“I hope you shart in a socially devastating situation.”
Elise’s hysterical giggle is somewhere between a squawk and a snort.
“What’s up his ass?” Eric asks her.
“He’s crabby ‘cause he has a cold.” The words are barely out of her mouth before Mom comes downstairs and descends upon me, feeling my forehead for fever and making me show her my inflamed throat. She suggests that everyone wear mouth and nose masks around the house until I kick the infection, since I’m so fragile. I tell her that’s not necessary—and completely humiliating—but my siblings support the idea. Fucking traitors.
*
Despite the aching in my throat and head, I try to make the most of a day in bed by catching up on my assigned reading. I’m three chapters behind schedule on The Scarlet Letter. That said, I really hate English. They make us read these classic novels as though anything in them is relevant to modern life. Like any of us need to know how to go about shaming and punishing an adulterer—Jerry Springer does that for us.
I stop to look at my bookmark a lot. I use Willa’s photos for that purpose, mostly to motivate me to at least open the book once in a while. I love the one of her on her bike. I only wish I could see her face in that one. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever see her ride that bike in real life, and I kind of like her reckless side. It makes her interesting.
Willa’s other photo is in my nightstand drawer, tucked away and looked at only when I’m having an off moment. The snapshot was taken at her Group session, at a time when she was just as damaged as I am—and she got through it, is getting through it, in her weird way. If she can bounce back, I can too.
Sometimes I look at it and think about the faceless man sitting behind her in the wheelchair, and I tell myself that no one is ever going to hurt her like that again. Willa would probably call that stupid over-protectiveness; she doesn’t like to admit that she’s capable of feeling hurt. I know just how strongly she can feel—I’ve seen it, and the photo in my drawer is a private reminder to myself not to hurt her with the failures of my own stupid body.
Between looking at her photo and the medications settling in my system, I read about four pages of The Scarlet Letter before I pass out again. Screw it, I’ll just watch the movie adaptation.
*
Dad calls from work at noon to check up on me. My symptoms haven’t changed—still got a raging headache and sore throat. The fact that my nose isn’t stuffed up seems to concern him. He promises to bring a swab kit home from work to sample the mucus at the back of my throat. Goodie.
“Have you been eating?’
“Soup,” I tell him.
“How’s your stomach?”
My headache and Oxy have a playdate right now, so my stomach is pretty pissed off at me. I’ve been working on the milkshake Elise left in the fridge for the past hour.
“It’s fine.”
“And your temperature?” He insists on waiting on the line while I take my temperature. It’s one degree above normal. Dad goes through so many questions I wonder if he’s working from a list, asking if I’ve cleaned my central line today and did the skin around the port show signs of inflammation or infection; have I noticed any bruising on my body; am I resting continuously or in short blocks?
“You’re doing better than I expected,” he says, and asks me to put Mom on the phone. While they talk I head upstairs to take a shower, because I lied to Dad when I said there was no bruising—I really don’t know if there is or not. I’m still wearing the same pajamas I slept in last night and haven’t bothered to look at my skin all morning.
Upstairs, with my bedroom door securely locked, I strip down and stand in front of the closet mirror, inspecting myself for marks. The air feels cold on my bare skin, but I persevere. I still can’t look at my face in the mirror without cringing, but the reasons have changed—with the weight gain it’s becoming easier to see the old me in him. It’s like watching Frankenstein’s Creature take shape, cobbled together of disjointed parts to make a hideous whole.
I take a shower with the water turned on too hot, trying to relax my aching muscles. The pleasure of it is cut short after only five minutes as the inescapable weight of cancer-fatigue creeps up my legs and spine, making the sluggishness of a head cold seem like a day at Disneyland. It’s been nearly seven months—five or less of these miserable bastards to go, if the doctors are right and I really will adapt to the transplant. Somehow, I doubt it.
