Ian sat on the bench outside the funeral home covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. I know he was waiting for mom to say, “Wakeup Ian. It’s time for school.” That never happened. His nightmare was real.
He walked back into the funeral home, trying as best as he could not to look into the dreaded room. He walked straight past the urn that held my ashes and made his way towards the bathroom. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be a sign that read, ‘Patrick Kinler: August 24, 1992-December 15, 2010.’ He stopped to flip through some of the memory books, and he started crying when he came across the first picture of us. It was a picture of us in our wrestling singlets holding up the 2009 state championship trophy. Mom asked some random guy if he could take the picture, so that she and dad could be in it. Mom loved to do that.
Ian closed the book and walked towards the bathroom. When he opened the door, he immediately turned around and walked back outside. I know he left because he saw Coach Kenny. He didn’t want coach to see him crying. The only time we could cry without being made fun of was if we won or lost the state championship. We didn’t do any of that pussy crying; that was for girls only, and that’s why girls don’t wrestle.
Ian didn’t go back to the same bench. He kept walking. I knew he was going to our favorite spot, and he probably thought no one would notice he was gone. Well he was wrong. Mom stepped outside to compose herself and saw Ian walking through the parking lot. “Ian!” she yelled. Ian didn’t stop or turn around to look. He kept walking. Mom started running after him, so Ian picked up his pace. Finally, Ian was out of sight and mom was out of breath.
It is Monday, December 11, 2010. I turn over in my bed and look at the clock. It is 6:14. I smile, knowing I still have thirty minutes until my alarm will go off. Five minutes later, my cat jumps on my chest and wakes me up. Ian and I thought it would be funny to name her Black Pussy, but mom didn’t like it, so we had to settle for Smokey. We call her Black Pussy, and mom calls her Smokey; the poor cat is probably so confused. She meows in my ear and walks back and forth across my face to wake me up. She’s successful. I sit up in my bed and my stomach growls immediately.
As I walk downstairs, I can smell the bacon and eggs that mom cooked for herself. I wish I could eat it. I tell her good morning and walk over to the cabinet, eyeing the bacon and eggs along the way. I grab an apple cinnamon breakfast bar, and I pour myself an eight-ounce glass of water. This is what I eat every morning for breakfast. Today I weigh 140 pounds. I feel much fatter than that. I have to lose ten pounds by Friday’s meet. It seems like a lot of weight to lose, but I am used to it.
I hear Ian’s footsteps coming down the stairs. Black Pussy’s bell rings as she follows him. He tells my mom good morning and goes to the same cabinet as I did, but instead of grabbing apple cinnamon, he grabs strawberry. He probably weighs about 128 pounds this morning and by Friday’s meet, he has to be 119. Ian struggles to lose to weight because he is already so tiny. He started wrestling last year and it has been a challenge for him. I’m a senior, so I know what I’m doing.
Ian starts talking to mom, and I decide to go upstairs to get ready for school. Black Pussy jingles around the corner and follows me up the stairs. I go to an all boy’s Catholic school, so I don’t have to worry about what I am going to wear in the morning. I wear something similar to a ROTC uniform and a pair of black shiny loafers. Before I get dressed, I stare at myself in my wall-length mirror. I look so far over my weight limit; it is ridiculous. I still have an hour until school starts, so I decide to take a hot bath. I fill the tub up about ten inches with steaming hot water and hop in. My toes go numb because the water is so hot. It takes me a while to get used to the temperature before I can put both my legs in. When I am finally in the tub, I grab the nearest towel and start wiping the beads of sweat off of my face. I continue this process on my chest, my back, and my arms. After twenty minutes, I get out. I probably lost about three pounds, and I feel much better about myself.
I grab a new towel and dry myself off. I walk to my bedroom and put on my ROTC uniform. I grab my wrestling bag that I had packed the night before, and I walk downstairs. “Ian,” I yell, “It’s time to go.” We tell our mom goodbye, and we head out the door. We get into my 1996 beige Toyota Camry, and we slowly make our way to school. Mom bought me this car, thinking it would be a great investment. She bought it for $600, and it is probably now worth $150. Oh well, at least I have something to drive.
