Be mine__A yoonmin fanfiction

4.Park Jimin

Jimin looked at the tall stacks of books lined up in front of him. His lips curved into an embarrassed smile. He looked around and hoped nobody had seen it. Examinations were around the corner and everyone was stressed out and high on caffeine. Jimin was high on anticipation. He had finished the course. Twice.
Jimin’s parents were ecstatic when He had cracked the Medical Examinations and decided to go to one of the best medical colleges in South Korea. Jimin had smiled, shaken hands and hugged. He knew it was just the beginning.
School never offered Him the opportunity to bury Himself in course books the way he had always wanted to. The course was never a challenge. The entrance examinations were a necessary evil. He knew he would sail through. When news broke out in His hometown that his Rank was third, cunning pot-bellied owners of coaching institutes had flocked to His place, wanting him to advertise their highly qualified staff and fully airconditioned classrooms with a picture of their most illustrious student—Park Jimin.
A few days later, He was in the local newspapers. His parents’ dreams were fulfilled. This had just taken root.
These were the first set of exams in His college.
‘You don’t look tense?’ Taehyung asked as he underlined his book with a fluorescent marker.
‘I am okay,’ He said, barely suppressing a chuckle.
He had the book Human Anatomy open in front of His. He had read it twice. He itched to read something else. His eyes had been on the book on pathology lying on the side. A second-year student was sleeping on it. He wanted to peep in, worse still, whip it away from under the senior’s head, but He didn’t want to come across as a nerd.
‘You have finished the course, haven’t you?’ Taehyung asked suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ He said and blushed. ‘But I still have to revise,’ He added.
‘But when? You spent all the time with us. When did you get the time? I didn’t see you study!’
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’
‘I won’t,’ Taehyung asked and adjusted the spectacles on his hunched nose. Obviously, he wouldn’t. Jimin knew that. Taehyung and Jimin were destined to be friends after the first roll call in their class of 335 students. Their roll numbers were consecutive, since
Taehyung’s full name was P. Taehyung where P stood for something unpronounceable. They were partners in dissection and had cut open their first corpse together —it’s the sort of thing that binds two doctors together for the rest of their lives.
Kind of what it means for two engineering students to have the first peg of whisky together.

Other than that, they were very similar. Middle-class families, dads in government service, mothers as housewives andtoppers of their own regions. It was a match made in heaven.
In the past three months, they had become the best of friends. They never kept anything from each other. They didn’t have to, since they led simple lives. Simple people with simple desires. They had nothing to hide. They had never partied, never smoked, never drank.
Neither of them had stayed out of their houses after eight. They never felt the need to. ‘I had gone through a few books before I joined college,’ Jimin said.
‘You had? Which ones?’
‘Anatomy. Physiology. General Pharmacology. A few others.’
‘A few others? That’s like the whole course,’ Taehyung gasped.
‘I always wanted to read them ever since I started preparing for medical entrances. That’s all I have ever wanted to do.’
‘You’re crazy. Why would you?’
‘I have always wanted to be a doctor. Ever since the time I was a little kid. At first, I thought I liked the candy my paediatrician gave me! But slowly, it became an obsession.
I used to fake illnesses as a kid so I could go to the clinic and hear the doctor talk about various medicines and cures. It’s everything I have ever wanted to do. Haven’t you?’
Jimin purred and batted his eyelashes shyly.
‘I have always wanted a career. And being a doctor was one,’ Taehyung responded.
‘But you’re awesome. You will be a great doctor.’
‘Thanks.’ Jimin bluhed. ‘So will you.’
‘I hope so. But why didn’t you tell me before? You could have taught me. I am struggling here.’
‘I can still teach you,’ he said.
Taehyung pushed the book towards him, rested his chin on his knuckles and commanded,
‘Teach.’
‘I didn’t want you to think I was a freak,’ Jimin said softly.
‘I don’t need to tell you that.’ Taehyung laughed.
