Drowning in the Distance

I | Y/N

I trace the outline of my sister's drawing, lungs molded from a sea of flowers. Petals burst out from every edge of the twin ovals in soft pinks, deep whites, even heather blues, but somehow each one has a uniqueness, a vibrancy that feels like it'll bloom forever. Some of the flowers haven't blossomed yet, and I can feel the promise of life just waiting to unfold from the tiny buds under the weight of my finger. Those are my favourites. I wonder, all too often, what it would be like to have lungs this healthy. This alive. To feel like I didn't have to battle my own body every morning in order to make it through the day, to survive. I take a deep breath, feeling the air fight its way in and out of my body. I hold the breath for as long as I can, counting the whole 8 seconds out before coughing and spluttering for a gulp of oxygen. Would I still be cursed in the afterlife? Condemned to a life of struggle beyond life itself? 

I sigh; I'd once believed in God, in Heaven, but as things got harder and my health got increasingly worse, I couldn't help but ask myself the big question. What kind of God, a saviour of the people, would leave the world in ruin? Would infect the unborn, the blank canvases, and denounce their lives as less worthy? It seemed too messed up, too abhorrent, to accept. My attention falls back to the art as my hand sinks, slipping off the last petal of the last flower, fingers dragging through the background of stars, each pinpoint of light that Yeji drew a separate attempt to capture infinity. I clear my throat, pulling my hand away, and lean over to grab a picture of us from off my bed. Identical smiles peek out from underneath thick wool scarves, the holiday lights at the park down the street twinkling above our heads just like the stars in her drawing. There was something magical about it. The soft glow of the lampposts in the park, the white snow clinging to the branches of the trees, the quiet stillness of it all. We nearly froze our asses off for that picture last year, but it was our tradition. Me and Yeji, braving the cold to go see the holiday lights together. This photo always makes me remember that feeling. The feeling of going on an adventure with my sister, just the two of us, the world expanding like an open book.

I take a push-pin and display the picture next to the drawing before sitting down on my bed and grabbing my pocket notebook and pencil off my bedside table. My eyes travel down the long to-do list I made for myself this morning, starting with "#1: Plan to-do list," which I've already put a satisfying line through, and going all the way down to "#22: Contemplate the afterlife." As often as fleeting thoughts on the topic seemed to pop into my head, to fully complete number 22 and come to a fulfilling conclusion was probably just a little ambitious for a Friday afternoon, but at least for now I can cross off number 17, "Decorate walls." I look around the formerly stark room I've spent the better part of the morning making my own, once again, the walls now filled with the artwork that Yeji's given me through the years, bits of colour and life jumping out from clinical white walls, each one a product of a different trip to the hospital. Me with an IV drip in my arm, the bag bursting with butterflies of different shapes and colours and sizes. Me wearing a nose cannula, the cable twisting to form an infinity sign. Me with my nebulizer, the vapour pouring out of it forming a cloudy halo. Then there's the most delicate one, a faded tornado of stars that she drew my very first time here. It's not as polished as her later stuff, but somehow that makes me like it more. And right underneath all that vibrancy is... my pile of medical equipment, sitting right next to a hideous green, plastic hospital chair that comes standard for every room here at Saint Evangeline's. I eye the empty IV pole warily, knowing my first of many rounds of antibiotics over the next month is exactly an hour and nine minutes away. Lucky me.

"Here it is!" A voice calls from just outside my room. I look up as the door slowly creaks open and two familiar faces appear in the small crack of the doorway. Karina and Tzuyu, my best friends since early childhood, have visited me here a million times in the past decade, and they still can't get from the reception desk to my usual location without asking every single person, both staff and visitors, in the building for directions.