Vapor

Chapter one

  Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in my bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, abd devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.

  Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. But my mom believed I required treatment so she took me to see my regular doctor Jin, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly support group.

  This support group featured a rotating csst of characters in various states of tumor - driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying.
  The support group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone - walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.

  I noticed this because Troy, the support Group leader and only person over eighteen in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus Every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young Cancer survivors, were sitting right in Chris's very sacred heart and whatever.

  So here's how it went in God's heart : the six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, grazed at s decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Troy recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story-how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn't die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way toward a master's degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped lo those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spread what only the most generous soul would call his life.
  AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY!
  Then we introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Diagnosis. And how we're doing today. Im Elena, I'd say when they'd get to me. Sixteen. Thyroid originally but with an impressive and long - settled satellite colony in my lungs. And I'm doing okay.

  Once we got around the circle, Troy always asked if anyone wanted to share. And then began the circle jerk of of support: everyone talking about fighting and battling and winning abd shirking and scanning. To be fair to Troy, he let us talk about dying , too. But most of them weren't dying. Most would live into adulthood, as Troy had.

  The only redeeming facet of support group was this kid named Calum, a long-faced, skinny guy with straight brown hair swept over one eye.

  And his eyes were the problem. He had some fantastically improbable eye cancer. One eye had been cut out when he was a kid, and now he wore the kind of thick glasses that made his eyes (both the real one and the glass one) preternaturally huge, like his whole head was basically just this fake eye and this real eye staring at you. From what I could gather on the rare occasion when Calum shared with the group, a recurrence had placed his remaining eye in mortal peril.

  Calum and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs. Each time somone discussed anticancer diets or snorting group-up shark fin or whatever, he'd glance over to me and sigh ever so slightly. I'd shake my head microscopically and exhale in response.

  So support group blew, and after a few weeks , I grew to be rather Kicking and screaming about the whole affair. In fact , on the Wednesday I made the acquaintance of Luke Hemmings, I tried  my level best to get out of support group while sitting on the couch with my mom in the third leg of a twelve - hour marathon of the previous season's American's Next Top Model , which admittedly I had already seen, but still.

  "I refuse to attend the support group." I stated before pulling my knees to my chest with a frown decorating my face. "One if the symptoms of depression is disinterest in activities." My mom said with straight face, I sighed annoyed "please just let me watch my show. its an activity too." I said with my eyes glued to the screen. "Television is a passivity." My mom said as she looked over at me, "ugh, Mom, please!" " Elena, you're a teenager. You're not a little kid anymore. You need to make friends, get out of the house, and live your life." She said as she placed her hand on my shoulder showing care and worry "if you want me to be a teenager, don't send me to support group. Buy me a fake ID so I can go to clubs, drink vodka, and take pot." I chuckled at my request knowing it was absurd but something I actually want " You dont take pot for starters." My mom stated getting impatient "see? That's the kind of thing I'd know if you got me a fake ID." I said with straight face. "you're going to support group." "UGH!!" I groaned as I push my face in the pillow "Elena you deserve a life." She suddenly said after few seconds of watching my dramatic act.

  That shut me up, although I failed to see how attendance at support group met the definition of life. Still, I agreed to go-after negotiating the right to record the 1.5 episodes of ANTM I'd be missing.

I hope you like it so far 💕💕