Jimin always thought of Taehyung as a sweet, well-mannered guy. He was from Daegu. Somewhere between the lectures on human lungs and lymph nodes, Jimin knew he had found a friend for life. He loved the
way he cursed the food, complained about the egregious hostel canteen. Their bond strengthened over countless meals and arguments about which tasted better.
_____________________________
Jimin stared at the books again wondering what had gone wrong. Fear clouded his mind. A million possibilities battled each other and he cried. He had read about ‘hypochondriasis of medical students’, a condition in which medical students diagnose themselves with diseases they don’t have. It stems from the paranoia one suffers from after obsessing over different symptoms throughout the day. But he knew for a fact that he wasn’t imagining things.
He had left the examination hall thirty minutes before the scheduled time. He knew all the answers. He had wanted to write them. The pen was in his hand, and the answers in his head. But his hands had cramped. It wasn’t the fear of the examination; he didn’t know what it felt like to be afraid of an examination. There was something wrong with his hands.
It wasn’t the first time he had felt it, but he had chosen to ignore it earlier.
He had tried moving his hand in vain. After struggling with intermittent pain and the lack of sensation for half an hour, he had started to write. He had written three beautiful answers when the pain and the lack of sensation came back. He had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what was wrong with his hand. Every page from every medical book he had read came rushing back to his mind. His head hurt. Tears streamed down his face. Half an hour before the exam ended, he left the hall, tears in his eyes and strange cramps in both his hands.
‘Why haven’t you been picking up your calls?’ Taehyung asked, worried and flustered.
Taehyung had been calling him for quite some time now. Jimin had disconnected all calls till he asked him to join him in the library.
‘There is something wrong with me,’ he explained. ‘I had not given it too much thought earlier, but I know something is definitely wrong with me.’
‘Yes, I know. You study too much,’ Taehyung suggested and smiled.
‘It’s not that. It’s the examination.’
‘What? You did well, right? Everything you taught me was perfect! It was like you knew the questions beforehand. You are teaching me everything from now on!’ he chortled.
‘I didn’t write anything after the third question,’ Jimin said, tears flooding his eyes.
‘Hey … Hey … Are you crying? What happened? Were you nervous? But you knew everything, didn’t you?’
‘I knew everything.’
‘Did you blank out?’ Taehyung asked, concern writ across his face.
‘NO! I knew the answers.’
Shhh. The librarian asked them to be silent.
‘Then what happened?’
‘I couldn’t write. My hand … I had no control over it,’ he said and broke down in small sobs. Taehyung looked puzzled. He took his hand in his palms and applied pressure at a few points. He asked his if he had any sensation in his hand. Jimin could feel the warmth in Taehyung’s touch, but he knew something was wrong. Why can’t I feel it!
‘Can you feel my touch?’ Taehyung asked.
‘I am scared,’ he said. He picked up a pencil from his neatly arranged geometry box.
He tried to write his name on the piece of paper in front of his. He couldn’t control it.
Taehyung watched in horror as he scribbled. It wasn’t the usual curvy, artistic font he used to write in. It was hardly legible. It looked like he was using the wrong hand. ‘I can’t control my hand.’
‘Let’s see a doctor?’
‘I wanted to be a surgeon,’ he said and put his head down on the books. He cried.
‘C’mon, Jimin. You don’t know what it is. It could be something as simple as Vitamin C deficiency. There are cases reported where Vitamin C deficiency causes paralysis. Even if it’s not that, there could be a million other innocuous reasons! I think you’re overreacting,’ Taehyung assured his.
‘What if it’s not an innocuous reason? What if it’s something more?’ he asked, his voice breaking off in sobs.
He looked at his hand. Pale and useless. Stop being so negative! Maybe it’s not that bad. This can’t happen to me. Maybe Taehyung is right. All the possible causes for the symptom started to shadow his mind. He was freaking out, his tears were uncontrollable.
