August 12, 1953, 3 years old

The sour hospital smell drifted into my nose as I squirmed in the waiting room chair. The air conditioning was pleasant compared to the muggy August day outside. The rhythmic sound of monitors rocked me into a daze while I ran my toy truck along the armrest.

The doctor came in and Granny stood up to greet him.

“Am I a big brother?” I tugged on the doctor’s coat.

Neither of them turned to face me and they continued to exchange worried bits of conversation. The doctor handed Granny a pamphlet. She skimmed over it as the paper began to crumple with her sweat.

“Hadley, your brother was born, but the doctors need some time to make sure that he’s healthy,” she said, carefully articulating every word.

“Can I play with him?”

“Soon, darling. Soon.”

Later, Granny yanked me out of the chair, following a nurse down a hallway. A commotion of doctors in paper-like dresses were gathered around Mom and Dad, discussing “the next best steps.” I ran to Mom’s side and she embraced me in a hug.

“Go follow Dad. He’ll show you baby Henry.” She motioned for me to follow my father. He took my hand and led me through a few hallways until we reached a room full of bassinets with tubes flowing out of them.

“He’s very fragile, Hadley. We’re going to have to be very careful,” my dad said as he held me up to see him. The baby’s pink face was wrinkled, but I was sure that he was going to make a great playmate in time.

July 11, 1958, 8 years old

Henry and I dashed to the bay window after hearing the familiar clatter of street hockey outside. All of the neighborhood kids had gathered on our large cul-de-sac to play, and the summer sounds of laughter filled my ears.

“Mom! Can we go play?”

“Play what?” Mom asked.

“Street hockey. Look! Everyone’s playing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why can’t I play? It’s not like I’m the one with hemo… whatever it is.”

“You can only do what your brother can do, end of story.”

“I don’t care. I’m playing,” I said.

“And I’m playing too. I’m tired of not being able to do stuff,” Henry said.

“It’s either play softly or don’t play at all. You know why? Because one wrong move, Henry, and you’ll never be able to leave your bed. Do you want that?” Dad said.

Henry shook his head rapidly.

“That’s what I thought. Hadley, no playing for you either.”

June 28, 1959, 9 years old

The hot summer sun beat down on the front lawn. School had just ended, meaning that Henry and I could spend our days together. After Dad’s long and ever-repeated lecture to be careful and not to play rough, we were finally given permission to go to the backyard. Today, we played catch with the large purple ball. The wet dew on the grass seeped into my socks as we slipped around the yard, attempting to capture it out of mid-air.

After I threw the ball particularly high, Henry sprung up to catch it.

“Henry, no!”

My vision blurred as he took a tumble, his knee taking the brunt of the fall. I raced inside the house, screaming for Mom or Dad or whoever could come the quickest. Both of them came running, shoving past me to look at Henry. Though I was a few paces behind them, I could already see Henry’s knee turning black and blue. Dad scooped him into his arms and rushed into the car. Mom grabbed my wrist and threw me into the backseat. Dad handed Henry to her as he sped off on the familiar route towards the hospital.

“How could you do this? You know that Henry is fragile. You’re responsible for him. How could you let this happen!” Dad looked at me through the rear view mirror.

“It’s not my fault that Henry’s blood can’t clot correctly! Nobody told him to jump up and catch the ball!”

“Hadley, you’re his older brother. You should be more responsible. You should know better.” Mom sighed.

April 21, 1961, 11 years old

Henry was having another stay at the hospital. After ignoring my warning about how heavy my friend’s Daisy BB guns are, he kept playing with us. He dropped the gun on his foot, causing another hemorrhage. As usual, this was my fault.

“Why didn’t you tell them to go home? You know that when you play with Henry you can’t play with others, let alone with those guns,” my dad said.

“How come this is always my problem? Henry is old enough to be responsible.”

“And you’re supposed to guide him. Henry just wanted to have fun, but you should have the sense to tell him no.”

“Why can’t you ever do that? If I want to have fun with my friends with the toys that you don’t let me have, Henry can stay out of it.”

“Henry’s fragile and we all know that he has hemophilia.”

“It’s always that Henry’s fragile, isn’t it?”

January 23, 1963, 13 years old

Mom forced us to stay inside, even though there was a picturesque blanket of white, fluffy snow outside keeping us home from school. I sat by the fireplace which devoured a log of wood from a dead tree in our yard. I glanced towards Henry who was curled up in a blanket. He was sitting in the bay window, his favorite spot in the house. It had seen many years of play and bore our initials which we had secretly etched into its panes. Henry looked back at me.

“What do you want to do when you’re older?”

I was taken aback at his question. “I dunno, maybe a pilot or something.”

“I want to become a doctor. And I want to drive a car.”

“I mean if you like being around needles and blood all the time, go for it. That’s a lot of school, though.”

Henry looked pensively out the window. “It’s not like I’m going to become that old anyways.”

“Henry! Don’t talk like that.”

“C’mon, Hadley, don’t act like you don’t hear the doctors.”

“I don’t care what those dumb doctors say. You’re going to become a doctor and you’re going to drive a car and that’s that.”

Henry looked at me doubtfully, but turned his head back out to the steady-falling snow.

“I wish I wasn’t fragile.”

July 17, 1964, 14 years old

The sounds of the hospital monitors had long provided a source of comfort for me, but today they left me on edge. Henry had internal bleeding, and his face was pale. 

“I’ll be honest with you guys. He’s already gone past his life expectancy. It was a miracle that he even made it home from the hospital after being born.” The doctor put his gloves in the trash can. “I don’t think that there’s anything else we can do, honestly. Just wait it out and hope that it isn’t too painful for Henry.”

Though we had never gone to church, a priest came in and performed the Last Rites.

“God will keep his young soul,” he said, closing the Bible.

Dorothy and Louise, Henry’s usual nurses, came in with flowers.

“He’s a fighter. It’s a blessing that he’s made it so far,” they said.

My mother was broken, weeping in a corner. My father was in a daze. Slowly, Henry’s heart monitor flat lined. I grabbed his hand.

“Henry, please. Not now. Just hang in there. Please, Henry.” My voice cracked.

I held his hand as his consciousness slowly left his limp body. I screamed, relishing the raw feeling in my throat. I felt fragile.