His Name Was Ezra

His name was Ezra.

He was my twin brother. The midwife joked that we were born at the same time, but in reality, he was just seconds older than me. As babies, we screamed when we were separated and only quieted when our Momma put us in the same bed. Our first words were in a language of our own creation, one I can still speak today. We were each other's shadows wherever we went. Poppa said we were the same person split between two bodies, so completely did one know the other.

It was an early spring day when we went swimming down in a creek at the edge of our property. We were just twelve years old. Our younger sisters were there with us but they were six and five, too young to remember much of that day. Ezra jumped into an area that was too shallow and rocky. He got a cut on his foot, so I sent our sisters on home to go get Momma. I helped him out of the creek and made sure he didn't put any pressure on his foot.

The cut was pretty deep, and I figured it needed stitches. I insisted Momma needed to take him into town to see the doctor. She thought the cut would heal nicely on its own, but my annoying persistence won out. I thought to rinse out the wound because the creek was known for being dirty. (Well, Momma always made us take a bath when we came back from the creek.) The doctor over in town seemed concerned but didn't say anything to us as he stitched the wound. 

We went back home and Ezra kept off his foot for a few weeks while it healed. Poppa was annoyed that he had to take on Ezra's portion of the chores. I helped out where I could, but Poppa said all I did was get in the way of completing the men's responsibilities. Our sisters were a big help to Momma since I wasn't in the house as much. I think Ezra was a little out of his mind always being around us women doing our housework. Later on, Ezra told me he hadn’t realized just how much work keeping house was until those weeks.

When the wound healed everything went back to normal for a few months. Late one night Ezra told me that his foot was alternating between numb and tingly, like when it goes to sleep and you wake it up only to get pins and needles. He told me it had been going on for some time, but he was afraid to tell Momma and Poppa. He didn't want to put them at a disadvantage again like when it was injured, especially now since it was almost harvest time.

I was torn because I knew exactly what he was feeling but I also wanted him to get it looked at. I told him as much, thinking that using an injured limb might make the injury worse. We decided to keep it between us for the coming days but that if it persisted he needed to tell them so he could get it looked at. He said he would do his best not to walk on it whenever possible, but we both knew there was no chance of that happening.

Well, the numbness and tingling became pain. I told him that we had to get Momma and Poppa involved. He was hesitant but relented. They agreed the doctor was necessary and we went into town the next day. The same doctor was there, and he recognized Ezra from the day of the accident. His expression went from one of vague concern to one of worry. The doctor said there were probably some injured tendons and that Ezra needed to rest his foot. Or there was a lingering infection from the creek water. Plenty of rest and care for that foot, and absolutely no walking unless he had a crutch to keep weight off of it. I don't know if I've ever seen Poppa more upset than he was that day. As I said, the harvest season was upon us.

The crutch annoyed Ezra but there was nothing that could be done except for him to get used to it. Sometimes he would try to walk without it. At first, it worked and he would spend the day with Poppa in the fields. He suffered greatly at night for it though, often unable to sleep due to the pain. I convinced him it wasn't worth it to be without the crutch. 

So Ezra and I switched places as far as chores go. Poppa got used to me being out there doing those manly responsibilities but there was only so much I could do as a twelve-year-old girl. We managed to get through harvest season just fine, albeit a little later than usual, and Poppa muttered something about a hired hand being more useful than me. I didn't really care, I would have rather been cooking, doing laundry, and watching my little sisters anyway.

Spring came around and Ezra was still using his crutch. The pain, numbness, and muscle weakness never went away. I counted our blessings that it didn't get any worse, but only Ezra appreciated my seeing the silver lining in the grey clouds. 

But when Ezra told me that he was having symptoms in his ankle and the lower part of his leg I became concerned. Again we went to our parents and in turn the doctor. This time he told us this is why he was worried the last time Ezra came in. He had been afraid of the symptoms spreading, but now that they had, he could tell us what to expect. He had not wanted to concern us prematurely, should his guess have been wrong. He told us that other doctors had seen it before and it spreads to all the muscles, causing weakness. That explained why Ezra could be without the crutch but also why it caused him so much pain when he did so. Basically, Ezra would eventually become trapped in his own body. 

That night was not a pleasant one in my household. I know deep down Poppa was concerned about Ezra, but all we saw was his worry about the farm. The doctor's visits had not been cheap and neither had the crutch. And now we knew Ezra would never be able to work in the fields again. Poppa would need to hire a farmhand. He and Momma whispered about hiring a nurse to care for Ezra. More expenses than we made in profits from our farm.

My sisters were still too young to really understand anything but picked up on the unease. Both were crying as I tucked them into bed that night. After telling them several stories and finally getting them off to sleep, I approached Momma. I asked her if I could learn to care for Ezra. Surely that would be cheaper than getting someone else to help. She smiled softly and told me she would discuss it with Poppa before sending me off to bed.

Poppa was hesitant but accepting of the idea. For now, Ezra was still mostly able to care for himself. He still had the use of one leg and both arms. The doctor had said the symptoms were slow-spreading. As the illness progressed, I would be able to adapt to whatever accommodations he needed. 

As the doctor predicted, the numbness and tingling slowly spread up Ezra's leg. Once the tingling began in his other leg we went to the doctor to get him a wheelchair. The doctor said after this leg it would be his arms and then his torso. The muscle weakness would eventually stop his heart and breathing. That night, Ezra told me he did not want to be confined to a bed. I told him to go to sleep. That day was far away and I didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about it either, but he needed me to know. I grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

The land around our house was flat enough to push Ezra's wheelchair around, and we would take long wandering walks. The fields and forests were beautiful any time of year, but especially so during autumn with the changing leaves. Often, our sisters would come along with us, adding the carefree chatter of young girls.

But our favorite walks were when it was just the two of us. I would bring a book along and we stop somewhere on our route to read together. Momma and Poppa had surprised me one Christmas with books to read about nursing and other medical practices. The more we read together, the more I learned from those books. Ezra asked me questions about them to see how much I had memorized since the last walk. Sometimes I would forget a word while reciting paragraphs to Ezra and he would tease me for it.

The pain only got worse for Ezra. The miserable thing about his illness was that the numbness was not constant. At least if it was, he would have relief from his pain. As he lay awake one night, he started listing all the things he was never going to do. I listened, knowing each thing he listed would be something I would get to do, but without him by my side. Through my tears, I told him I wanted him to stay forever but would never ask him to. I knew his pain was unbearable. He squeezed my hand in response.

As our eighteenth birthday passed, the illness finished its destructive path through Ezra's body. There was little else the doctor could do besides prescribe something for the pain. Then one late August day, he told me he was leaving. I asked him what I would do without him. He was the other half of my soul, that Ezra.

He told me to become a nurse. He said that if I could take half as good care of other people as I did of him they would never ask for another nurse. I swatted his hand lightly for his jesting but told him I would.

I went to the doctor soon after the funeral and asked him what I needed to do to become a nurse. He knew that I had been by Ezra's side every day since his illness began. The doctor told me that seeing people as they recover would help me heal, as it would be a reminder that not all illnesses are fatal. 

Now, as I labor in pain for this baby I am having, I reflect on these things to myself. Was this what Ezra's pain was like? My comfort through the pain is in knowing that I am bringing a new life into this world. I know it will end, and soon from the look on the midwife's face. She tells me I am doing well and to start pushing.

The midwife congratulates me on the birth of a healthy baby boy. She hands him to me, and I look over to my husband and say, "His name is Ezra."