Her mom started to scream, “No! No! Taha! Taha! My baby! No! Not again! It’s too much for my baby!” Then she yelled for her son to go get the nurse. He stood gaping and wide eyed—as I must have been. Her mom started screaming again and flew on top of the bed, trying to restrain the girl’s head. I grabbed my bell and called the nurse. A bunch of nurses came running in all at once and rolled down the head of the bed—then put the rails up. They wheeled her out of the room very quickly and her family followed. I haven’t seen her since.
I can’t say it’s ever dull around here.
Dear Nobody,
A friend of mine from the hospital came to visit me today. She’s one of those “miracle” cases. One of those few people I know who took care of herself and is in an almost perfect, healthy condition, despite having been born with Cystic Fibrosis. When I first met her she was sicker than I was. She was eighteen and they had given her seven months to live. Now its five years later and she’s perfectly healthy.
Seeing her for the first time in so many years was amazing. Without even speaking, she managed to convince me of her dignity. She had an awe-inspiring strength. After seeing so much tragedy, after bearing such pains, and facing the dread of such mournful losses—her strength was still there. Her intoxicating smile, even if only halfhearted, reflected such radiance and spirit. Unlike other people who had seen only half of such tragedies, she had not become ravaged and haggard from life. Instead, her suffering seemed to proclaim her will, strength and vibrancy. I feel like she is a hundred times better than any other human being I know. Even though she is fairly young, she is as mature as many sages. Even though her beauty is not much a cosmetic, physical one, she is always the most attractive person in the room.
She inspired me to stop drinking and try to take care of myself. I want to live to see twenty-three, like she has. I want to look beautiful and wise and strong. I want to visit people I had known from my time in the hospital—people who were worse off than me—and tell them that it was going to all be okay. That we could fight this.
That I was fighting it—and I was winning.
Dear Nobody,
At night, when most of the patients are asleep, me and some of the other sick kids all congregate and sneak through the halls together. We have to push our beeping IV poles in front of us or roll around in broken child-size wheelchairs—but at least it’s quiet and we can talk. Sometimes we talk for hours—all night. We talk of how most of the people that used to visit us don’t anymore, just because it had gotten so common to hear that we were in the hospital again.
I remember once when I was in the hospital for fourteen days and only my mother came to see me. Yet for the duration I was in the hospital, my cousin had broken her leg. So while I was dying in a hospital with chronic disease, she was the one being comforted by our family members. They were not coming to see me, but they were bringing her flowers, balloons, cards. After a while, I guess, people just don’t want to deal with you anymore. They don’t want to see you getting sicker; taking more medicine than grandma does. After a while, people don’t even call to ask how you are—because they don’t want to hear that your sputum tested positive for blood—or that you’ve lost more weight. Yes, after a while—those cards and flowers and phone calls fade away, much like your health. And the other lonely, sickly freaks become your new family because to the rest of the healthy people we know, we have already died.
It’s haunting to think that my family members will not drive an hour to come and visit me while I am in the hospital and yet I know they would drive two hours to attend my funeral.
Me and the other kids here talk about death a lot. I remember the last time I was here, Jennifer was asking me what I heard it felt like to die with CF? Jennifer learned how before I did. She died here.
We talked about how it felt to be mocked because of our coughing—how being made fun of could hurt more than the actual pain of coughing.
One girl I know told me about how when she was diagnosed, her mother dropped her off at her father’s house—and never came back. She told me how much she had cried and how she had held a gun to her head, ready to kill herself. I asked her why she never did it. She stared at the tubes in her arm—made fists out of her fingers and looked straight into my eyes—but never answered me. She knew I already knew the answer. We all felt that way before. We’ve felt enough despair, enough guilt—even just physical pain. So many reasons to do it. But we aren’t built that way. We’ve become machines. We’re used to the pain.
Needles in our arms, tubes running through our noses and chests, equipment shoved in our mouth or down our throat. Probing examinations and embarrassing questions. Terrible loneliness day in and day out. If that didn’t kill us, maybe nothing could.But the one thing I noticed we never talked about was our future. I don’t think we saw much of a future for ourselves. Besides, what use was there talking about the future? We all knew what the future meant for us.
