The Moments

Chapter Eight

MADELYN SHEEN

Today is Friday and I'm doing okay. I'm pretty sick and unable to go home, or anywhere for that matter, but I'm okay.

I've been sleeping a lot. Days pass by in blurs. That tends to happen when I'm in the hospital for prolonged periods of time. On the rare occasion that I'm not sleeping through the day, I keep myself busy by watching T.V. or continuously refreshing my Instagram.

After I opened my phone that Sunday morning to find that he had messaged me, I didn't hesitate to reply. It was a weird greeting and I wasn't sure how smart it was to respond, but as I thought about it all I could do was ask myself, why not? So I simply sent,

Okay. About what?

He never got back to me. That was about a week ago.

I guess I could say I'm disappointed, but I'm very used to feeling that way. I think I've just been feeling very isolated lately. Interaction with people I don't interact with everyday is a fascinating adventure. I've learned to find excitement in the little things.

"Hey, what do you say we get out of this room?" my dad chimes. He's been trying to cheer me up lately. I don't really need it. I'm not sad, just sick. But this is one of the little things that makes me light up. Getting out of this stuffy room of beeping machines and disinfectants.

The proposal is odd considering the never ending warnings about my weakened immune system and the potential of death from a common cold. I've grown to believe that they just say that to scare me though, so I don't take it as seriously as I probably should.

"I'd love to," I return, already reaching for the face mask by my bed. My dad pushes a wheelchair up beside me, I furrow my eyebrows and meet his gaze.

He's been very worried lately. More than normal, if that's even possible. I don't know what happened the night I was rushed here, but I think it really stuck with him. I feel guilty for what I've put him through and I think about getting in the chair just to make him feel better. But I have to wonder if it would just concern him more that I'm not putting up a fight.

"I can walk," I declare, but he just stares. I soften my face and make my best attempt at cancer kid, puppy dog eyes. "Please," I beg. He purses his lips into a thin line as he gives me his best disapproving glare, but ultimately, he gives in.

We walk slowly down the hall. I move at the speed of a grandma dangerously close to overdosing on morphine, but I refuse to use the rails on either side of the hallway. My steps feel heavier, but not in an empowering way. I feel sluggish. Like I'm being weighed down by the weight of everything at once.

We stop just outside the cafeteria, it's bustling with people so my dad tells me to wait on the bench outside, just to be safe. I feel like arguing, but there's really no reason to, so I do as instructed.

"I'll only be a minute," he assures, and with that, he vanishes into the crowd.

I sit down, finally able to catch my breath and allow myself to look the way I feel. Exhausted. I breath as though I just completed a 5 mile marathon, and I might as well have given the size of the hospital. I focus on evening out my breathing, but the more I try to stop gasping for air, the worse it feels, so instead I focus on anything else.

I find myself just watching people. It sounds boring, but it's really not. I make up their lives in my head. I try to lip read. I tell myself they are at this hospital because of a birth or a mild injury or something else that's not depressing. You can tell though, by looking at their faces, you can tell.

It's lonely here. Even though I'm never alone, it's lonely. The world looks infinite from inside this hospital. Maybe it feels like that when you're out there too, but I wouldn't know. From where I sit, everybody is just being human, going about life as any person would. I feel like an alien. They are from earth and I am from illness. They know so much more than me, yet there are so many things I can comprehend that I pray they never have to. I am breathing my own pity now, but at least I'm breathing.