Make Me Whole

Chapter 02

Chapter 02 - Romy

So, as it turns out, almost dying is not fun.

Laying in a hospital bed and being told that, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, your organs are shutting down systemically, your leg is decaying whilst poisoning the rest of your body and they should probably lop it off to hopefully, maybe save you, isn't fun. Over hours realising that you can't really breathe that well anymore, having doctors knock you out with no promise of ever being able to wake you up—also not fun. Waking up with half a pinky finger and, probably more importantly, a missing leg... not fun. Being told that your kidneys aren't doing the one thing they're supposed to do, they hope they'll fix themselves but until then you'll need dialysis, is also not fun.

They couldn't even do a normal dialysis port because my veins are puny and fragile and stupid—like my entire immune system, apparently. Now, I'm stuck with a tube coming out just below my collarbone that I can't get wet and is—terrifyingly—connected to my heart.

Honestly, the only mildly fun thing about it was seeing my brother again. For the first time in five years.

But that was overshadowed by his smothering, though I know it came from a place of love. He was just all over everything, organising physiotherapists, making sure nothing—and I mean nothing—got leaked, checking in with doctors on dialysis and when I could leave France. He also put me on what I'm lovingly referring to as an anti-diet, a fancy term for fattening me up.

Each time he brings me food like a prized pig, all I can think of is what my agent would say... or my mother for that matter.

For years I'd look at good, tasty, greasy or sugary food, give it a sniff and then eat a salad without dressing. It was depressing.

But that life is over, I'm now destined for a life as an ex-model shut-in. Where all people can talk about is what happened to them. But, if I have anything to do with it, they won't ever know. I'll just exit stage left and be all mysterious. Perhaps buy an island and pay someone a fuck ton to do the living off the land for me so I can just enjoy the fruits of their labour.

I never wanted any of it, the glitz and glamour weren't the plan, but I was forced into it and unfortunately very good at it. Once in the limelight, I couldn't get away from it; I had no one to run to, everyone I had cut off in an effort to get the attention I craved. It wasn't until I kind of, almost died, a little bit, that the person I desperately wanted approval from, ran away, and the people I cut off, picked me up.

"Lola, we gotta slow down," I complain. Hands hooked above my head, each wrapped around the opposite elbow in an effort to open up more room for my scarred lungs to function. "Need I remind you that spending almost a month straight in bed means you no longer have endurance?" My heaving chest is honestly embarrassing.

And to think I once ran a marathon? Now I couldn't walk briskly away from Michael fucking Myers.

A high-pitched laugh erupts beside me and I glare down at my niece. The teenager stares at her phone, probably texting some boy with a pathetic excuse for a beard. She, shockingly, didn't want to come with her mother and Aunt for a tragically slow walk. I think she wanted to spend her afternoon lying on her bed, twirling her hair and kicking her feet.

I can't blame her.

I think I'm jealous.

She's at the age I was when I made a catastrophically bad decision, a decision that ended up with a missing pinky—also failing kidneys and one and a half legs. Somehow I'm more sour about the pinky than the rest.

"Mum, can I go back? I wanna go to KJ's, I already told you about it," Stella lies. She most definitely did not already tell Lola about this, but we all know the others know that. With a tip of her head, Lola lets her daughter go, and with that, the teen skips off, down the road.