What was it? Stroke? Nerve injury? Poliomyelitis? Botulism? Spina bifida? Multiple sclerosis? Guillain–Barré syndrome? All of a sudden, it looked as if he could have every disease he had read about till now. The deadlier the disease, the more convinced he was about its possibility. Sleep evaded his that night as he looked up every possible cause of his problem. By next morning, he had a list of eighty-nine possible causes. He scheduled himself for a plethora of blood tests the next day.
Taehyung had a horrendous next exam. Jimin and Taehyung had spent the night looking over all the possible causes of Jimin’s loss of control of his hand. They narrowed it down to twenty types of blood tests and visited a pathology lab at night, rather late for them. He didn’t want to trouble him, but he had insisted. Jimin waited for him outside his examination hall the next day with his blood test results in hand.
His blood work was clean, eliminating eighty-eight possible causes.
‘I never thought I would be the first person I would have to diagnose,’ Jimin said on the phone.
There were no tests left to be done. Blood tests ruled out pathogens and other common diseases, breathing tests to check the lungs, MRIs to rule out any neck injury,electromyography to check the nerves in his hand, a head MRI to eliminate other conditions and nerve conduction studies to sum up the rest.
‘You can never be too sure,’ Taehyung said from the other side of the phone.
‘I wish I didn’t have to,’ he whimpered and heard the rustling of pages. ‘Are you still in the library?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘You are. Go out, Tae! The exams just got over. Go out and party with the guys.’
‘Not without you. I want you to be here,’ he said.
‘I don’t think I am coming back,’ Jimin responded.
‘You can’t talk like that. You haven’t even seen a doctor, yet. You have to be positive.’
‘He must have read the same books that we have. I am sure of what I have, Tae. I can’t be in denial,’ he lied.
‘You mean to say that experience counts for nothing? See a doctor. It could still be something else,’ he argued.
Jimin didn’t want to pursue it any more. He knew he was going through denial. A certain part of his was going through the same. Except for this call, he had not stopped crying since the time he discovered what he was afflicted with. He had cursed the unfair balance of nature. What he had was not something he deserved. He had cried and pored over the reports again and again, hoping there would be a mistake. He wished he was wrong in his self-diagnosis. He could be. He was only a first-year medical student and he wasn’t supposed to diagnose it correctly in any case.
‘Are you going to tell them?’ he asked.
‘I think I will let some doctor do it,’ he said. His eyes watered up. He heard the flipping of papers from the other side. ‘I will talk to you later. The signal is cracking up.’
He disconnected the call. I hope I am wrong about this. He sighed. The tears returned and they never stopped during the three hours it took for his to reach his home from the college hostel. All his dreams wahed away in an instant.
Once home, he stood in front of his parents, complaining about the strange sensations in his right arm. His mother started to ask his about the examinations. Dad asked his if he was eating right. It took his an hour to make them take the cramps and the loss of sensation in his hand seriously. His mom suggested stress. Dad suggested infection.
‘Seoul's water is riddled with parasites and germs. You’re almost a doctor, you should
know,’ he said. He insisted on seeing a doctor. His dad smiled at the irony. Jimin knew
what he was thinking about. He had imagined his as a doctor. Something that Jimin knew
would never happen. I hope I am wrong, he sighed.
On the way to the hospital, he tried to be his chirpy self, even though all he wanted to
do was cry. Maybe he was wrong. The doctor in the hospital asked his a few questions
and prescribed his some blood tests.
‘It could be anything. Let’s wait for the blood test results,’ he assured the worried
parents. ‘Come back tomorrow and we will find out what’s wrong with him.’ He puhed the bowl of candy in front of him. Out of habit, he stuffed a fistful of chocolates in his
pocket.
Jimin knew the doctor wouldn’t find anything abnormal in the tests and would order
some more tests. Back home, he fished out every research paper and every document
ever written about the disease. Looking through various reports he found a research team
in a hospital which specialized in stem cell research and developing experimental
new drugs for the disease. He found the email ID of one of the doctors supposedly a genius, and shot across an email giving him the details of
his disease. He was desperate. He didn’t want to die and he didn’t deserve to.
