✔ DRUNK words, SOBER thoughts ✖ hemmings au

38: Not So Secret Sickness

ARI.

Positivity.

I didn't have a choice but to keep my mind on a simple, straight path of absolute optimism. But like life, my brain wasn't wired for candor. It was packaged without a manual and sometimes living on cloud nine doesn't always bode with the viable options life wants to throw at me. Hope can be an almighty saving grace, but in retrospect, be the ticking time bomb of disasters and heartache.

Mom wasn't doing well.

I had believed that my and Mia's presence in the hospital would boost our mother's immune system to fight off the monster of the virus that was attacking her body. I still wasn't 100% sure what was going on with my mom, and normally this is where the optimism comes in. It taps you on the shoulder, making its presence known, tugging on your heartstrings and influencing your mind to hope for the best. But I could see the needles probing my mother through her delicate skin and blueish veins. I could see the fatigue envelop her and I could see her face wince in pain. But mostly, I could see the doctors, and their expressions of severe pity as their eyes drift over to me.

"What aren't you telling me?" I didn't remember telling my brain to speak, but it seemed like my mouth had a mind of its own.

Dr. Kim lifted his gaze from the clipboard in his hands to glance over at me. I sat in a pathetically cushioned chair against the wall, where a rectangular window shined behind me.

"Your mother's vitals are improving," the doctor began, gesturing for the heart monitor with his pen, "but she seems to be in some pain, so I'll be giving her some medication to help buffer it. It's a side effect of the infusion therapy."

"That's what the nurses keep saying... infusion therapy," I stood up from the chair, setting down my math textbook down, "I looked it up. I know what it means," I glared at the doctor with my arms folded across my chest, unamused with the information this medical establishment refuses to give me. "So what medication do you keep pumping into my mom?"

"Ari," mom suddenly croaked. Her head faced me, but her eyes were still closed, "don't give the doctor any problems. Just let him do his work."

"And I'll let him get back to his work after he tells me what's wrong with you," I shouldn't have snapped, but the stress was building up and it was only a matter of time till I completely imploded into an anarchic whirlwind of emotions.

Just as my mom opened her mouth to argue, the hospital room door swung wide open. Mia walked in, holding a tray of Starbucks delicacies. She was in a messy disarray herself: yoga pants, tattered Converse, a UCLC hoodie and her thick-framed glasses adorned her face. Mia's eyes darted between me, the doctor, and our mother, with curiosity etched on her face, probably detecting the tension that radiated around us all.

"Is everything alright in here?" Mia cautiously asked, strolling further into the room to place the tray of assorted lattes and teas onto the table.

"There's something bigger going on with mom that they're not telling us," I professed, gesturing at the doctor with my arm.

"What are you trying to say?" Mia asked, her voice soft and her head cocked to the side in wonder.

"I'm saying that mom's sick. Really sick and there's some kind of agreement going on between mom and the doctors because they're not tell us shit!" I was growing frustrated by the minute because I knew it in my heart that there was more to the story than what they were leading on.

"Ari, your language," mom reprimanded.

"Mom I don't give three shits or flying fùcks about my language right now," I protested, "I want to know what the hell is wrong with you! This isn't just the flu or some minor headache. This is much more than that and I think I'm grownup to know what it is!"