Performance Round

Death by the Stars

Death by the Stars

“If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers...” 

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

[ Nadia ]

            Tragic -yes, that was the word. It was the most beautiful and yet the most tragic part of my life. Or should I say “he”. But I must say the timing was cruelly fascinating.

I always thought death wasn’t that scary. It was always there hiding in my blood -looming within my blood vessels through the core of the tiniest space of my endothelium and yet I didn’t mind. It was fine, as long as it was the painless kind of death. Again, I was wrong.

            Cancer was the ironically worst kind illness in the world. Or was it AIDS? I remembered I was thinking the exact same thing about it the moment he stepped inside the room. He, Michelangelo, just a regular kid and not the famous artist, stood there at the foot of my bed. He wore that curious look of his, with his eyebrows almost aligned with each other. I secretly wished he would paint me an angel in my ceiling. The whiteness of the hospital frightened me. I wished there were wallpapers, colours, anything that would distract me from the cleanliness of that place.

            “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? Are you dying?”  I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia five years ago. I was only eight then. Michelangelo was two years older than me. But he spoke like a kid and thought like a kid so I never treated him as any older. He became my friend and he became my life.

            “Nadia…” My mother gingerly wrapped her hands on mine. I’ve never told my mother about Michelangelo. Never had the courage to do so. I was her only daughter, I was hers. I had no father and it was just the two of us before these –all of these. But she was my mother, and a sudden smile on my face was all it took for her to notice. She knew I was saved from the moment that boy walked on that door; she knew I wasn’t hers anymore and yet she acted like she didn’t. She let me live the life I’ve never had. And she let me live it the way I wanted it to.

            “Just a few more minutes, mother.” My mother and I were never good with words. She just kissed me on the forehead, a little too careful –like she was afraid a sudden touch might break me and then she left. I wanted to hold her hand a little longer. I wanted to cower in her embrace. I even wanted to steal a glance she walked out from that door. But I couldn’t.

            “Did they tell you to drink those fake drinks too? Blah, taste like worms and leaves and roots…”  Michel -always trying to be funny even when he wasn’t making any sense. He was right that time though, the medicines taste awful. He was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma when he was five years old. And since he was thin and frail, his body couldn’t cope at the sudden transmutations made by the cancer.

He had to live in the hospital. Most patients would want to go out and enjoy the world, but Michel wanted to stay and try to make the hospital his world instead.

            “So you’re saying you like me too but you think your mother wouldn’t approve even though we’re both dying? Wait, what? Did you just say I taste bad?”  I never thought I was a kid, not for a single moment that I was with him. I always imagined myself talking to a grown man. A grown man who always tries to be funny even when the situation contradicted it.

I was the weird girl at school. I was smart. I read a lot of books. I watched a lot of movies. And if that wasn’t weird enough when they asked me to write an essay about how I could change the world I gave them a different point of view of the movie Godfather.

Leukemia made it all easier. People treated me with more attention, with pity and with compassion. Feelings I’ve never wanted. Easier because at least at the hospital I wouldn’t have to fake a smile for them. The needles on my arms and the dark circles under my eyes and the shaved head of mine gave it all away.

But it was beautiful… because Michelangelo was there. And for the first time I felt whole.

“Me, afraid of ghosts? Psh, nothing can scare me. Except for those gooey meds. And nurse Martha.” That was the night we’d sneaked out of our rooms and into the lobby. Nurse Martha said that ghosts lingered every night passed ten o’clock on the corridors but Michel wouldn’t let it go. He said that “Pursuit of Happiness” was the movie of the month in HBO and that he had to watch it again. I watched him cried that night. Martha found us halfway of the movie but ended up watching it with us.

“Someday I’m going take you to the clouds.”  It was weird how he sounded more mature than he always had but I could see a child’s soul in his eyes. That was two days ago.

Two days ago we were just fooling around like always -making fun of our bald heads and running around with his wheel chair. Of course, we weren’t allowed to do all of that but they were more than reluctant to stop us both. He had always been frail, and I’ve already stopped myself from noticing so to avoid this type of situation. I knew it would happen eventually. This wasn’t a fairy tale. It never was and I knew that. I just needed more time. I never wanted a new life, a new body or a new name. I never wanted a new version of me or a better version of Michelangelo. I never wanted a life with a healthy body and a love that will last until our hairs turned into silvery white. I just wanted more time.

So I came back on the very first time we’ve met and on what I was thinking about. Oh right, about cancer. How it was ironic, how mankind studied every bit of our body. Every parts, and every little details about it. They said that when you get wounded your blood delivers different type of cells that will attack foreign microorganisms in your wound and will later on fix it and replace it with new tissue, new skin and will leave with just an occasional scar. How beautiful is that? But then abnormal production of cells, to be precise the abnormal increase of the division of a particular cell might just lead to cancer. My bone marrow malfunctioned and produced these little, abnormal, microscopic cells that became the bane of my existence.

I just wanted more time. Not all of it, not everything, just enough for me to say goodbye.

“Nadia, dear, I’m sorry… We have to go.” As I stared at his peaceful face I forgot all the happy memories we’ve had. I forgot everything that had happened. The cancer, the changes, the tragedy of everything and all the possibilities. It was just that face, the freckles on that pointy nose and the black circles under his eyes. I wanted to see his eyes, I wanted those charcoal, grey eyes to open even just for a moment but I knew that will never happen. Never again.

I remember telling him that I will die sooner than the others. I wished he was part of that “others” but we both knew he can’t be. He was like the stars. And that made it tragic and beautiful at the same time. I can only see it if I allow myself to stare at the cold, black velvet of the night sky.

            He was fifteen when he died.

Michelangelo, a son, a survivor and a friend.

            “I will always remember you on the flickering lights on the sky.”