“I have to go to the bathroom…”

It’s pretty obvious by this point just how sick my sister was as a kid. Super sick. The various doctors she was sent to all had different diagnoses as well. First it was cancer then when proven it wasn’t cancer there was a long list of different diagnoses that I’m not even going to try to pronounce. Inevitably they always defaulted back to cancer when they couldn’t prove what her actual illness was.

Part of the weird thing about Sam’s illness was it only really got bad in the springtime and lasted about midway through summer. She had small bouts during fall and winter, but nothing like how bad it was in the spring.

I think it was about age seven that it got even worse. She was so sick that my mom was taking her to the hospital on a weekly basis. Sometimes daily just for testing. During one of these tests, Samantha’s hair had become so tangled in the various wires and tubes attached to her that the nurse just cut off her beautiful fairy tale locks without permission from my mother. Of course Mom was furious, but for Sam it simply seemed like one less annoyance she had to deal with.

You see, my sister was a hardened veteran when it came to hospital testing. I’m not talking about normal tests either. Think catheters and tubes stuffed down your throat. At seven years old she wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at some of the things any of us in our adult lives would run screaming from. I’m twenty-nine now and if someone mentions catheter and me in the same sentence I have a panic attack.

Anyway, by this point in her young life, Sam had gone through some of the most painful, uncomfortable and traumatizing medical tests American hospitals had to offer. This was all par for the course for her. One day came when she was in for a usual check in. I don’t remember what she was actually there for, but I do remember how the short-lived visit began.

Sam was in the hospital bed waiting patiently for the inevitable. At some point she began shifting uncomfortably, but the adults were talking and this was one of her rare quiet moments. I watched her from the side of the room surrounded by hospital equipment that in my young mind had been transformed into various methods of torture that I was trying to ignore.

The doctor and nurses began moving toward my sister to insert the catheter to which my sister sat up and abruptly said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” The doctor stared at her a moment and the nurses looked to him for their next move.

My mother chimed in, “Alright, sweety. Let’s go.”

I remember the doctor turned to my mother and gave her a very harsh look over the rim of his 1980s fabulous glasses. They were the kind with the big brown rim that were a rip off of Buddy Holly’s but way tackier. My mother paused as the doctor began to speak. “She’s just trying to avoid what’s coming.”

My mother’s brow knit, but I could see she was second guessing herself. Our mom knew Sam. She knew this little girl had gone through far worse than the insertion of a catheter and she knew that Sam could handle it. But… this doctor might know better because he was in fact a doctor and must have a lot of experience with children and he could very well be right. Sam might be avoiding it. After a moment my mother nodded and the doctor and nurses began moving toward Samantha again.

Sam fidgeted again and repeated herself as if they hadn’t heard her the first time, “I have to go to the bathroom.” It was when they put their hands on her she began to struggle and cry. My mother moved forward again as one of the nurses tried to keep my sister pinned down and still. I watched the doctor gesture to the other attending nurse who then moved to usher my mother by force out of the room, dragging me along with her.

We could hear Sam screaming outside the door that was now guarded by the nurse. I remember my mother began to cry, holding her hands over her mouth as she heard the wails of her pained daughter. I held onto her side, burying my face against her and trying to drown out my sister’s screams as we were forced to wait.

It was about the same time that I felt my mother’s entire body tense and her prepare to launch at the nurse that the screaming stopped. There was a very long silence before the door cracked open and the doctor with the ugly glasses stepped into view. His entire torso was sopping wet, painted in a thin yellow coat of fresh urine.

He stared at my mother a moment and then stormed down the hall. Of course we ignored the rather flabbergasted guard nurse and hurried into the room to find the other nurse apologizing to my sister (who was also soaked in urine) over and over again.

Sam was so sweet. She was patting the nurse’s hand and in her little, sick voice told the woman who was on the verge of tears that it was alright and, “I’m sorry. I just really had to go to the bathroom.”

We never let that doctor near Samantha again.