Before I Die aka Now is Good

by Jenny Downham

  The planet spins, the wind sifts the trees.

  I’m not afraid.

  Keep breathing, just keep doing it. It’s easy – in and out.

  Strange how the ground comes up to meet me, but it feels better to be low. I think about my name while I lie here. Tessa Scott. A good name of three syllables. Every seven years our bodies change, every cell. Every seven years we disappear.

  ‘Christ! She’s burning up!’ Dad’s face glimmers right above me. ‘Call an ambulance!’ His voice comes from far away. I want to smile. I want to thank him for being here, but for some reason I don’t seem able to get the words together.

  ‘Don’t close your eyes, Tess. Can you hear me? Stay with us!’

  When I nod, the sky whirls with sickening speed, like falling from a building.

  Thirty-two

  Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and sits there. I didn’t know it would hurt this much. I didn’t know that everything good that’s ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it.

  it’s happening now and it’s really, really true and however much they all promise to remember me it doesn’t even matter if they do or not because I won’t even know about it because I’ll be gone

  A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like material rippling through trees.

  I hear myself moaning from a distance. I don’t want to listen. I catch the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Dad. Their hushed voices. Panic spills from Dad’s throat.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars.

  Cal comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he stands next to Dad, quiet and small, and whispers, ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s got an infection.’

  ‘Will she die?’

  ‘They’ve given her antibiotics.’

  ‘So she’ll get better?’

  Silence.

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. Leukaemia is a progressive disease. I’m supposed to get weaker and weaker until I don’t care any more.

  But I still care. When am I going to stop caring?

  I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached angle of a jaw bone.

  I want to tell Dad how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up from a vat of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery.

  ‘Don’t let me fall.’

  ‘I’ve got you.’

  ‘I’m falling.’

  ‘I’m here. I’ve got you.’

  But his eyes are scared and his face is slack, like he’s a hundred years old.

  Thirty-three

  I wake to flowers. Vases of tulips, carnations like a wedding, gypsophila frothing over the bedside cabinet.

  I wake to Dad, still holding my hand.

  All the things in the room are wonderful – the jug, that chair. The sky is very blue beyond the window.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ Dad says. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  I want mango juice. Lots of it. He plumps a pillow under my head and holds the glass for me. His eyes lock into mine. I sip, swallow. He gives me time to breathe, tips the glass again. When I’ve had enough, he wipes my mouth with a tissue.

  ‘Like a baby,’ I tell him.

  He nods. Silent tears fill his eyes.

  I sleep. I wake up again. And this time I’m starving.

  ‘Any chance of an ice cream?’

  Dad puts his book down with a grin. ‘Wait there.’ He’s not gone long, comes back with a Strawberry Mivvi. He wraps the stick in tissue so it doesn’t drip and I manage to hold it myself. It’s utterly delicious. My body’s repairing itself. I didn’t know it could still do that. I know I won’t die with a Strawberry Mivvi in my hand.

  ‘I think I might want another one after this.’

  Dad tells me I can have fifty ice creams if that’s what I want. He must’ve forgotten I’m not allowed sugar or dairy.

  ‘I’ve got something else for you.’ He fumbles in his jacket pocket and pulls out a fridge magnet. It’s heart-shaped, painted red and badly covered in varnish. ‘Cal made it. He sends you his love.’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘She came to see you a couple of times. You were very vulnerable, Tessa. Visitors had to be kept to a minimum.’

  ‘So Adam hasn’t been?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I lick the ice-cream stick, trying to get all the flavour from it. The wood rasps my tongue.

  Dad says, ‘Shall I get you another one?’

  ‘No. I want you to go now.’

  He looks confused. ‘Go where?’

  ‘I want you to go and meet Cal from school, take him to the park and play football. Buy him chips. Come back later and tell me all about it.’

  Dad looks a bit surprised, but he laughs. ‘You’ve woken up feisty, I see!’

  ‘I want you to phone Adam. Tell him to visit me this afternoon.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Tell Mum I want presents – expensive juice, loads of magazines and new make-up. If she’s going to be crap, she can at least buy me stuff.’

  Dad looks gleeful as he grabs a bit of paper and writes down the brand of foundation and lipstick I want. He encourages me to think of other things I might like, so I order blueberry muffins, chocolate milk and a six-pack of Creme Eggs. It’s nearly Easter after all.

  He kisses me three times on the forehead and tells me he’ll be back later.

  After he’s gone, a bird lands on the window ledge. It’s not a spectacular bird, not a vulture or a phoenix, but an ordinary starling. A nurse comes in, fiddles about with the sheets, fills up my water jug. I point the bird out to her, joke that it’s Death’s lookout. She sucks her teeth at me and tells me not to tempt fate.

  But the bird looks right at me and cocks its head.

  ‘Not yet,’ I tell it.