The walk from the bathroom to my bed is roughly ten feet. It might as well be ten miles, the way my feet drag and my shoulders want to collapse. I fall back onto the bed after a brutal trudge and consider just napping in my bathrobe. I lay there for a few minutes, too tired to even move the blankets over my body, before it becomes clear that the cotton bathrobe isn’t going to keep me warm enough for comfort. And the dresser is a whole five feet away.
I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone. Thank God Eric doesn’t have to work today. I call him and the phone rings just across the hall.
“What’s wrong?” is his answer. He knows I wouldn’t call him from one room away without a good reason.
“I need help.” The words are barely out of my mouth before the doorknob rattles.
“Your door is locked.”
“I’ll open it.” Might as well climb Everest while I’m at it. It takes me awhile just to get up off the bed, and the walk to the door is painstaking. Every muscle in my body is demanding that I quit. I unlock the door and Eric doesn’t wait to push it open.
“What’s the matter?” He can see I’m ready to drop and puts an arm around my ribs, lending me a shoulder and practically dragging me back to bed.
“Fatigue,” I tell him.
“Should I call Dad?” I feel bad for worrying him like this. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s wearing one of those stupid blue masks around me, but his eyes are even more piercing than usual.
“No, it’s not the virus. Just regular transplant shit.”
Eric squeezes my shoulder—ow—and sighs. “Let’s get you dressed.” My brother treats me well; I barely have to move as he helps me into pajamas and tucks me into bed. He even offers to set up a laptop on the nightstand so I can watch a movie while I rest.
“Thanks, but I’ll just sleep it off.” I feel bad that he’s so good to me. Eric is normally an open book, but his face goes blank whenever he helps me with something personal or medical. Sometimes his eyes tighten when he looks at me and I know he’s hiding disgust. I don’t want to bother him more than is necessary.
“I’ll let Mom know you’re up here,” he says. Eric goes to shut the blind and I ask him not to. I like the sunlight on my bed. It keeps me warm.
“Sure. Sleep well.” He puts my cell phone on my pillow, just in case, and leaves me to rest.
“Thanks, bro.”
*
When I wake up my head feels like a bowling ball and it is fucking arctic in here. I reach out a hand to grab my meds off the nightstand and why are they so far away? Come here. Come here, damn it. Misbehaving fucking pills.
My head feels like a bowling ball about to explode under pressure. I can’t keep my eyes open. The light burns and what time is it? Waking or sleeping? School or weekend? I reach out a hand and the pills don’t come any closer. Is that my hand? It can’t be, it’s too small.
Why is there no water? I had a glass of water. Eyes aren’t open, that’s why. Open them and it burns and my head feels like a bowling ball about to explode under the pressure of Niagara fucking Falls. So cold…wet. I had a glass of water. Why is there no water?
Sound hurts everything, even the places that shouldn’t even have nerve endings. There’s pressure in my chest, but not nearly as much as in my bowling-ball-bomb-under-the-falls skull. Open my eyes and light sears straight through my brain.
Cover my head. That hand is moist. It’s heavy. Get it off the head, before it explodes and takes your hand with it. I knew a guy, once…
“Jem?”
Like it’s that easy to trick me into opening my eyes. Keep them closed. Where’s the water?
Blinding pain and arctic fucking cold. I have no head.
Metal on my tongue. Not this again. How many days this time? How much poison? No water, never mind, I’ll just throw it up. Am I going to throw up? Is that why I can’t breathe? Chest—stomach—chest?—where’s the pain? Which of my overlapping aches spells trouble?
Drip, drip, drip down the back of my throat. My tongue is dry. My nose is bleeding backwards.
“Mom!” Sound shatters every nerve and how can my nose bleed when I don’t have a head? Am I asleep? I can’t taste the blood; my tongue is too dry. Water. Eyes open…
The shadow that blocks the sun can’t see the blood. It’s going to overflow my mouth. My swollen, dry tongue will choke it. The hand moves to make her understand—it didn’t get blown off.
