With Thanksgiving
coming up
in two weeks,
Mom and I go to
the family doctor
but not as
a family.
Everyone else has
their check up
in a next week.
I'm here
early because
StudCo will be
drowning in
the closing of the
Thanksgiving
canned food drive.
I won't be able
to pause
to breathe
in all that
collecting cans from
classrooms and
checks from
teachers and
decorated baskets
from moms who
need less
free time
and an Etsy account.
We do the usual.
The stethoscope
reminds me of
the visit
they found
the Emphysema.
My shoulder
threatens to tic
but I start
blinking rapidly,
hoping to trick
my body
into thinking
it was my face
that wanted
to twitch.
The facial tic
is noticeable, yes,
but less inconvenient
for the doctor
as he tries
to listen
to my
pathetic lungs
try to breathe.
He stands
with his
stethoscope
pressed against
my chest.
I watch his face
for any clues.
Anxiety builds.
The right side
of my face
scrunches
over
and over
and over
and over
again.
I tighten
up.
My muscles
complain;
as they're
already
sore.
The cold
stethoscope
feels heavy
against
my ribs
and I start
to feel as though
I am
being crushed.
He frowns
just slightly
as he listens
and Mom
catches on.
Before she can
ask,
my leg
jolts
and I accidentally
kick him
in the shin.
I am torn
between laughter
and horror.
The internal
laughter subsides
as my leg
continues to
shoot out
and he has to move
out of
the way of
my missile of
tendons and bones.
I apologize,
nearly losing
my balance
and falling off
the table.
Mom fills him in
and he assures
us
it's alright.
He doesn't say
if his shin
hurts.
I feel bad,
especially as I
can't stop
which creates
a spike
in my anxiety
and the
hyperventilation
comes on.
Mom comes over
to comfort me,
but I'm already
gone.
Lost in
a dark, dense forest
of panic,
I convince myself
that
my lungs have
gotten worse
that
more restrictions
are on
the way
that
Mom's stress
and payment plans
will go up
that
Jeff's ability to
pretend things
are okay
will falter
that
my step-siblings
will blame me
for stealing
and ruining
their father.
YOU ARE READING
Remember; You Have the Universe
Teen FictionCover by kyromaniak Everyone wants to be different. I just want to be like everybody else. ---- Seventeen-year-old chronically ill Emma has traded dreams of flying into space for, "Support Therapy," aka, "The Dying Kids Group," and Student Council...
