Finishing Crazy

Finishing Crazy (20)

When I finish the fourth lap around the track, I collapse on the ground, crying.

This is how I’ve spent my evenings for the past week.

Running.

Collapsing.

Crying.

I can’t do it. I just can’t do it anymore. All those days of training- of biking mile after mile, of running and swimming and doing exercise until my limbs feel numb and I’m throwing up- they’re all for nothing. Months of work, so easily swept aside and rendered useless by a small orange bottle of tiny, white pills.

Every time I take them, I wonder why I do.

They leave me feeling weak and helpless and defeated- perhaps because that’s what I am now. I can barely run two miles. I used to be able to easily complete fifteen.

It’s been getting worse. There’s still a dull ache in my side, one that came back soon after I left the hospital and still hasn’t left. My mom keeps on calling the doctor about it, and the doctor keeps on increasing the amount of medication I have to take.

And on top of all that, I still have chemotherapy treatments to go to. Even though my chances of survival are almost guaranteed, I still have a few more sessions to go to before they’re completely sure.

I’m just lucky I haven’t lost my hair.

Most people loose their hair with chemo, but since it only affects cells that multiply regularly, and my hair grows abnormally slow, I’ve only lost a small amount- an amount that isn’t even noticeable by anyone but me.

I vomit into the grass on the side of the track, and a large piece of hair chooses that precise, inconvenient moment to fall in front of my mouth, becoming coated in the foul substance spilling out of my mouth.

Yes, I’m so, so lucky that I haven’t lost my hair.

It starts to rain and I jog off the track as fast as I can manage, which isn’t very fast at all. It’s more like a really light jog.

Mud splashes up to my ankles and I curse the stupid junior high I practice at for having a dirt track. The one at my high school is better, but there’s a ten foot fence surrounding the track with nowhere to enter, so I’m stuck with this muddy excuse for a track instead.

I keep on moving until I get to the water fountain, which is rusty and has wads of gum stuck all over the paint-chipped sides.  I sigh as I rinse my hair out in the fountain, taking care to avoid touching the gum with my split ends. I should get it cut soon.

Tomorrow I’ll get it cut, I say to myself as I stop pressing the button and wring my hair out. 

I take a long drink and then decide that I better go back home, since I’m going to the school football game with Bryan tonight.

.   .   .   .   .

I sit on my bed, at a loss of what I’m supposed to wear tonight. Yes, it’s technically a date. But it’s also a football game.

What do you wear to a football game date? A dress with school colors?

I decide that since that’s probably a stupid idea, I’m going casual-chic, with a pair of dark-washed jeans and my favorite black shirt. I throw on some make up to match and then slide into my favorite pair of converse.

When Bryan shows up at my house, the first thing he does is laugh.

“What?” I say, propping the door open a little further.

He’s such a brat. No “Hey, Kyra,” or “How are you doing Kyra?”

Just laughing.

“What did I do this time?” I ask, confused.