Meninges

Meninges.

It is not a word I've used before but it's kind of fun to say. Meninges. It just rolls of the tongue.

"My brother is suffering from an inflammation of the meninges... I might be suffering from the inflammation of my meninges."

I almost feel like I'm in an ESL course, testing a new word, rolling it around in my mouth, tasting it, feeling it – smooth with a bit of bite. Meninges.

When my brother called Monday morning to borrow my car, I said he could. I always say he can but it was a little strange to get such a call at 11 on a Monday morning. More often, it's an email or a call at home, but Monday morning he called my cell phone and asked for the car.

He always calls my cell phone when he's trying to reach me at work. He's one of three people who always get Ella when he dials my extension. While writing, I called myself from my cell and got my own desk. I don't know what happens. Those three callers go straight to her, regardless of the phone they use.

So, Monday morning, my brother called me on my cell phone and asked for my car. He left work early and wanted to drive to the doctor's. He'd gotten a massage that the airport on Sunday and something seemed desperately wrong. They literally rubbed him the wrong way and his back ached something terrible. He walked to my house from the Metro and picked up my car, planning to go home, nap and consider the need to see a professional.

I didn't hear from him again until Tuesday over lunch. Actually, I was in the middle of a meeting when an alien sound emanated from my bag and I realized that my loaner phone (another story altogether) was ringing. Embarrassed, I punched at random buttons, trying to make it stop, while the owner of my company continued talking at the end of the table. A few seconds later, I heard a beep. Voicemail.

After the meeting, walking back to my desk, I listened to the message and heard my brother rasping, "I need to know where urgent care is in the District and I might need you to take me."

I called him back immediately. In the 15 minutes from his first call, he'd arranged for a friend to pick him up and take him to the George Washington University Hospital emergency room. Hours later, he called me again. He'd been admitted under suspicion of meningitis.

A half hour later, at the hospital, I got more of the story. He'd spent an hour in the waiting room with his friend. When he was finally taken into triage, the nurse said that whatever he had was contagious and wanted to know how long he'd been in contact with patients. They whisked him into his own room and started distributing paper masks to anyone who entered the room.

Spinal tap. Blood tests. All the while, he curled up in pain, shivering under very thin blankets. By the time I got there, his fingernails were turning blue. I held his (very cold) hand and covered him with more blankets. I rubbed his back, his shaved head. He whimpered quietly and asked pretty much everyone in sight, which wasn't very many people, for painkillers. He finally got them – eight hours after entering the hospital.

I Googled meningitis before I left work, before I visited the hospital. Apparently, the most common symptoms include a severe and persistent headache, a stiff/ painful neck, and vomiting. He had all of those. Actually, so did/do I. He also exhibited a bit of the confusion and decreased level of consciousness. He talked normally most of the time but then he'd spout the most random things, more random than the typical Brokekid randomosiity. For the most part, though, he joked.

He teased the nurse who admitted him. He ribbed the transport attendant, Dimitrius, talking about his days in that position and saying that tips were awful. He laughed when I fell trying to sit on a rolling stool that rolled itself out from under me.

"Are you okay?" he asked through concerned laughter.

"I'm fine," I replied. "You're sick… My brother's got meningitis and all I got is this lousy bruise." (And I did get a bruise. A deep, purple, it hurts to sit down contusion on my bum.)

Even though the emergency room only allows one visitor at a time, two of us snuck back to see him. We were a little worried about Megan given that she had just had surgery on her mouth, the latest in a succession of surgeries to replace the teeth that had fallen out when she contracted an autoimmune disorder while serving with my brother in Guyana in the Peace Corps. We didn't know if she faced increased danger; we didn't know if she might be unnecessarily exposing herself to something potentially deadly.

When we were younger, much younger, my brother and I knew a boy who died from meningitis. Jason Greenwalt. He was in 7th grade, my brother's class. His sister was in 10th. We were all shocked and she never really recovered from it, at least not while I knew her. Lying in his bed, shivering in the emergency room, my brother brought it up. His last words to Jason had been along the lines of "Fuck you."

"He was a little shit but he didn't deserve to die," I said and my brother agreed. We sat quietly for a second, thinking about the little shit. I remembered that it rained the day I found out about his death. It was a strange sunny, rainy day. My friends were supposed to come by but they stood me up. I was livid. I didn't tell my brother any of that, though. We just sat for a while and then started talking about the ineptitude of GWU Hospital.

"Can't they get you a blanket? Painkillers? Water?" He'd had a spinal tap hours earlier but still no painkillers. That was before Dimitrius moved him to the room he had to himself, in respiratory isolation, the room where we watched Fear Factor and Larry King Live while we waited for a nurse. We left when she came, promising Percocet.

I stopped at his apartment on the way to work. Megan who was supposed to stay with him but stayed with me took some necessities to the hospital – a toothbrush and toothpaste, underwear and deodorant. A clean T-shirt. Some magazines. He didn't expect to stay when he'd gone to the emergency room. I didn't expect him to take my car and park at an expired meter for the rest of the day. I didn't expect to skip a movie and possibly get blacklisted from the world of advanced screenings, as they've so often threatened. The best laid plans.

He's staying again tonight, in the bed that's too short for his 6'3" frame. Curled up in pain. Whimpering softly. I'm going back after work, after I go to the doctor about this terrible headache, backache, nausea...

Tag: Meningitis Hospital Illness