Drip. Drip. Look at it—it’s right there. Blood. Blood. How much more chemo? Doesn’t matter. Gonna bleed to death.
The shadow moves and the light blinds. Grab. Don’t leave. It’s soft and my head is going to explode again. Shattered in the cold.
“Willa.” She knows about suffering. She’ll see it going drip drip drip down my throat. Did she make me bleed?
“She’s here.” The shadow is lying. I know it like I know there’s supposed to be water. Water and Niagara Falls and I knew a guy…
Elise: June 7 to 10
Wednesday the 7th of June. Windy.
We only crave
Peace
When we don’t have it.
When it’s shattered by the
Chaos
Of that thing called
Life.
Dad’s Beatles compendium makes good homework music. I round off my English homework as John tells me to give peace a chance, and I close my books with a satisfied sigh.
I head down the hall to Jem’s room, even if only to watch him sleep. He’s been doing pretty well with his cold so far, even though his immune system is weak. There’s nothing to be done for a virus except what Tylenol and orange juice can accomplish.
I find Jem curled up under his blanket like a mole in a hole. He coughs and I offer to get him some water as I circle the bed to face him.
Jem looks like death warmed over. Mom was just in here an hour ago. Why didn’t she do something for him? He’s shivering so badly that his teeth chatter and his skin is moist and clammy. He coughs again and won’t open his eyes when I tell him to.
“You feel really warm.” I go through his bathroom cabinet to find the thermometer and try to take his temperature. He keeps talking, saying “Poison, poison,” and won’t take the thermometer in his mouth. I have to hold his jaw like a dog’s and support the thermometer under his tongue myself. He’s burning up.
“Mom!”
When I push back Jem’s blanket I find his pajamas and sheets soaked with sweat. Mom comes in, followed closely by Dad and Eric, and I can see by the look on her face that this isn’t the way she left Jem an hour ago. His fever must have spiked rapidly.
I show Mom the thermometer. Jem is still muttering to himself, saying nonsensical things. His fever is so high that he’s delirious.
“Stay with him.” Mom takes me by the shoulders and stands me directly beside Jem while she runs to the kitchen. She comes back with a plastic bag and starts to collect his medication bottles to bring to the hospital. She’ll need the obscenely huge binder with all his recent medical records, too.
Dad does a quick series of examinations: temperature, pulse, sweat pattern, eye clarity, and then announces that he’s going to start the car and bring it around to the front door.
Eric dumps out Jem’s backpack on the desk and starts to gather the comfort things he’ll need if he’s admitted to the hospital: pajamas, underwear, toothbrush…
Jem grabs the front of my t-shirt and twists. The heat of his fever has cracked the normally dry skin around his knuckles, and I get a few drops of blood on me. I can’t understand much of what Jem says, but he’s pretty insistent about his nonsense.
Eric tries to wrap him in a blanket for the trip to the hospital, but Jem’s slow thrashing and his stubborn clinging to the front of my t-shirt make it difficult. He starts saying Willa’s name in varying tones—first questioning, then with relief, and again with a sense of fearful urgency. Assuring him that she’s right here is the only way to get him to stop wriggling, though he doesn’t let go of my shirt. I have to pry his hand away one finger at a time so Eric can carry him downstairs. My temporary absence distresses him and he begins to whimper for me in between coughs. He asks Eric if I’m awake yet.
He’s downright delirious—he thinks I’m still in the hospital.
“I’m right here,” I tell him. It takes him all of about thirty seconds to forget and start asking again.
I open the rear door of Mom’s car and crawl in first. Eric carefully sets Jem on the back seat and I hold him upright while we adjust the blanket and his position. His coughs are shallow and he’s whimpering like he’s in pain.
Mom takes the passenger seat and Dad drives. How many times are we going to have to make this drive to the hospital, four of us panicking while the fifth flirts with disaster?
