Drowning in the Distance

II | Donghyuck

"All right, I'll see you guys later." I say, winking at Johnny and closing the door to my room to give them some privacy. I come face-to-face with the empty sockets of the skull drawing on my door, an O2 mask slung over its mouth, with the words "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" written under it. That should be the slogan, the motto, for this hospital. Or any of the other fifty hospitals I've been in for the past eight months of my life. It's been a pointless cycle of admissions and discharges, a dragged-out and painfully long few months. 

I squint down the hallway to see the double doors swinging shut behind the girl I saw moving into a room down the hall earlier today, her scuffed white Vans disappearing onto the other side, the mismatching colours of her clothing disappearing along with them. She'd been by herself earlier, lugging a duffel bag big enough for about three fully grown adults, a bag much bigger than her, into room 302, but she actually looked kind of hot and, honestly, it's not every day you see a remotely attractive girl hanging around a hospital, let alone a few doors down from yours. Looking down at my sketchbook, I think for a moment. God, am I actually considering this? Eight months of isolation would do that to anyone, I guess. But the more I think about her, the more worthwhile it feels. I shrug, rolling the sketchbook in my hands up and stuffing it into my back pocket before heading down the hallway after her. It's not like I have anything better to do, and I'm certainly not trying to stay in the vicinity of room 315 for the next hour.

Pushing through the doors, I see her making her way across the grey-tiled floor, waving and chatting to just about everyone in response to their greetings as she goes, like she's putting on her own personal Macy's Parade. She steps into the large glass elevator that overlooks the east lobby, just past a large, decked out Christmas tree they must've put up early this morning, long before the Thanksgiving leftovers were eaten. I'm thankful, though. Heaven forbid they left up the horrific giant turkey display for even a minute longer. 

I watch as her hands reach up to fix her face mask, that had slipped down; it was probably too big for her small face. The familiar sight of prongs of a nose cannula meet my eyes for a split second as she pulls the mask back up, but the portable oxygen bag that sits over her shoulder practically screams cystic fibrosis as it is. Or maybe it only does so because that's the most familiar to me. She leans over to press a button, the doors slowly closing. I start climbing the open stairs by the elevator, trying not to run into anyone as I watch the elevator chug steadily to the fifth floor. Of course. I run up the stairs as fast as my lungs will carry me, managing to get to the fifth floor with enough time to go into a serious coughing fit and recover from my uncontrollable hacking before she exits the elevator and disappears around a corner. I rub my chest with one hand, clearing my throat and taking a shaky breath before following her down a couple of hallways and onto the wide, glass-encased bridge leading to the next building. Even though she only got here this morning, she clearly knows where she's going; judging from her pace and the fact she apparently knows every single person in the building, I wouldn't be surprised if she were actually the owner of the place. I've been here two weeks, and it took me until a day ago to figure out how to sneak safely from my room to the cafeteria over in Building 2, and I am by no means directionally challenged. At least, I would say so, Johnny may attest to that. I've been in so many hospitals over the years, so figuring out how to get around them is what counts as a hobby and a pastime to me now. 

She stops just short of a set of double doors, the large sign overhead reading: 'EAST ENTRANCE: NEONATAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT' and peeks through the glass panels in one of the doors before she pushes them open. The NICU. Huh. Having kids when you have CF falls into the super difficult category, something, alongside many other things, that most of us with CF will never get to experience. I've heard of girls with CF bumming hard over it, but going to look at the babies she might never have is another level. That's just fucking depressing. There are a lot of things that piss me off about my disease, but that's not one of them. Pretty much all guys with CF are infertile, which at least means I don't have to worry about getting anyone pregnant and starting my own shit show of a family, something that I know many guys my age wish they had going for them right now. I'm guessing they wouldn't want the fallout, though.