And it starts with a D.
Dear Nobody,
Every night I am on a breathing monitor. Tonight, after I fell asleep, I unconsciously ripped out those prongs and the fucking monitor started screaming—BEEP, BEEP, BEEP—that constant wail waking me up. This happens ALL the time and the nurses have to run in and fix the oxygen setup. Tonight, this one ugly fat nurse threatened to tape the tubes to my face if I ripped them off again.
Dear Nobody,
Tell me, does everyone feel like I do?
Oh God, please help me, please.
No one on my floor cares for me. No one loves as I do, or feels as I do. I try not to feel, but my humanity will not let me.
Kill this hurt of mine Jesus.
Please. Oh, how can I keep on like this?
None of you bastards will know the half of it. EVER. No one else could bear the entirety of my hell-born situation.
What else could there be left for me?
Tell me.
No, don’t.
Who knows what I know, who’s been where I have? I’ve never imagined, even in my most dreaded nightmares, that I would become this.
Oh God, please help me. Help me. I need your help. I simply cannot attain this life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard.
Oh God, please cure me soon.
I hurt, I hurt. I hurt so bad.
Humans could never know.
Oh, help me please now, please.
All I ever did was love you…
Dear Nobody,
Have I had a revelation, or a breakdown? I feel completely detached lately, from everyone. I don’t feel isolated. I just feel like I don’t need them. I feel more peaceful when people aren’t around. I want to be the only person in the room when I die, and I want it to be dark outside.
Dear Nobody,
I woke up coughing around three in the morning. After I stopped coughing, it just got worse. I couldn’t breathe. I had these nasty, sharp pains all through my lungs. The nurse called in three resident doctors and a respiratory therapist. I got a treatment and some of the pain left but then five minutes later I got worse. I felt so exhausted; all I could do was try and breathe. Sitting up for the doctors felt impossible. They gave me oxygen and told me to stay calm. I felt like the shit in my lungs was turning into cement—like I was being stabbed in the chest.
Even though the pain was worse than before, I lied and told the doctors I felt much better. I didn’t want them to be in the room if this was it…
Mary Rose died from complications caused by cystic fibrosis on February 12, 1999.
EPILOGUE
Dear Nobody,
I guess I like to be alone and relax in solitude, but I also love huge crowds of people. Someday I want crowds to come to see me, en masse, just to watch me. Sing, act, speak, whatever, I don’t care, as long as it’s all for me.
I want to be so rich that I could donate millions to different charities—and still
be FILTHY RICH. I want diamonds, gold, silver, rings, bracelets, and tons of necklaces and earrings. I want to see my reflection from an extravagant dressing room vanity decorated with satin, lace, feathers and bright lights that make my skin glow. Gowns with sequins and lace, rhinestones and silk, and only the best patent leather shoes (with heels) will be all I ever wear in public (unless of course one of my character roles call for something else) and my roles of course will only be starring ones, and none of my understudies will be as talented or beautiful or loved (unless they are full of MY characteristics). Jacuzzis, spas, heated kidney-bean-shaped swimming pools, and extravagant bubble baths in gigantic bathrooms will be my leisure hangouts (WHEN I’m not signing autographs, or visiting children’s hospitals, or at book signings).
My death would bring melancholy to nations all over, and they will mourn my loss with such honor and respect that I’ll never be forgotten.
I can dream, can’t I?
Love, Mary Rose XOXO
THE END
Afterword
When Gillian and Legs first told me that they loved Mary Rose through her journals and wanted to take on the project of having them published, I could hardly believe it. I mean, what were the chances that two talented and experienced authors would happen upon these journals—and love them—and want to see them published? Here were the authors of one of Mary Rose’s favorite books that she owned, Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk interested in collaborating with her.
To consider that Mary Rose’s thoughts, words, stories would be out there to be shared with so many other people was overwhelming. I knew, as did everyone else who knew Mary Rose, what an incredibly amazing person she was. Now, through this book, all those who come to know her will keep her in their hearts—her wild humor, her gifted imagination, her excruciating pain, and her heroic strength. This is her new beginning.