  The doctor visits. ‘So,’ he says, ‘we found the right antibiotic in the end.’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Bit scary for a while though.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘I meant for you. That level of infection can be very disorientating.’

  I read his name badge as he listens to my chest. Dr James Wilson. He’s about my dad’s age, with dark hair, receding at the crown. He’s thinner than my dad. He looks tired. He checks my arms, legs and back for bleeding under the skin, then he sits down on the chair next to the bed and makes notes on my chart.

  Doctors expect you to be polite and grateful. It makes their job easier. But I don’t feel like being tactful today.

  ‘How much longer do I have?’

  He looks up, surprised. ‘Shall we wait for your dad to be here before we have this discussion?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that we can look at the medical options together.’

  ‘It’s me that’s sick, not my dad.’

  He puts his pen back in his pocket. The muscles round his jaw tighten. ‘I don’t want to be drawn into time scales with you, Tessa. They’re not helpful at all.’

  ‘They’re helpful to me.’

  It’s not that I’ve decided to be brave. This isn’t a new year’s resolution. It’s just that I have a drip in my arm and I’ve lost days of my life to a hospital bed. Suddenly, what’s important seems very obvious.

  ‘My best friend’s having a baby in eight weeks and I need to know if I’m going to be there.’

  He crosses his legs, then immediately uncrosses them. I feel a bit sorry for him. Doctors don’t get much training in death.

  He says, ‘If I’m over-optimistic, you’ll be disappointed. It’s equally unhelpful
to give you a pessimistic prediction.’

  ‘I don’t mind. You’ve got more of an idea than I have. Please, James.’

  The nurses aren’t allowed to use doctors’ first names, and normally I’d never dare. But something’s shifted. This is my death and there are things I need to know.

  ‘I won’t sue you if you’re wrong.’

  He gives me a grim little smile. ‘Although we managed to cure your infection and you’re obviously feeling much better, your blood count didn’t pick up as much as we’d hoped, so we ran some tests. When your father gets back, we can discuss the results together.’

  ‘Have I got peripheral disease?’

  ‘You and I don’t know each other very well, Tessa. Wouldn’t you rather wait for your father?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  He sighs very deeply, as if he can’t quite believe he’s about to give in. ‘Yes, we found disease in your peripheral blood. I’m very sorry.’

  That’s it then. I’m riddled with cancer, my immune system is shot and there’s nothing more they can do for me. I had weekly blood tests to check for it. And now it’s here.

  I’d always thought that being told for definite would be like being punched in the stomach – painful, followed by a dull ache. But it doesn’t feel dull at all. It’s sharp. My heart’s racing, adrenalin surges through me. I feel absolutely focused.

  ‘Does my dad already know?’

  He nods. ‘We were going to tell you together.’

  ‘What options do I have?’

  ‘Your immune system is in collapse, Tessa. Your options are limited. We can keep going with blood and platelets if you want to, but it’s likely their benefit will be short-lived. If you became anaemic straight after a transfusion, we would have to stop.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Then we would do everything we could to make you comfortable and leave you in peace.’

  ‘Daily transfusions aren’t feasible?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not going to make eight weeks then, am I?’

  Dr Wilson looks right at me. ‘You’ll be very lucky if you do.’

  I know I look like a pile of bones covered in cling film. I see the shock of it in Adam’s eyes.

  ‘Not quite how you remembered me, eh?’

  He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

  But I think this is what he was always scared of – having to be interested when I’m ugly and useless.

  He’s brought tulips from the garden. I stuff them in the water jug while he looks at my get-well cards. We talk about nothing for a bit – how the plants he bought in the garden centre are coming along, how his mum is enjoying the weather now that she’s outside more often. He looks out of the window, makes some joke about the view across the car park.

  ‘Adam, I want you to be real.’

  He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.

  ‘Don’t pretend to care. I don’t need you as an anaesthetic.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone being fake.’

  ‘I’m not being.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. You didn’t know I’d get this sick. And it’s only going to get worse.’

  He thinks about this for a moment, then kicks off his shoes.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Being real.’

  He pulls back the blanket and climbs into bed next to me. He scoops me up and wraps me in his arms.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers angrily into my neck. ‘It hurts more than anything ever has, but I do. So don’t you dare tell me I don’t. Don’t you ever say it again!’

  I lay the flat of my palm against his face and he pushes into it. It crosses my mind that he’s lonely. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You should be.’

  He won’t look at me. I think he’s trying not to cry.

  He stays all afternoon. We watch MTV, then he reads the paper my dad left behind and I have another sleep. I dream of him, even though he’s right next to me. We walk together through snow, but we’re hot and wearing swimming costumes. There are empty lanes and frosty trees and a road that curves and never ends.

  When I wake up, I’m hungry again, so I send him off for another Strawberry Mivvi. I miss him as soon as he goes. It’s like the whole hospital empties out. How can this be? I claw my hands together under the blanket until he climbs back into bed beside me.

