Sculptures - Larry Stylinson

Two

"Take a deep breath in, then relax your muscles." Dr. Cohen had been Harry's doctor since he was first diagnosed.

He was a nice man and a skilled doctor, but he unwittingly fed into his parents' hypochondriacal beliefs about his illness.
Dr. Cohen always had a pleading, guilty look in his eyes, as if he felt sorry for Harry. But Harry was fine. If anything, his slight sickness was probably just a result of the changing seasons.

"So, any news?" This time, it was Anne's voice that broke the silence. She had chosen Dr. Cohen specifically because he supposedly specialized in patients with pulmonary fibrosis.

Pulmonary fibrosis.

What even is that? Some fancy Latin-made-up word designed to make doctors seem smarter than everyone else?

When the doctors first told Harry and his family about the disease, he had no idea what it was; he had never heard of it before. Confusion and disbelief swirled in his mind as he felt lost in his own thoughts, grappling with the enormity of the situation.

Anne, on the other hand, knew. She understood all too well the implications of those words. Hearing the doctor say, "I regret to inform you that your son suffers from pulmonary fibrosis" had broken her - completely shattered her world into a million irreparable pieces.

Everyone had been in the room when the devastating news was delivered. There was Gemma, Harry's older sister, who tried to maintain a brave face. Then there was Robin, his stepfather, whose expression was a mask of shock and concern. And Niall, Harry's best friend since kindergarten, sat there in stunned silence.

The doctor had gone on to explain what the disease was. Apparently, pulmonary fibrosis is a progressive lung disease that causes scarring of the lung tissue, making it increasingly difficult for the lungs to function properly. As the scar tissue thickens, it will gradually reduce the lungs' capacity to take in oxygen, leading to shortness of breath, chronic cough, and fatigue.

Pulmonary fibrosis.

Those two little words had, in an instant, reshaped Harry's life.

Everyone around him had begun to treat him like glass ever since the news broke.

Harry is not weak.

He doesn't need people tiptoeing around him as if he might shatter with a simple touch.

Pulmonary fibrosis.

A fatal disease. A disease that will slowly destroy Harry's body.

Nonsense.
He felt fine.

Harry was jolted out of his thoughts when Dr. Cohen spoke.
"We would like to see you five times a week, Harry. The current three visits leave too big of gaps in monitoring your health."

Anne sighed next to him, her shoulders slumping in defeat, visibly upset by the doctor's words. Harry simply nodded, feeling a pang of frustration. He literally felt fine - better than fine, really. But the worry etched on his mother's face weighed heavily on him.

****

He flicked the switch, illuminating the dark room and revealing the art he had left in shadows the previous night, each piece now bathed in a soft glow.

Today would be a day of progress.

His goal was clear: to finish the marble boy's eyebrows and carve the delicate stubble of a beard, bringing him one step closer to completion.

As always, he made his way to the corner of the room to turn on his record player. Every artist needs some form of escape or a mind-clearing sound to accompany their work.