The Reunion of The Stars

Part Four

My life, thus far, has been shit.

No.

That's not true.

It's been shit since last July. Since Augustus died.

I think I've just begun to realize how much I hate the term "passed on". It's a glorious euphemism for one of the simplest aspects of human life, the force that'll take us all in the end: death.

What about that is hard to understand? It's not so bad, dying. We're all dying, really. Ticking closer and closer to our own personal D-Day with every passing second. It just so happens that it'll come sooner for some of us than others. 

But anyway, yea. My shitty life.

See, winter's almost over. Well, I say winter, though strictly speaking, the past season's been nothing but damp and depressing. Every single flake of snow had turned to slush within a week, rendering it a pestilence rather than something that could be appreciated. 

ANYWAY, winter's almost over, and buds are starting to bloom on the trees and bushes outside our house. I can see them from my bedroom window, serving as a sort of grim reminder that I probably won't live long enough to see them flourish. I think about this a lot.  My mother's little garden is going  to outlast me. I'm sure of it.

But it's not as though I see them all that often. Most nights I sleep at the hospital, under the watchful eye of both my Regular Doctor Jim and my oncologist, Maria. The drainings are becoming extremely frequent-- the last two were only six days apart. It's been a week since then and I can already feel the fluid rapidly building up, threatening to pull me under.   I've lost weight, too; dull eyes sitting in their sockets, lodged between pale, gaunt cheeks; I look like death. 

It goes without saying that Phalanxifor has stopped working. Not only that, but it mutated. Something science-y that I don't quite understand and don't really care about, if I'm being perfectly honest. Understanding what is happening to my body isn't going to stop it from killing me.

Right, so according to my Regular Doctor Jim I'm supposed to be thinking positively right now. That seems to be going along swimmingly.  I just can't seem to stop thinking about dying.

                                                                                            ****

"Mom, I am not going to the meeting. There is no way." We were sitting in my bedroom, her on my bed, me in my wheelchair. Watery sunlight filtered through the window, but provided no warmth. 

"Hazel, you kind of have to. I called ahead and told Patrick you were going. And it's not just a regular meeting, it's a--"

"A 'Gathering in Celebration of Those We Lost,'" I finished, cutting her off. "Yea, I know, I read the email. It sounds kinda, sorta like utter horseshit."  

"Isaac's going," she offered. I waved a frail hand dismissively, a thick cough escaping my lips. Mom's eyes widened in concern, but I shook my head, letting her know it wasn't serious.

"We just saw each other yesterday. I mean, I saw him, he didn't see me, but we hung out. He'll understand."

Mom sighed, exasperated. "You know what? Fine. Don't go. It doesn't matter to me. I just thought it would be fun for you." She stood up and left the room in a huff, leaving me feeling both bewildered and a little bad about hurting her feelings.

I coughed. Not a big deal, usually, but it seemed different this time. More urgent. I shut my mouth, desperate to make it stop, but after a few seconds, I choked and let another one escape my lips, leaving me even more breathless than I was before. I moved my bony arms to the massive wheels of my chair, but they shook like paper, unable to push my own body weight more than an inch. "Mom," I wheezed, drowning myself out with each cough. I could barely speak, my lungs heavy with fluid, dread crashing over me in anarchic tidal waves. "MOM."

I wasn't nearly loud enough. I didn't possess the energy to scream. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a  flowerpot sitting on my nightstand; a gift from a well-meaning neighbour. It meant shit to me now. I reached as far towards it as I could and grabbed it, clutching it with less strength than a broken old woman. I launched it across the room, where it hit the drywall with a satisfying crack, spilling soil and petals across the floor as though it were a piñata. Mom came running upstairs. "Hazel, what--" She broke off and froze, seeing the state I was in.  Without a moment's hesitation, she scooped me up easily in her arms, not bothering with the hassle of the wheelchair. "MICHAEL, START THE CAR," she screamed, running down the stairs. My eyes fluttered shut.  I heard a crash in the kitchen, probably a pot or pan, thrown out of the way as my dad staggered towards the door. And that was the last thing I could recall before slipping out of consciousness.