That night, when he was done reading about his disease and had cried enough to make
himself tired, Taehyung called again. He had been texting him constantly. Jimin knew for
sure he had been doing some reading on the disease too.
‘What did he say? Did he order all the blood tests? Did he guess anything? Any
alternative causes? Differential diagnosis?’ he asked, the panic in his voice apparent.
‘The reports come tomorrow. I know they will be clean. He hasn’t guessed anything
yet.’
‘Maybe they will find something that we didn’t. We did the tests just once. And these
government pathological labs make mistakes all the time. Where did you go? Apex
Hospital?’ Taehyung blabbered, hoping against hope. This time he wasn’t even
convincing. He had checked and rechecked the reports; Jimin was sure of that. They
weren’t incorrect.
‘Let’s wait for tomorrow.’
‘Are you okay, Jimin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you scared?’
‘Very,’ Jimin said and started sobbing softly. He had promised himself that he would
be strong and not cry. He couldn’t do it. He had read about the suffering of people who
had the same disease as his, and he felt terrible. Having read horrendous accounts of
how patients lose control of their body as it slowly rots away, he started to question the
fairness of it all. Why me? Of all people! He cursed the mirror in front of his for it was
lying. He wasn’t healthy. His insides were rotting away, slowly, bit by bit.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ he assured him.
‘Nothing is going to be okay. You know that! I am dying, Taehyung …’
He cried a little more on the phone and eventually drifted off to sleep. He didn’t
know if Taehyung had waited for long before he disconnected the call. It didn’t matter.
He was alone in this. He had to get used to it.
Things only became worse the next morning. His denial had given way to acceptance,
and the acceptance of his condition depressed him. With a heavy heart, he checked all the
websites he had bookmarked the day before, searched for cures on the Internet even when he knew there weren’t any, and checked if Dr. Kim Seokjin from GKL Hospital
had replied to his long, ranting mail.
A little later, they were in the car, negotiating the early-morning traffic to the hospital.
Jimin sat on the back seat, wondering if the doctor had any inkling of what was wrong with
his. He hoped he would. And he hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. The anticipation
of the pain his parents would go through was getting unbearable.
‘Good morning,’ the doctor from the day before said. He was smiling. ‘The blood
reports came clean.’
A smile shot across his parents’ faces. Jimin remained expressionless as he looked at all
the branded merchandise—pens, diaries, clocks and notepads—from the big
pharmaceutical companies. His mom folded his arms as if to say, I know it’s because of
the stress. His father absent-mindedly played with a plastic model of the human brain.
‘Are you still having some problem with your hands?’ He nodded.
‘Any other problems? Difficulty in breathing? Anything?’
He nodded. Now he’s getting it. Maybe. I would have made such a good doctor. He
tried not to buckle and weep. His parents were still distracted. He felt sorry for them.
Again, he stuffed his pocket with a fistful of chocolates.
The doctor looked at his parents and started to ask them about their families. ‘So
Jimin’s grandparents? They are still alive?’
They let the doctors know whatever he needed and the doctor noted everything down on
a small pad. He knew he was yet to make any sense of it. But he had a hunch about what
Jimin had.
‘We need to do some more tests,’ he said, ‘to check the nerve reactions. Nothing
major.’ The doctor smiled. Jimin smiled back at him. Does he know? Why is he smiling?
‘I am sure it’s because of stress. He is a medical student, you know. Lots of pressure,
big books, late nights, you know? He is a brilliant student, topped the region in his board
examinations. He wants to be a surgeon.’ His mom’s chest swelled with obvious pride.
The doctor nodded approvingly.
‘Do you know what’s wrong with him?’ his father asked, keeping down the fake brain.
Please don’t ask, Dad. I am dying. Slowly. Please don’t ask.
‘Let’s wait for the results,’ the doctor answered and whisked his away to the testing
room.
It took the doctor three hours, a battery of tests and consultations with other doctors to
come to the conclusion Jimin had reached days before. He had noticed the expressions of
shock on their faces while his doctor discussed the case with other doctors in his
presence. As they talked and looked in his direction, with pity on their faces, he was sure
they didn’t know that he already knew. Some of them even called their counterparts in
other hospitals for a second opinion.
