five - eureka!
every action comes with consequence, but most fail to realize that every consequence has its own action.
☆☆☆
Roughly six days after the "incident" occured, thirteen different attempts at explaining the Bronchiole Syndrome to her, two more "attacks" as I call them now, sixty more pages of Where The Sidewalk Ends, and countless more tears, Delilah is finally well enough to start writing again. In fact, she insists on it, telling us that each day out of practice impairs her writing skills. Finally, after days of bugging us for her journal, Ana drives home and brings it to her, complaining to me on the phone all the way there and back. "She can survive a week or two without this dumb journal!" Ana yells at me through the phone. Unfortunately, Delilah hears this crude remark and demands the phone to defend her alleged "dumb" journal. Instead of giving her the phone, I tell her that mama didn't mean to call it dumb, that it was just a slip of the tongue, before telling Ana to be more careful and hanging up with her.
Overall, our stay at the hospital so far has been pretty pleasant. I've gotten loads of work done, almost to the point of curing Plumo-Turgescence, the food here is decent, and best of all, I get to be with my daughters and wife. Yes, that may seem cliché, but it's always true. Just being with the people I love makes me want to jump up and dance. I want to sing, and laugh, and cry of joy all at the same time. I'm so lucky to have such a loving and caring and supportive family, and even if things aren't exactly "going our way" now, I'd like to eventually believe that they will.
When Ana arrives with the pastel blue journal no bigger than a small picture frame, Delilah seems cross at first but eventually brightens up at the sight of the journal. "Papa, can I make this a real book one day? Like Shel Silverstein?" she asks me after about an hour of me working, her writing, Callie drawing, and mama typing. "You can do anything you want if you just put your mind to it, Lovely," I tell her, a smile prancing across my cherry lips.
This much is true, for a few minutes later, I'm on to something and need to get to "the lab," as we call it, as soon as possible. Delilah looks at me with an unfathomable amount of hope strewn across her periwinkle eyes, and asks me, "Are you finding a cure for me, papa?"
I don't want to get her hopes up, but at the same time, what kind of father would I be to crush them? "Well... maybe," I reply, "We'll see. It might be a while, Delilah." This comment doesn't seem to phase her in the slightest, for she looks up at me with the widest smile imaginable stretched across her fatigued features. "Okay, papa. Bye-bye!"
"Bye-bye!" I laugh, taking my laptop and all of my papers and running out of the hospital. This could be it, I could cure my Lovely. This is it.
I create four different variances of the antibiotic, putting them all into the petri dish and then into the incubator, hoping that a miracle will occur, hoping that I'll save my daughter. I can save her, if this works. I put the incubator on a higher setting to help it run faster, which is sometimes risky but I don't have the time to play it slow. If Delilah has another attack... well, let's just say, she won't fare nicely against it.
The last attack she had, a day or two ago, she almost died from. I thought she was going to for certain, as I was standing over her telling her to "Let go... you can just let go," and "It's okay Delilah, we love you, it's okay to let go of all the pain..." But, once again, a miracle occured and the doctors helped her before we had to face 'letting go.'
Twelve hours later and multiple buckets of sweat, the incubator has run its course. I slowly take the petri dish out of the incubator, careful not to drop it, before looking at its contents. Of the four specimen I put in, two of them worked— one of them especially well! My elation is immeasurable, for I could have just saved Delilah. I could gain my daughter back, forever! I roughly sketch a quick image of what the petri dish looks like in my notes, before rushing to make more of this antibiotic and send copies to the FDA and my daughter. The FDA to get it approved and make sure it's safe, and Delilah because I want to save her.
This could work, this could work.
a/n no italics again... heh heh... sorry... isamic this chapter is dedicated to you!!! ♥️♥️💞
word count: 824
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#JustWriteIt - The Bronchiole Syndrome ✅
Ficción General"I just don't want to lose her, Brendon." God, help me keep this promise. - Set in present time, "The Bronchiole Syndrome" focuses on a man who's daughter is diagnosed with a deadly syndrome commonly called The Bronchiole Syndrome that could quite...
