this world smacks you in the face at least once a day, you'd start to clutch onto everything just a little bit tighter, too.

Here comes the part about how I'm terrible and horrible. Yesterday while I sat in the emergency room watching my mom rub my brother's feet to keep him warm under three blankets, I kept praying that he'd be okay and wouldn't have to get admitted. Of course, this isn't unusual. But even though I'm old and birthdays are just another day of the week to me now, part of that prayer was for not having to spend another August 14 at the hospital.

I’m not sure if it’s my bad fortune for having emerged into the world so close to the end of summer, or because my parents always made sure to get that day off from work at the beginning of the year and it ended up being convenient for his tests, but some of his same-day procedures, all-day doctor visits and one major surgery happened to fall on my birthdays. Hospital waiting rooms are not as fun as they sound, and I don't even want to think about how much the rest of my life would suck if--Thank God it didn't--something bad happened.

Don’t get me wrong--my parents have always tried to be fair and they made sure I had kickass parties sometime before or after the actual day. But when you’re a kid, it’s extremely tough being the sibling of somebody who needs a lot of attention through no fault of his own. Nonstop. Especially during those developmental years, when it's very difficult to grasp how hard it is on your parents. However, at the same time, they may never completely understand how hard it can be on you, either.

When a person has gone through a cardiac catheterization, the obvious choice is to ask that person what he’d like to eat for dinner when he hasn’t been able to eat for two days. But when you’re the sibling and it’s the actual date of your birth, it can be a real struggle to keep from yelling, “WTF?! Why does he get to choose? This is MY day, dammit!” at the top of your lungs. Of course you wouldn’t do that. Doing that would make your poor recovering brother feel worse about a situation nobody can control. It would also reveal that you are a terrible, horrible person. And the last thing you want to do is let that secret out of the bag.

So you graciously sign for the balloons that arrive at the front door on your day with a smile, or pretend that instead of Get Well Soon, the cookie bouquet somebody sent spells out Happy Birthday Cadiz. What does it matter anyway? You're still going to get to eat the cookies. Years later, you look back at your immature self and congratulate that kid inside for making the right call. Because with all the other stuff going on, the last thing your family needed back then was a whiny brat to make an already difficult situation unbearable.

If a spoiled princess like me had trouble relinquishing the spotlight a couple of times, I can’t imagine how terrible it is for people who are overlooked more often. Sure, they shrug it off as it's-okay-no-big-deal-don't-worry-about-it (always so agreeable, aren't they?) and never call their loved ones out for forgetting to invite them, or treating them unfairly, or not doing as much for them as they do for others. Perhaps they're content enough with themselves that it really doesn’t bother them. But honestly, I don’t buy one word of that crap. Nobody should feel like they are invisible, unless it's either buildup for a surprise party or else some tabletop canoodling a la Sixteen Candles. No matter how noble the reason, if you make a habit out of taking the back seat, it’s easy to start thinking you belong there.

Remembering people's birthdays is hard work, and the guilt of forgetting can be so pointlessly awkward. If you think about it, every date is pretty much the same anyway; they’re only made special when something is appreciated. Like just now, when my brother stayed up late to come down here, give me a hug and a kiss and wish me a Happy Birthday.

Let’s all celebrate this lovely day by calling up a person of value and telling them how cool they are, or giving somebody wonderful a big hug. You never know how many chances you're going to get to do it. And personally, I can’t think of a better occasion.