Get Up. Let’s Go.

Seems like every family, every team has “the mean one.”

In my family, it’s me.

I’m not a “pink on Wednesdays” kind of mean (if you know, you know), but I am the one they call when something hard needs to get done. Funny thing is, I’m the last one to judge someone for marching to their own beat. Two of my incredible, brilliant sons are on the spectrum, and one’s a nut like his mom (and his grandpa). I’m no one to judge. I’m peaceful. I always say, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

But I kinda have it stuck in my mind that people want to live. And very often, the sicker someone is, the less clear their thinking becomes. So I figure I can push now and ask forgiveness later… because at least they’ll be alive to ask forgiveness from.

Last night, I called 911 on a family member across the country—again.

My parents are amazing. Generous, hospitable, funny, supportive, and full of fight for what they believe in. They’re in their seventies and still extremely involved in the church they helped build from scratch. My dad still preaches and teaches Bible classes. My mom runs the music, plays piano (even had to reteach her left hand to obey after a stroke), and leads out in events and social gatherings. They help people who have less than they do. They’re a vital part of their community.

They love to help - but they aren’t much on accepting help for themselves. This is probably the several-somethingth time I’ve had to call 911 from across the country, much to the confusion of the dispatchers. Each time, EMS is more than happy to haul one of them off to the hospital. And each time, my old-school parents say, “What if I’m not sick enough? How embarrassing if they send me home. This is NOT an emergency.” They come from an era where the ER was for reattaching limbs or delivering hasty babies.

But I know better. You’re sick enough. They’ll keep you. I kinda know these things.

There’s one night I can’t forget. It’s burned into my memory.

My dad had been sick and weak for days. We knew it was COVID, and he was trying to avoid the hospital, convinced everyone who went there died. It was—of course—2020. I was working in a little FEMA pop-up COVID hospital, so I knew he wasn’t exactly wrong to be afraid. But he was getting worse.

My mom was out of town on a girls’ trip to California and wouldn’t be back for days. I left work (and my own boys) and drove an hour to be his personal nurse. He had multiple comorbidities, and as he began the frightening journey into COVID, I watched him with growing fear. I treated him like a real patient: monitoring his vital signs every 2–4 hours, increasing frequency as needed, carefully managing his meds, forcing food and fluids, emptying his urinal. I had just come off a brutal spring in New York City, and I was raw—PTSD raw. I was afraid. I was exhausted. I was developing asthma symptoms from all the masking, and insomnia had taken root.

That night, my concern grew. I suggested the hospital. He said no way. I increased his oxygen checks to every 15 minutes. He just looked… off. I knew what I was looking at. He was getting harder to manage alone. I started doubting my own instincts. I sent constant updates to my mom, my sisters, my aunts. It was all blending together.

At 0400, I checked his oxygen again.

83%.

I knew I had to act.

“Get up.”

He moaned a little. I imagined he wanted to pull away—but he didn’t.

The sheets had fallen away from his bare arm. I slapped it.

“Get up.” I felt rude this time.

He moaned again, a little deeper. Like a weak bear. He kinda looked like one, too—his red-brown hair mashed flat by the CPAP strap.

He’d been responsive all night. He’d done everything I asked. But not now.

“We’re going to the hospital,” I said, firmly, assuming the sale.

“Noooo…”

But he didn’t say he wasn’t sick enough this time.

I pulled on him, trying to get his massive frame upright. I’d seen how COVID worked. If I could stir him, get him moving, I could get his oxygen up for a while.

He finally sat on the edge of the bed, dropping his feet to the floor. His CPAP mask twisted bizarrely on his face like some alien headset. He looked confused—too pitiful to be angry. But he was angry. He pulled off the mask and told me to leave him alone.

I told him to get in the car.

He said absolutely not.

I know what motivates him.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll call 911. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

He’s super social. The last time, when he passed out, the town sent their “little team.” My mom had warned them to send the big team, but they hadn’t. The two female EMTs were about 200 pounds combined and—just like she predicted—they had to call for backup. It took four of them to get him into the rig. He was mortified.

I twisted the knife. “Don’t worry. They’ll send the big team this time.”

Then I spun around and started packing his hospital bag.

I could feel his moment of fury as he stumbled up and lumbered into the bathroom to wash his face and brace himself.

We got him to the car, and I drove the hour to the hospital with the windows down the whole way, determined not to get sick myself.

He was admitted. I was kept away while my friends did everything they could to keep him alive for 11 terrifying days. Nurses, physicians—people I love and trust—worked overtime to figure him out and keep me informed.

They told me he shouldn’t have lived.

His hair turned white. But my Papa? Still just as feisty. Still just as adored.

I’m thankful to be the mean one. I’m thankful to be the stubborn one who can’t take “no.”

When I tell my team, “You’ve got this,” I’m not just being cute. I mean it.

I’ll support your direction, your decisions, your dreams—but you’re not going to lie down now.

Get up. Let’s go.

🎧 Listen to the podcast here: https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/transformationship/episodes/Get-Up--Lets-Go--The-Mean-One-e34o9jg