  He unwraps the ice cream and passes it over. I put it on the bedside table.

  ‘Touch me.’

  He looks confused. ‘Your ice cream will melt.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m right here. I am touching you.’

  I move his hand to my breast. ‘Like this.’

  ‘No, Tess, I might hurt you.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘What about the nurse?’

  ‘We’ll chuck the bed-pan at her if she comes in.’

  He very gently cups my breast through my pyjamas. ‘Like this?’

  He touches me as if I’m precious, as if he’s stunned, as if my body amazes him, even now, when it’s failing. When his skin touches mine, skin to skin, we both shiver.

  ‘I want to make love.’

  His hand stalls. ‘When?’

  ‘When I get back home. One more time before I die. I want you to promise.’

  The look in his eyes frightens me. I’ve never seen it before. So deep and real, it’s as if he’s seen things in the world that others could only imagine.

  ‘I promise.’

  Thirty-four

  They swap like porters. Dad comes every morning. Adam comes every afternoon. Dad comes back in the evening with Cal. Mum visits randomly, managing to sit through an entire blood transfusion on her second visit.

  ‘Haemoglobin and platelets coming right up,’ she said as they hooked me up.

  I liked her knowing the words.

  But ten days. I even missed Easter. That’s too much time to lose.

  Every night I lie in my single hospital bed and I want Adam, his legs entwined with mine, his warmth.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I tell the nurse.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m better.’

  ‘Not better enough.’

  ‘What’re you hoping for? A cure?’

  The sun hoists itself up every morning and all the lights in the town wink off. Clouds rush the sky, frenzied traffic dips in and out of the car park, then the sun plummets back to the horizon and another day is over. Time rush. Blood rush.

  I pack my bag and get dressed. I sit on the bed trying to look perky. I’m waiting for James.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I tell him as he examines my chart.

  He nods as if he was expecting this. ‘Are you determined?’

  ‘Very. I’m missing the weather.’ I point at the window just in case he’s been too busy to notice the mellow light and the blue-sky clouds.

  ‘There’s a certain rigour needed to maintain this blood count, Tessa.’

  ‘Can’t I be rigorous at home?’

  He looks at me very seriously. ‘There’s a fine line between the quality of the life you have left and the medical intervention necessary to maintain it. You’re the only one who can judge it. Are you telling me you’ve had enough?’

  I keep thinking about the rooms in our house, the colours of the carpets and curtains, the exact positioning of furniture. There’s a journey I really like making from my bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the garden. I want to make that journey. I want to sit in my deck chair on the lawn.

  ‘The last transfusion only lasted for three days.’

  He nods sympathetically. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I had another one this morning. How long do you reckon that’s going to last?’

  He sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

  I stroke the bed sheet with the flat of my hand. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘Why don’t I talk to the communit
y care team? If I can get them to guarantee daily visits, then perhaps we can reassess.’ He clips my chart back onto the end of my bed. ‘I’ll phone them and come back when your dad gets here.’

  After he leaves, I count to one hundred. A fly grazes the table. I reach out my finger for a touch of those flimsy wings. It senses me coming, sputters into life and zigzags up to the light fitting, where it circles out of reach.

  I put on my coat, drape my scarf round my shoulders and pick up my bag. The nurse doesn’t even notice as I walk past her desk and get into the lift.

  When I reach the ground floor, I text Adam: REMEMBER YR PROMISE?

  I want to die in my own way. It’s my illness, my death, my choice.

  This is what saying yes means.

  It’s the pleasure of walking, one foot in front of the other, following the yellow lines painted on the floor of the corridor all the way to reception. It’s the pleasure of revolving doors – going round twice to celebrate the genius of the person who invented them. And the pleasure of the air. The sweet, cool, shocking outside world.

  There’s a kiosk at the gate. I buy a Dairy Milk and a packet of Chewits. The woman behind the counter looks at me strangely as I pay her. I think I might glow a bit from all my treatments, and some people are able to see it, like a neon wound that flares as I move.

  I walk slowly to the taxi rank, savouring details – the CCTV camera on the lamppost swinging on its axis, the mobile phones chirruping all about me. The hospital seems to retreat as I whisper goodbye, the shade from the plane trees turning all the windows to darkness.

  A girl swings past, high heels clicking; there’s a fried-chicken smell about her as she licks her fingers clean. A man holding a wailing child shouts into his phone: ‘No! I can’t bloody carry potatoes as well!’

  We make patterns, we share moments. Sometimes I think I’m the only one to see it.

  I share my chocolate with the taxi driver as we join the lunchtime traffic. Today he’s on a double shift, he tells me, and there are too many cars on the road for his liking. He waves at them in despair as we crawl through the town centre.

  ‘Where’s it all going to end?’ he asks.