As with most new beginnings there were obstacles. Making the decision to share Mary Rose’s journals was the first one. Would Mary Rose want her thoughts and feelings shared with others, especially people who didn’t know her? I wrestled with this and also asked a few of her friends and family for their opinion. Consensus was, although not unanimously, that since Mary Rose loved writing, storytelling, and dreamed of being an author someday, she would want this. Most believe, including me, that she even had some involvement in helping with connections that made this book happen. So with that being decided, her dream of being a published author will be fulfilled. Those of us who love her hope that her story will help other young people who may be experiencing seemingly insurmountable struggles of their own.
There were also legal obstacles. The law required signatures from both Mary Rose’s parents to get copyrights for her journals. It took months and significant expense to locate Mary Rose’s father, and when he finally was contacted he was indifferent and uncooperative. His main concern was what she may have written about him. He was assured there would be nothing. It seemed that after having very little involvement with her in life, he now wanted to control what was left. Gillian, Legs, and I persevered through this process, and after lengthy and discouraging setbacks we were able to move forward with the copyrights. Again, if not for Gillian and Legs’ support, this would not have been possible.
Finally here it is. The book completed. Although I am not proud of some of my life choices when I was younger, I could not be any more proud of Mary Rose. Her sister and I miss her every day and love her deeply. Although Mary Rose often wrote to express feeling lonely, angry, betrayed by others or her own body, Mary Rose knew she was loved. I know she didn’t focus her writing on positive things or happy occasions in her life and at times she exaggerated the negative. That’s OK. Her writing helped her through the darker times and I’m immensely grateful she found some solace with that.
A special thank you to the Geller family, especially Lauren, for introducing Mary Rose’s journals to Legs and Gillian. If not for your interest and enthusiasm for her writing, her journals most likely would still be in the bedroom closet where you and Leanne first saw them and started to read.
I want to express my overwhelming gratitude to Gillian McCain and Legs McNeil for taking the time to read the journals of a girl you didn’t know who was writing to nobody. I could not be happier that you felt and appreciated the life force of Mary Rose through her journals and that you took the time and energy to do something extraordinary for her. Also your kindness and sensitivity towards me has been astounding and you will always have a special place in my mind and heart.
To Mary Rose—my little rose bud—
I LOVE YOU LOVE YOU LOVE YOU
Forever and Always
Mom
Acknowledgments
We would like to thank Jonathon Marder for giving our manuscript to Joni Evans, who in turn gave it to Kirby Kim, who sold it to Sourcebooks. We are grateful to all of you.
Also to Fred and Regina and their daughter Lauren—this book couldn’t have happened without you guys.
For design, scanning, copyediting, and inscribing we like to thank Kristina Berg, Tom Hearn, Ryan Adie, Keoin Nostadt, and Megan Cump.
And all of our lawyers: for early legal advice, Rick Rheinhold; for contract advice, Eric Brown. And for fighting through the trenches with great patience, Keith McWhirk. Keith, we couldn’t have done this without you.
For a supportive shoulder and an eager ear, James Marshall.
To the Sourcebooks team: Todd, Leah, Cat, and anyone else who touched this book.
For all of our early readers who encouraged us not to give up: Ann Evans, Tom and Ann Hearn, Amy Haben, Joanne Sorenson, Rebecca Vasquez, Bob and Elizabeth Gruen, Mike DeCapite, Matt Muhall and Ami Dushkowitch, Eric Swenson, Jo Ann Wasserman, Janice Johnson, Diana Rickard, Barb DeLong, and for any names we missed, please forgive us.
To the H.H. McCain family for always being there for us.
But mostly, to Mary Rose’s mother and sister, for putting their trust in us.
LONG LIVE, MARY ROSE!
About the Authors
Gillian McCain photo by Kate Simon
Gillian McCain and Legs McNeil are the co-authors of Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk. When they aren’t collaborating, McCain writes poetry and McNeil writes non-fiction. They are currently working on two new oral histories together.
Legs McNeil photo by Tom Hearn
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