We pull up to school and Ian races to class. His homeroom teacher is psycho, and she looks similar to Godzilla. I grab my stuff and walk to my first period class. I start feeling weak, but this happens all the time, so I ignore it. I see Matt and Tyler on the way to class, and they tell me I look kind of pale. Again, I ignore it and keep walking. I step over the threshold of the classroom right as the bell rings. Coach Kenny is my homeroom teacher, which is pretty awesome. Even if I am late, Coach doesn’t care. I am a wrestler.
When the bell rings to move onto first period, Coach calls me over to talk to him. He tells me I look pale and that I should probably eat something. “You are the third person to tell me that,” I say. “But I’m fine, I am ten pounds over my weight limit, so I shouldn’t eat anything.” He tells me that he will buy me a cereal bar out of the vending machines. “No thanks,” I mumble. I walk out of his classroom, down the hall, down the stairs, and into my next classroom. I am late. My teacher asks me why I am late, and I tell her that I was talking to Coach Kenny. She rolls her eyes and says something along the lines of: “Kenny always keeps my kids late. Damn wrestlers.”
I walk to the back of the room where Matt and Tyler are sitting. “I really think you need something to eat man,” Matt says. Tyler follows, “Yea bro. You aren’t looking too hot.” I tell them that I can’t eat because I need to cut more weight than usual. “I slacked off this weekend guys,” I say, staring at the muffin top that rests on top my khakis. “Quiet back there,” Ms. Walters yells. Class feels like it is taking forever because every three minutes my stomach lets out a growl. I am starving, but I know I can’t eat until lunch.
I make it through second period and third period. It is finally time for lunch. I want more than just a turkey sandwich with a slice of tomato, but that is all I can eat. I attack the sandwich, as if I have never seen food before. I chug my entire bottle of water in about fifteen seconds and look down at my stomach. I want it to go away, but it keeps getting bigger. I run to the office and tell the secretary, “I think I might have the flu.” She calls my mom and tells her I will be home shortly because I am feeling under the weather. Who came up with that saying? The cavemen? I didn’t really understand it, but I knew it meant sick. I hop in my car and drive home.
Mom hears my car honk when I lock it, and she opens the door immediately. “What’s wrong sweetie?” she says with a worried frown. I tell her I felt this wave of nausea come on at lunch and that it won’t go away. “Maybe if you throw up, you will feel better,” she says. That’s exactly what I was thinking, but in a different sense. I run upstairs to my bathroom, stick my finger down my throat, and make myself throw up. It is the most relieving feeling ever. After I throw up, I run the water in the tub and take another sweat bath. When I get out of the tub, I feel weaker than earlier. I throw up again. Maybe I am actually getting sick. I ignore it, and get dressed. I walk to my room and jump in my bed. Black Pussy curls up on my chest. I call mom and ask her if she can bring me some Gingerale and crackers. She is upstairs in a heartbeat. I love that about mom.
I wake up and look at the clock. It is 3:45 a.m. I slept for fourteen hours. I roll back over, and I fall right back asleep. Mom comes into my room around 5:45 and asks me if I need anything. “More Gingerale would be great,” I say. She is there and back in less than two minutes. She rubs my head, and the look on her face scares me. “Honey, you are burning up. I think we should call the doctor.” All I keep thinking is, ‘I can’t be sick. I can’t miss the meet Friday.’ Mom lets me sleep for another hour. At 6:50, she comes in and tells me to get dressed because I have a doctor’s appointment at 8:00, and we have to bring Ian to school. When I get up, my legs give out and I fall straight to the ground. What was happening to me? I feel so weak. I manage to grab onto my bed and pull myself up. I call mom and tell her that I can’t walk down the stairs, so she comes upstairs and helps me.
