Personal Narrative: Guillain-Barre Syndrome

Guillain-Barre Syndrome told my brother that Santa Claus wasn't real. Guillain-Barre is what made my mom’s immune system attack her nerves, which temporarily paralyzed her from the neck down. It is what made my father stay away from home more often; it is what made my grandma play temporary caregiver, and what made her suicidal. It is what made my mom lay in a hospital bed during Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's Eve, and kept her from being with family. It is what made my dad take up the job of putting Christmas presents under the tree in the middle of the night, a job that was entirely foreign to him. But, Guillain- Barre is not what made him fail at his job - he did that successfully all on his own. This was the year of 2006. My brother
My body uncurled and my blankets were ripped off in an instant as I raced to the top of the stairs. But I was too late.
Joey stood with his back to me: his hair ruffled, his back hunched and his head bowed. The Christmas magic that my mom worked to instill in him was stripped and stomped on the instant he saw my father carelessly tossing our presents beneath our drooping Christmas tree. Joey sharply turned away from my father and broke into a sob while he darted up the stairs to find solace in his room. Before following him, I cast a glance at my father who was indifferently looking at the stairs - he finally fell silent. When I peered through Joey’s half open doorway, I saw his head hidden deep into his pillow which did little to muffle the weeping that originated deep within his chest. I sat on the edge of his bed and examined my hands which featured curved indentations from where my nails had dug into my skin. My words were stuck in my mouth as I grappled with what to say.
Mom wasn’t there to fix it
Joey finally fell asleep; I placed his head on his pillow and tucked him under his blankets. I went back to my own room. At ten years old I had never experienced my own fury, but I am certain now and I was certain then that there was no other word to describe what I felt in my mind towards my father. What I felt in my heart towards my brother were sorrow and sympathy. Had this been my father’s first, second or even third mistake, maybe I would have been more forgiving. Maybe if Joey had bounded down the steps to see anyone there but my father, he wouldn’t have been so upset. Maybe if this wasn’t a time when my family desperately needed magic and miracles and mom, there would not be such a permeating feeling of despondency that had latched onto this one particular Christmas. I take comfort in the fact that now, at nineteen, Joey does not remember the grief he felt that day. He remembers the events, but not the emotions. I am not so lucky, but that is okay with me because if someone had to remember, I did not want it to be him. I now recall that the first time I was genuinely angry was the night my father showed my brother Santa Claus wasn’t