‘Did you figure it out yet?’ he asked the doctor, who shifted restlessly in his place.
‘We are just getting a final confirmation from an expertdoctor,’ he said.
He felt sorry for the doctor, too. Why should he be a part of the gloom that was about to
engulf his family?
‘I know what I have, doctor,’ he said, his head hung low.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I am a medical student. First year. I did the tests myself.’
‘What tests?’ The shock on the doctor’s face snowballed into concern and pity.
‘I have ALS. I know there is no genetic history. I know there is no cure. I know that I
am slowly dying. I could be gone this year or the next. But I will die eventually. I have
read all there is to read about the disease. I know what’s going to happen. I will not be
able to eat on my own, go to the bathroom or even breathe. You will cut a pipe into my
throat to help me breathe or I might choke on my own saliva,’ he explained. He hadn’t
discussed his painful future with Taehyung for he didn’t have the strength to. It looked
like it could never happen to his. As he finally described his own death to the doctor,
he came to terms with it. The news finally sank in. In that moment, all his dreams, his
aspirations, his visions of herself as a doctor melted away and the morose faces of his
parents stared back at him. His eyes glazed over and he resolved to not weep. There is
some mistake! This shouldn’t happen to me. I have done nothing to deserve this. I am
perfectly healthy! His heart cried out loud.
‘There are treatments—’
‘Riluzole, diazepam, amitriptyline. They will give me a few months more. A few days
more of breathing on my own. I have read all about it.’
He tried not to cry. The doctor didn’t want to give his any false hope. He had to be
ready for what was coming next.
ALS is a cruel disease. It starts with the patient becoming clumsy. You drop things, get
tired easily, and the sensations in your limbs keep getting dimmer till paralysis sets in.
After that, you’re at your helpers’ mercy. You can’t eat because your tongue and your jaw
muscles will be too weak to chew the food. You can’t talk fast or for too long because
your mouth will become tired after the first minute or so. You will be on crutches …
before the wheelchair comes in. Soon, even that will be a problem because you won’t
have the forearm strength to roll the chair. You will be paralysed and bedridden. There
will be tubes running in and out of your body to help you eat, breathe and defecate.
Machines will keep you alive. It’s a sorry way to die.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I wish I could do something. I can give you some books you can
read about people who have fought the disease. They didn’t win, but they died happy.
You can’t lose to the disease.’
‘I would just wish for you to tell my parents. I don’t have the courage,’ he said and the
tears came again. He tried to stifle his sobs the best he could. Never had he thought his
parents would outlive his. What greater misfortune can there be for a parent?
‘You’re the most courageous patient I have seen in the longest time,’ he said and added
with a pause, ‘I have a daughter. She is seven.’
‘Does she want to be a doctor too?’
‘Yes. You remind me of her,’ the doctor said, looked down at the reports in his hands
and closed his eyes. Jimin wondered if he was praying for them to be wrong. He
wondered how many death sentences the forty-year-old man had given before his. The
watery eyes of the doctor told his that he was still not used to it.
‘Let’s tell my parents?’ Jimin said, and clutched the doctor’s hand and slipped in some
chocolates. ‘Give this to your daughter from my side.’
‘Sure,’ he nodded and took a deep breath.
Jimin took one too. The wails of his mother and silent groans of his father already
resonated in his head and he felt dizzy. They entered the doctor’s chambers. His parents’
eyes met his and he knew they could see the horror. Their faces fell as if they knew
what the middle-aged doctor was about to tell them. He went and sat next to his mom
and held her hand. The doctor started to explain. The world blocked out. His mind was
blank. The denial of his parents, their shouts, their screams, their accusations against the
incompetent doctor and the irresponsible hospital, their claims of their son being
perfectly healthy —nothing registered in his brain. He had just one image seared on his
retina.
He was going to die, motionless on a hospital bed with a tube cut into his throat.