Drowning in the Distance

IX | Y/N

Dr. Moon, who continually insists that I call him Taeil to no avail, frowns as I lift up my shirt, his dark eyebrows knitting together as he inspects the infected skin around my G-tube. I wince, hissing slightly as he gently prods the inflamed red skin, and he mumbles an apology at my reaction. When I woke this morning, I'd been pulling on a sweater and noticed that the infection had gotten worse. When I looked closer and saw the discharge oozing around it, I pressed the call button immediately, asking Chaeyoung to call Dr. Moon down here for an infection. After a further minute of examination, he finally stands, exhaling a deep breath.

"Let's try Bactroban and see how it looks in a day or two. Maybe we can clear it up, huh?" I pull my shirt down, shooting him a doubtful look. I've already been at the hospital a week, and while my fever has gone down and my sore throat is gone, this stupid thing has only gotten worse. He reaches out and gives my arm a comforting squeeze; I hope he's right, though. Because if he's not, that means surgery. And that'd be the exact opposite of not worrying Mum and Dad... No. I shouldn't think about it. Be positive. Bactroban will fix things up. My phone chirps, and I look over, expecting it to be Haechan, but I see a message from my mum.

Cafeteria for lunch? Meet me in 20?

'Twenty' means she's about to leave the house. I've been putting off meeting her all week, telling her that things are so routine, so ordinary, that she'd be bored, but I know she won't take no for an answer this time, despite how much I'd like her to. I text back a yes, asking her to bring the acoustic guitar with her, and sigh, standing from the bed to get changed.

"Thanks, Dr. Moon." He sends me a playfully stern look to which I chuckle. "You know, if my name was Dr. Moon, I'd never get tired of hearing it. But fine, maybe I'll start calling you Taeil. Maybe, no promises!" He grins and I send him a small smile.

"About time! It's only been, what, ten years?" He chuckles. "Keep me updated, Y/N. I'll let Doyoung know so that he can keep an eye on it too." He speaks gently, pulling the door closed behind him, my ears picking up the familiar sound of the latch clicking into place.

I pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, scribbling a note to myself to add Bactroban to the schedule in my app. Stepping over to my med cart, I grab the small bottle of Creon that sits under 'C', pushing it into the pocket of my trousers. Pulling on a face mask and gloves, I step out of my room, onto the ward, pushing out through the double doors and heading up in the elevator and across into Building 2. Take a deep breath. Smile. My mum is already standing outside the cafeteria when I turn the corner to the cafeteria, her hair in a messy, and I mean truly messy, bun, dark circles hanging heavily underneath her eyes. God, she looks thinner than I do. She steps towards me and I give her a big hug, trying not to wince when the contact rubs painfully against my G-tube. Looking over her shoulder, I spot the familiar guitar case leaning up against the wall behind her and a breath of relief escapes me. It's not been long at all since I last played, but even just seeing it instils a sense of calm in my chest.

"Everything okay?" She asks, her eyes appraising me when we pull apart. I nod, pulling my face mask off to reveal a smile to her.

"Great! Treatments are a breeze, same as usual, I'm breathing better already. Is everything okay with you?" I ask, studying her face carefully. She nods in response, giving me a big smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, a big smile that's clearly trying to hide how tired she is. I try my best to ignore the overwhelming feeling of guilt that seems to lodge itself in my throat.

"Yep, everything's good!" Her voice is as unconvincing as her smile, but I don't challenge it. I know, from experience, that it'll only serve to make things worse. I pull the guitar case from the floor and sling it over the shoulder that hasn't got my portable oxygen dangling from it. Tugging my face mask back over my ears, we join the back of the long line and, once we get to the front, get our usual orders, a garden leaf salad for her, a Caesar salad and a milkshake for me, and a heaping plate of fries for the both of us to share. We manage to get a seat in the corner by the wide glass windows, a comfortable, and safe, distance away from everyone else in the cafeteria. I take my Creon, gulping them down with a mouthful of milkshake, which is equally as efficient as putting them in my pudding cups. With the guitar case resting against the seat next to me, I glance outside as we eat to see that the snow is still gently drifting from the bright clouds, a blanket of white steadily forming on the icy ground. I hope my mum leaves before it gets too bad out there, I know that the drive home takes some backroads that can get really bad whenever there's snow. I've finished my salad and most of the fries in the amount of time it takes my mother to eat about four bites of her own meal. I watch as she picks at her food with the end of her fork, her face tired; she looks like she's been searching online again, up until the early hours of the morning, reading page after page, article after article, on lung function and transplants. My dad was the only one who used to be able to keep her calm, pulling her away from whatever worry spiral she was about to fall down with just a look, one singular look, comforting her in a way that nothing else could. I can't stop the words tumbling from my lips.