How we returned my brother to the straight and narrow

After my first year of college, I returned home for the summer to the house on Nokomis Avenue in Venice, Florida. Two bedrooms and minuscule, it held our family of six, two Mikes, a pregnant junkie, two cats and Mike Williams' dog. We did pretty well together for the most part. Mike Williams, Scott, the junkie and I all worked, as did my parents. The other Mike smoked a lot of pot and didn't do much else. Randy and Leslie were twelve and ten. Randy spent most of that summer in trouble and Leslie did her unsuccessful best to keep him out of it.

It's hard to believe now, because Randy is a model citizen, track coach and beloved semi-celebrity in Boone, but he spent most of that year being a delinquent. He'd throw rocks and shout "Pig" at police cars, talk back and disobey my mother, and was a general pain in the butt. When he started sneaking alcohol from my parents' liquor cabinet, we decided that enough was enough. There was no point in wasting good (or bad) alcohol on a twelve year old. Mike Williams, Scott and I decided if he wanted to drink, we'd get him good and drunk. Mike invited him to join him in a drink or two; we all adored Mike, and Randy jumped at the chance. Scott and I poured the drinks, starting with a rum and Coke, then a beer, some sherry I found, scotch and water, gin and tonic, a glass of wine. Mike, a big guy, was starting to look a little bleary-eyed, but Randy, having the time of his life, kept asking for more. I pulled out the Kahlua and the peppermint schnapps. Mike gagged, but got it down.

We were getting nervous; we all had to get to work and Randy showed no signs of inebriation. Mike's friend Irving stopped by, surveyed the scene and the clock, and offered Randy a cigar. He was thrilled and lit up happily.

That did the trick. He became quite sick and as we all left for work, our last view was Randy holding on to the curtains for dear life, begging us to stop the room. Unfortunately we had to leave him with Leslie, who still hasn't forgiven us.

Of course she told my parents and of course they were furious. They explained about alcohol poisoning and we were all in the doghouse for a while. But it was a long time until Randy drank again.

I wish I could say he never did, but he spent some time in college imbibing heavily. Luckily he had the good sense to call one of us to get him instead of driving himself home. We were in Boone then, and the Mikes and the junkie and the dog had been replaced by foster kids Steve and Lori along with rented sheep and chickens. But I was the one he called most often and I'd drag out of bed to get him. I got my thanks once when I stopped on the parkway so he could be sick. Getting back in the car, he leaned back, eyes closed, and said, "You know I love you, even if you are a bitch." Um, thanks?

Randy crammed all his wildness into two periods in his life instead of dragging it out like most people do. He's an example to youth now and I like to think I had a part in making him so. You'd think my sister would be over it by now, but she still gives us a hard time about the mess she had to clean up.

So many reasons for a broken heart

Having had a child in the hospital for 25 of the last 32 days has exposed me to a huge amount of distress, most of it belonging to other people. A big hospital is a microcosm of the world's pain, and broken hearts are everywhere. In the burn unit, a victim from the earthquake in Haiti still suffers. Heath care reform? A total of fifty-four hours spent in the emergency room waiting for a bed and people-watching brings it home how many people use the ER for their primary care. Unable to afford a doctor's visit, they end up waiting until it becomes a real emergency. I stop and chat with Elizabeth Edwards' oncologist and wonder how SHE feels about a man who would cheat on a sick wife. Immigration reform? There are a lot of Hispanics here and I look to see if I can pick out the ones who come to the U.S. to freeload and take what they can get. They must be in another part of the hospital, because I see in them the same things I see in the others here: fear for a sick child, a glowing joy in a new baby, pride in a floor newly shined. I hear the helicopter landing overhead and know someone's life has just changed in a major way. And mental health reform? Don't get me started. The hospital pressed charges against a young man in the adult psych ward who broke a table while he was doing what he was hospitalized for. And so it goes. Band aids for big hurts, lots of routine fixes, a few miracles.

There are those of us who feel way too much at home. We know how to get out of the parking garage without the long line, which locker sticks, and when the Starbucks' (the world's largest!) line is apt to be out the door. We're so much at home that the nurses greet us by first names when our loved ones are admitted—again. I find myself wishing I was a drinker because this is a perfect place to play one of those drinking games. Take a shot whenever you hear the words "waiting", "no beds", "they think", "discharge", "tests". I'd be crawling after ten minutes. But I'm not a drinker and so I think.

I think of all the things I could have done differently. Perhaps if we'd caught the diabetes earlier, she would have been more stable. Perhaps if she hadn't had, not one, but two disastrous school placements this year, things would have been better. Perhaps if I were younger, or black, or married, it would have all been different. Maybe if I had ducked, that shoe wouldn't have broken my eye socket. It's all futile, but it passes the time as I walk from the parking garage or try to get to sleep at night.

And it doesn't matter; it's made clear to me that Elizabeth can't come home until she can come home safely. That decision isn't mine, but I take control of as much as I can. We're in a frantic race to make a plan before the insurance lords say she has to leave. I feel like I'm sprinting: choose a community support agency, fill out piles of paper work. Go down the options—Butner, Wright School, therapeutic foster home. Choose an option, which really isn't an option because the first two can't take her; fill out piles of paper, rush to a care review meeting to get permission for out of home placement. I've been doing this long enough that I know everyone on the community care review board, a fact which is both comforting and unsettling. Interview a foster home and then introduce them to Elizabeth. She is relieved; she had convinced herself she was either going to prison or would never see me again. Fill out piles of papers. All the while go to work when I can fit it in, visit Elizabeth, and try to remember where I've left Claire.

And now it's over. Claire and I took Elizabeth to her foster home today. I like them. They are young, black, and Christian. They have a seven year old and a two month old who is still in PICU. The dad comes from Kenya and has dreads; he just finished exams and looks exhausted, but I can tell he has a sense of humor that Elizabeth will love. The mom is calm and quiet. They're anxious about the diabetes stuff and we go over it again. Their daughter comes downstairs, glowing: "We get along!" Elizabeth will have her own room for the first time ever, and she gets to be the big sister for awhile.

It's a scary thing I'm asking Elizabeth to do. In our family we approach hard times in one of two ways. It can be an adventure or a good story later. Sometimes it's both, like the time my father was rushed to Charlotte in an ambulance for heart treatment while the EMT in back told him about all the ambulance wrecks he'd been involved in. I'm proud of her for being a true McDonough—she chooses to make it an adventure. Last night she solemnly made out a packing list. "You know you're coming home after a few months," I ask. She nods and adds something to the list.

And me? I write and hope it really will be a good story later. Right now it just feels like a broken heart.