Our Bittersweet Lives

[eight]

At school, everyone seems to know what happened within 5 minutes on Monday morning. I'm sick already of all the sympathetic glances and people I've never spoken to coming up to me, patting my shoulder and saying "I'm so sorry to hear about May..." or something along those lines. At first it was nice, don't get me wrong. But on the 78th 'comforting shoulder pat' only ten minutes into the day, I hope you can understand my annoyance.

To make it worse, all the teachers know too. They all smile sadly at me and my friends as we walk into class.

The day passes in a blur of kind words, lessons and sausage rolls for lunch. The girls and I are going to visit May whenever we can.

The whole day, we all feel like a part of our souls is missing. There is a huge gaping black hole right in the centre of us. It's always there, looming in the back of our minds.

    ****

Each day, we walk through life in a dream. We have no way of knowing what is really going on. We hardly speak. We all have tears in our eyes almost constantly. We miss May and our hearts are yearning for her smile, her laughter, her stupid jokes and her crazy hand gestures.

One ordinary Tuesday, a month and a half later, the girls and I are all going to visit May after school at the hospital. We all take the train together, squeezing through the buggy barrier on my, and the twins' train cards. It's really busy with school kids so the man at the counter doesn't even glance at us. We sit bunched into four seats on the train and pass the journey in silence. I have my headphones in and am listening to 'Supermarket Flowers'. When we arrive at the station, I am the first off the train. I feel sort of uncomfortable with my friends now, and I think they feel the same. It's so hard without May. She was like the sun, and we are all moons, reflecting her light and happiness. Or maybe she wasn't. But it feels like she was now that she isn't here.

Maybe we are all torches and mirrors, and being with other torches makes us all shine brighter.

At the hospital, the lady at reception gives us a warm smile and tells us to "go on up." She knows exactly who we are now.

We all take the stairs, me huffing and puffing away as quietly as I can. As we reach room 341, the kind elderly doctor (who's name I still don't know) is standing outside.

My heart skips a beat. In all the times I've been here, the doctor has never met us outside.

"Hello ladies." He greets us, but there is none of his usual laughter in his eyes. I grab Regina and Zoe's hands and squeeze tightly.

The doctor ushers us into the orange chairs opposite the room, the same ones we sat in that terrible night that feels like a lonely lifetime ago. We all sit.

"As you know, May Trisk-Allen, the patient in room 341, has now been in a coma for seven weeks now. Several times during that time, we have had to... do more than we should have had to do to keep her alive. Her body and heart are simply, well, giving up on her. As a team, we have made a very difficult but necessary decision - if Miss Trisk-Allen does not wake up in the next four weeks, we are going to have to take her off life support. I'm sorry."

We all stand in stunned silence for a few moments, the Kate says,

"So you don't think shes going to wake up, therefore you are giving up on her. That's what you're telling us, isn't it?" She goes to say more, but Zoe puts a calming hand on her shoulder and Kate shrinks back, horror on her face, and starts to cry.