We drop Ian off at school. This is the first time ever that I actually want to be at school. I know Coach will be wondering where I am. Damn, I am going to be in some trouble. We pull up to the doctor’s office and mom comes around the car to help me out. “I’m fine,” I yell. I can tell mom is worried. This is the same look she had when Dad left her a few years ago. Mom signs me in and fills out all the necessary paperwork, and we wait. It feels like three hours pass before the nurse finally calls my name. She tells me to take off my shoes and step onto the scale. “133.8 pounds,” she says. What the fuck? How did I lose six pounds in one day? That must be a record. Maybe I can still wrestle in Friday’s meet.
The nurse walks us to room 824. “Hey mom,” I say smiling, “the room number is the same as my birthday.” Mom sits staring at the wall waiting for the doctor to come in. The doorknob turns and Doctor Wallace walks in. “What seems to be the problem?” he asks me. I look at mom. She knows I want her to do the talking. Mom tells the doctor all of my symptoms and the doctor says, “Mononucleosis,” and asks me how long I have been feeling weak. I tell him it has only been a few days, but I am a wrestler, so I am used the feeling. He asks me to explain my practice schedule, my food intake, and the different ways I lose weight. When I finish, he has that same worried look on his face. Mom asks him to explain, and he says, “If you have had mono for over a week and have practiced every day for three hours after school, you have a high risk of having your spleen rupture.” Mom begins crying immediately. She hates the fact that Ian and I wrestle. It was a sport that Dad got us into, and we love it.
The doctor tells me to take Ibuprofen and get lots of rest. I can’t go to school, nor can I go to wrestling practice. When I ask if I will be able to wrestle in Friday’s meet, he laughs and says, “Absolutely not.” When we get home, I go online and search, ‘Mononucleosis.’ I read that it is highly recommended that I avoid contact sports during and two weeks after infection symptoms subside. I need to find a way out of this. I know I won’t be that 1 in 100 person who dies from Mononucleosis. I make Ian wrestle with me after mom goes to sleep, and on Thursday, I sneak out and go to school. Coach Kenny asks me where I have been the past few days, and I tell him I have had a bad sore throat. He asks me if I feel well enough to participate in tomorrow’s meet. I smile and say, “Absolutely.”
I go home directly after school because I know mom will be worried about me. I tell Coach Kenny that I will practice with Ian at home. I sneak back through my window and get back in bed. I really think I pulled it off. I don’t think mom has any clue. Mom comes in my room a few hours later and brings me some hot tea. “How are you feeling Patrick?” she asks. I tell her I am feeling much better but still kind of weak. She asks me if I need anything else, and when I say no, she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her. I fall back asleep and wake up at 12:45 a.m. I call Ian, and when he doesn’t answer, I walk in his room and wake him up. “Ian, you gotta come wrestle with me,” I say shaking him. “I really don’t think you should wrestle tomorrow bro,” he says. I can tell he is worried about me. “I’m fine Ian, seriously.” He rolls over and goes back to sleep. I feel bad, so I don’t wake him back up. I guess I’ll go into the meet and just wing it.
I sleep until 11:15 a.m. I know I have to get to school by 12:00 if I want to participate in any after school activity. I sneak out again and walk to school. The day creeps by, but the bell finally rings. The meet starts in a few hours. I need to prepare myself. I meet up with Matt and Tyler, and we walk to weigh-ins together. I hop on the scale. 129.8. Perfect. I am pumped. It felt like it had been a few months since I wrestled. I put my singlet on, and I grab my warm-up jacket and walk into the gym. The smell of sweat lingers in the air. I feel at home.
By this time, Mom had to realize I was gone. I am up next. My heart is pounding, and adrenaline is rushing through my veins. I am ready. I feel bad for my opponent. I take my warm-up jacket off and put my ear guard on. I slap my opponent’s hand and the match starts. I start off with a low single and take him straight to the ground. I look over and see mom crying in the stands. She knew I was here the whole time. I am exactly like Dad. I never give up. Within ten seconds of the first round, I feel my body getting weaker. Then suddenly everything turns black.
Mom sat down on a parking bumper and cried into her hands. Ian was gone, and she knew he wouldn’t come back. Mom lost both of her boys that week. I knew this felt worse than the time Dad left her. Mom was alone. She walked back into the funeral home and tried to compose herself. She walked up to my urn and said, “You and your brother had to be stubborn like your father.”
