Shackles & Roses

Three

Bailey was diagnosed with cancer when she was just seventeen years old. She had a tumour in her brain, and she was barely eighteen when she died.

She didn't show many signs at first, just some headaches every now and then. They weren't very nice, but she dealt with them, and we thought it was just an awful phase. When she started to be sick, we all stopped panicking. The headaches must have been an early on-set symptom, we thought. And it was, just not of a common bug, like we thought.

She was ill for a week, throwing up on and off all day. During that time she was at my house, not her parents', sleeping next to me at night. Every time she woke, I'd wake too, going with her to the bathroom and back, holding back her hair and stroking her cheek as she fell asleep again. I'm sure her parents would have much preferred to have her with them, but moving to another house wasn't an option with how ill she was.

Addie moves his hand to my back, and I press closer, breathing heavily.

This can't be normal, I remember thinking. Maybe it's one of those long-term illnesses. It'll pass. But I never did my research. It's what we all kept telling ourselves. We didn't want to go and get it checked out, because that would make it real. We just kept putting it off, making excuses to ourselves and pretending that nothing was happening— because it'll pass. Bailey herself, even. We just lived our lives as normally as possible, going through each day like anyone else. We were ostriches, sticking our heads in the sand to wait out a storm, but this storm wouldn't pass unless we did something about it.

But of course, so much of this way of thinking is in retrospect. All we could feel at the time was a terror of this new unknown, but also of knowing what it was and how awful that could be. Considering the consequences of our reactions was not an option at that point. Fight or flight had kicked in, and we chose to run. Overriding even the fear was a mass confusion. It covered everything in a thick mist, leaving us blind to any other path than that we were on; run, and keep running, until we must stop.

Addie moves his hand to my back, and I press closer, breathing heavily.

It didn't pass, and the headaches kept coming, getting worse and worse, until she couldn't cope with them without something to numb the pain. Two weeks after she'd started throwing up, I was out of my mind with worry.

All this time we had put off seeking medical attention. She denied there was anything wrong. So did I. Both of our parents, and our friends too. We just wanted it to all be alright, to act like it was all fine. We didn't want to face reality.

Remembering this is possibly one of the hardest things. Addie's hand moves to the small of my back, his other holding my shoulders steady to try and stop their shaking. It's futile.

The final straw was when she was over at mine one day. I left her standing in the living room while I went to the bathroom. Two minutes, I was gone. I came back and she was on the floor, shaking and sobbing. I didn't know what to do. I'm ashamed to say, I panicked. I didn't do anything straight away, but just stood staring. The guilt of that still eats away at me today, like a maggot at an apple. But this apple is rotten to the core.

When I finally pulled myself together, I knelt beside her, cradled her head. She clung to me like a little child, doubled over in pain and pretty face completely creased up. I called Addie, stroking her hair the whole time. He came as quickly as he could, to help me help her— and if I'm really honest, to support me emotionally as well. The entire time we were waiting for him, I sat with her, tears now pouring down my own face too. What good was my love if it couldn't cease her pain? Useless.

When Addie arrived, he took one look at Bailey and called an ambulance. He held Bailey's hand. He called her parents; I was too much of a mess to by then.