About a little boy who fell through the ice and nearly didn't make it; but through a Miracle, he did.
My name's Huckleberry (don't laugh; but that IS my name!). Huckleberry Ray Malloy is my full name, and I am 13 years old. I am going to write about my little brother, Hanson Michael, who nearly died this past winter.
My little brother, Hanson, is only six, but he is always tagging behind me; for some reason, he feels he ALWAYS has to be with me at ALL times; and I am always getting annoyed at him because he is sort of slow on the upkeep, and Ma is always having me watch him, so he doesn't get into some sort of mischief. Yep..that was me..Huckleberry, the Happy Babysitter to my little Special-Needs brother. That was usually the story of my life.
Well, back in January, me and the guys (Rafer Johnson, Tackett--as in Peter Tackett; he likes to be called by his last name--, Icarus Ichira, and Toby Elllis) were playing hockey on the pond behind our place; and on this day, here come my little brother. He came half-running, half-sliding on the ice when, all of a sudden, there was this loud "CRACK!!!"; and then a scream. When I looked up, I saw my brother going under the ice. It happened in only a matter of seconds, it seemed, like. Unbeknown to us, there was a crack in the ice; and the ice was thinner in some spots; and my little brother so happened to find one of those thin spots on the ice. This was why he went under.
"HOLY HAIRBALLS!!" I yelled (I actually said some dirty words, but for the sake of this story, I'll leave them out) as I went skating over to where my brother had slipped underneath the ice. I was hoping he would come back up, sputtering and waving his arms, but he never did. I could barely make out his red jacket underneath the cold, dark water; but I didn't dare reach in and nab him, for fear that the ice would break even more underneath my feet, and I had the guys call for a rescue unit.
As we were waiting for the rescue guys to come, I knelt by the hole where my retardo brother had gone under, and I was crying. I could feel the tears running, and then freezing, on my reddened cheeks; and I was all of a sudden scared for him, more scared than I had been in all my life. My brother was retarded, and he may have been six years old, but he acted more like two. He always wanted to be around me and my friends, and I had to put up with the guys' teasing me about him or his ever-present drooling problem. He didn't walk; he always ran, and it was as though he was always in constant motion; the only time he was ever still was when he had his nap or when he went to bed. He was also still in diapers, and he was only now learning how to feed himself.
When we saw the yellow firetruck approaching, the guys went racing towards it, yelling and shouting. I, meanwhile, stayed by the hole where my brother had fallen into the ice; and soon, the firefighter guys came with their rescue stuff, and they were soon trying to get my brother out of the ice water (but was doing it very carefully, so THEY wouldn't go under either). In a matter of moments, one firefighter reached into the hole, grabbed a little child-sized hand, and quickly pulled out my small brother, who was now as limp as a wet dishrag, and quickly carried him to the snowbank. My brother's eyes were closed, and his small face was blue; and his lips were black. I honestly thought he was dead, and it scared the living hell out of me.
They were soon working on him, pounding on his little chest, and breathing into his mouth; and they were calling his name. My brother didn't respond; he continued to lie there, limp as limp could be, and I was still crying like a little girl. I tried to keep the tears from falling, but the harder I tried, the worse they fell; and I could feel them freezing to my face. I then ran back inside my house, and I called Ma at work, and told her what had happened to little Hanson.
Ma said she would meet us at the hospital. The firefighter guy said that they were going to take my little brother to Nashville Memorial.
At the hospital, my little brother was still not breathing when they got him there and into the Emergency Room. He was still unconscious, not breathing, and still had no pulse. The doctors and nurses were still working on him, pounding on him, poking him with needles, and putting tubes into him, and hoping that he would come out of it, but he didn't. He was still blue in color, and he still looked dead (of what little I could see of him, that is). I waited for Ma, and when I saw her at last, I ran to her arms, crying like a goon, and I kept saying I was sorry for not keeping a better eye on Hanson.
Ma wanted to stay with Hanson as the doctors and nurses worked on him, trying to get something back from him, in terms of a pulse or blood pressure reading or even his breathing; but my dorky little brother still lay there on the table like a dead fish, and it scared both Ma and me. This tiny nurse who waddled like a penguin and used a cane came up to me, and she calmly, but coolly, told us to leave the room and to wait in the E.R. waiting area; and as soon as they got him back, she or a doctor would come to talk to us about the boy. She had mad eyes, and her wild black hair was a mess; it hung in her face, and she looked fit to kill. She didn't want us in the room, and that was obvious from the mad look on her face.
Whereupon, we went to the waiting room, and Ma tried to busy herself with reading a magazine; but she couldn't concentrate, and she threw the magazine down onto the table with disgust and then proceeded to chew me out.
"What do you mean, endangering your brother, like that?" she screamed. "Don't you have the sense God gave you? Honestly, Huckleberry, I think a GOOSE has more sense than you!"
I didn't say anything; I just stood there, first on one foot, and then the other, as I twisted my hands behind my back and looked at the floor. I know other people in the room were staring at me. It was embarrassing with my Ma being so hacked off at me like that. Especially in a room full of strange people.
It turned out that my little brother was out for over 2 hours before they got him breathing again; and when the little nurse and the one doctor came to tell us about it, I swear I felt my heart drop to my toes. Ma started crying all over the place, and she grabbed me in her arms and hugged me until I thought that she was gonna' squeeze the life outta' me. There was a chance he could be brain or physically damaged as a result of this fall beneath the ice, but we didn't think about that at the moment. All that mattered at THAT time was that little Hanson was FINALLY breathing on his own and had a pulse AND a blood pressure; and his body temperature was FINALLY going in the right direction: UP. When brought into the hospital by ambulance, his body temperature was below 70 degrees; now it was a "toasty" 92 degrees; still below normal, but definitely much improved. He was still unconscious, but he was starting to respond to pain stimuli, and to the doctors' commands. He was still hooked up to tubes, but he was able to wiggle his arms and legs as the doctors instructed.
That was, the neurologist guy told us, a very encouraging sign. He was hopeful that little Hanson had escaped the worst of the brain damage, but only time would tell.
This happened nearly 8 months ago. Little Hanson Michael has recovered fully from the fall beneath the ice; but for a month or so afterwards, he was rather "sluggish" in nature, and his speech was slower than normal (for HIM, anyway). He also had to learn how to walk and move all over again; but now he is getting around much better. He still has to wear braces on his legs, and his balance is still out of whack slightly; but other than that, he is as mischevious (and as ornery) as he EVER was, and he still is a pain in my BUTT. Still, he IS my little brother, and now, all of a sudden, all his special needs don't seem to be as much of a big deal to me anymore, and I actually find him to be more cute than annoying.
I guess a person's near-death has that impact on a person, especially if that person so happens to be somebody you love. I nearly lost my little brother, and he could have very easily died; but he survived; and he is still very much alive.
holy hairballs, this is a compelling write--kept me glued from beginning to end, wondering how it would all come out...i'm glad it turned out better than expected
*LOL at holy hairballs hee hee, gonna have to remember that one*
Karen, you write a story with such expliciteness! You capture the very nature of people, whom you know very well by instinct! Your stories move me.... stay strong sis, love you...
In Spirit,
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My name's Huckleberry (don't laugh; but that IS my name!). Huckleberry Ray Malloy is my full name, and I am 13 years old. I am going to write about my little brother, Hanson Michael, who nearly died this past winter.