*
Dad’s job at the hospital helps with admission in the ER. He’s a trauma surgeon; he works with these nurses and doctors every day. The RN that admits Jem knows my brother by sight. She’s admitted him before, but he’s usually a little more conscious.
There are no beds immediately available, so they park the hospital wheelchair we brought him in with at triage and take his blood pressure and temperature. The nurse has to lift his head for him and hold his jaw to keep the thermometer in place.
Mom, Eric, and I get pushed out into the waiting room, but not before the nurse announces to the on-call doctor that Jem’s fever is at thirty-eight-point-six degrees. That’s not so bad, if I put it in perspective. I was pushing forty degrees last winter before I lost consciousness. But I wasn’t a cancer patient.
Dad insists on staying with Jem at triage, but can’t do much about the nurses who direct the rest of the family into the waiting area.
This is the part I hate. These rooms, with their rows of chairs and outdated magazines and large clocks on the wall, are the home of helpless desperation. This past year I have spent far too much time sitting in these rooms, feeling useless, waiting to hear news about my brother. Why can’t Obliviate work in real life?
Mom starts to cry and Eric folds her into a hug.
“I’m going to go get coffee.”
*
The hospital cafeteria has a limited menu at this time of night. All the dinner items are long sold out. I pour myself a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and grab a seat near the window. I don’t want to go back to the waiting room yet, even though I know that in five minutes, the possibility of missing important news will drive me back to Mom and Eric.
Coffee is my good luck charm. Whenever I have to wait for news like this, I have a cuppa and take an extra Ritalin to balance the jolt. It sounds stupid, but it’s a ritual that has, thus far, yielded pretty good results. I think I had an entire pot to myself when I was waiting to hear if I was a suitable donor for Jem. I had unbelievably good luck that day.
I finish one cup and buy another. I use the last of my spare change on the coffee and a blueberry scone for Eric. I take it back to the waiting room to find that nothing has changed.
“How much have you had?” Eric nods to my coffee cup as I hand him the scone.
“One and a half.”
“Should you be having caffeine right now?” He nods to the double doors that separate the waiting area from the emergency room.
“Damn,” I mutter, and hand the cup to him to finish it. If the doctors tap me for a donation, Jem is going to get quite a jolt off it. Elise Juice comes laced with Ritalin and caffeine, on tap and a perfect thirty-seven degrees.
“Have you eaten?” Eric holds out the scone to me. I
take a bite and give the rest back to him. “You’re one tough chick, you know that?” he says to me, and then eats the remainder of the scone in one bite. This is harder on him than it is on me, I think. I’m not entirely helpless. I can keep myself healthy, in ready shape to be a harvest zone for spare parts. I’m tough enough to keep taking it—the healthy lifestyle, the threat of being sliced open, the pain and infections, etc. It’s easier to focus and do that than it is to sit here, doing nothing. Jem and I are bonded by the shared medical consequences of his diagnosis. And Eric… he’s the solid foundation of this family that we all take for granted far too often.
“Thanks, bro.”
He gives me a dollar and tells me to go buy some orange juice. Eric is my homeboy. Jem is my hero.
Thursday the 8th of June. Sunny.
Thousands of droplets
Hit the windows every minute
But the only ones I hear are the
Drip
Drip
Drip
Of the IV
The ride to school doesn’t feel complete without Jem stretched out across the back seat. I miss his snoring and brooding and complaining. When we pull into the parking lot I see Willa leave her car to come join us. She doesn’t know what happened to Jem yet.
Eric and I turn to each other and extend fists. We Rock-Paper-Scissors for who has to tell her. Eric loses.
When Willa approaches the car he starts off by giving her a hug. Way to tip her off to bad news, bro.
“I guess he’s still feeling sick?” she says.
“We had to take him to the hospital last night. His fever spiked.” There’s something comforting about the fact that Willa doesn’t immediately panic.
“Did they admit him?”
“He spent the night.”
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