Slice Of Life

I put a smile on my face, a helmet on my head, take a bike, and blindly ride shallow winding hills of the beautiful Irvine. A narrow path, framed with an ocean of tiny yellow flowers, sneaking up and down, revealing the mountains beyond. I go to a grocery store, hide in between its empty aisles, bump into the carts, left in the middle. I meet with my friends, we sit around a table, crumbles of sweets on plastic plates, we chat, and giggle like a bunch of five-year-olds, happy not to think of anything for a while. But even then, at those careless moments, a tiny scary thought is burning on the back of my head: I am going to lose you. In the matter of weeks, I will be gone.

I remember driving to the HOAG hospital in Newport Beach that Thursday night. High-rises of MacArthur Place, rush hour of 55 freeway, finally, behind me. The ocean, lost in a haze, the blue sky, splash of pink on the horizon, warm breeze, hints of a soon coming summer. A friendly nurse, print of playing puppies on her blue uniform, goes through the routine of endless questions, pinches my finger to get a single drop of blood out.

- You iron is substantially lower than it has ever been for the past two years.- She looks at me with an air of concern. – Any change in your diet, medicine, anything?

- No.- I think for a few seconds. – Just stress, you know.

I get comfortable on a recliner, my eyes follow pink Valentines, sweet scent of flower mixes with the strong smell of iodine, the nurse is spotting my arm with, while I am pumping a little globe in my hand.

I get dizzy half the way through.

- Do you want me to stop? -The nurse asks.

- No, it will get better. –My voice barely heard.- Like it did the last time. Just give it a few more minutes.

The nurse is hovering over me, not taking her cautious eyes off my face, going white.

- No, not this time. I have to stop it.- She gets the needle out. – You look too pale even for you.

I breath into a brown bag, caring hands place a cold towel on my forehead, lean the chair even more backward. I feel silly. Those people run around me as if I am someone important. Then, actually, I am the one who couldn’t even squeeze a sad pint of blood out of herself.

- Don’t feel bad about it. – The nurse looks at me while I am drinking the second glass of orange juice. – It’s just, blood donation is not your thing.

She sits with me, making sure that I eat ice cream to bring my blood sugar level up a bit.

- Drive carefully. – She waves me good-buy.

I get a phone call the very next day. I go to the hospital there I am greeted by a very smart looking man and my nurse.

I don’t like the way they start the conversation. “Sweetie” never means anything good.

- How much time do I have left? – I stare at the wall, bright fluorescent light reflecting from a bald spot on the doctor’s head.

- A few months, half a year at the most. One can never say for sure.

- But, doctor, I don’t feel bad. I mean, I am in good shape. I never get sick. I don’t even get a flu. I exercise. I keep on a diet.

- That’s the thing. There are virtually no any sign of being sick until the disease is beyond any treatment.

- Is it contagious? – I ask.

- It is. Not in this early stage, like you got, but, eventually, yes. You will have to be very careful.

- What do you mean by “eventually”?

- I would say, you got four weeks before you get the rush.

- Rush?

- Yes, it’s the first sign. But you really have to look for it. It usually outbreaks either on the palms of your hands or on the bottom of your soles and then…

I take my eyes off the wall I was starring at and look at the man.

- Then?

- Then…- Now, he is starring at the wall behind me. – Then, you die.

- I die. – The words echo in my head, empty as a dry well. – OK, so what happens…- Now, they get stuck in my mouth.

- Would you like some water? – The nurse asks, seeing me holding my breath.

- No, thank you. It’s just.. Nothing. I am fine. Thank you. So, what happens in between four weeks and… the day I die?

- Pain. You will be in a lot of pain, sweetheart. But, don’t worry about it. There are a lot of paint killers and muscle relaxants. They will make it the whole way easier for you.

I see rows of orange plastic containers, toy solders, parading on the shelves of a medicine cabinet until my time is finally up.

- Remember, sweetie, you got six months ahead of you! – This is my nurse speaking.

Six months to look forward too.

Four weeks of life the way I know it.

I tell no one about it.

I talk to my parents on the phone as if nothing happened. We plan a river cruise in the summer.

- It’s a week trip, we will stop in…did you see the itinerary anywhere, sweetie? - My mom is asking my dad, her voice, breaking with excitement. –No? Anyway, we are leaving on your birthday and we are coming back on mine. We got a nice room with a view over the side deck.

The trip is almost eight months away.

I turn on “Twelve Week Success Plan” my friend insists on me listening to.

- It’s awesome! Really. In twelve weeks, you life will completely transform. – She tells me, putting the CD in my car.

Yes, it will, I think to my self, but I say nothing to her.

I say nothing to you, either. I don’t want you to know that soon, I will get a rush on my hands, that my skin will dry out, that my eyes will fade into a muddy gray. That in just a month or so, I will live off meds and daily trips to a hospital. I don’t want you to know any of it.

Last week, I started to look for a place to live those last months I’ve got. It’s not that easy to find one, though, it’s not the thing I am concern the most about. The most challenging one is to come up with something to explain to you my moving out; something, reasonable enough for you to buy into.

- Are you sure, you are doing the right thing? - A voice in my head asks me every day.

- Yes, I am. – I lie in return.

I clutch my hands to restrain myself from showing too much. My eyes wander around a brightly lit room, skipping from a painting on the wall behind you, white frame around it, to the white shatters, to the pile of newspapers on the char, has been lying there for a week. I escape looking at you for every time I do, my smile gives me away. I pretend that I am cool. I hope that I am good at that. I hope you see no change in me. I hope you don’t know that I know something you don’t.

I wait for you to get home, even thought you told me not to.

-I will be late.

You tell me to go to bed to get some sleep. I don’t. I am tired, but still, I sit at the table, checking my emails, doing little things here and where, keeping my eyes on the clock, waiting for the garage door to open, waiting to hear you walking up the stairs.

-Are you still up?

To catch a hug, to bury my face on your chest.

Three weeks to go.

My head, heavy as a brick, hits the pillow. I look around the room. Barely seen shadows of the recently installed shutters, the only pattern on a blank white wall.

It’s almost four in the morning. You come into the dark bedroom. Your steps are as light as they can be. You think I am asleep, but I am not. I am just still. Still and silent, listening to the sound of your clothes hitting the floor. You get into the bed and wrap your arms around me. Your body is cold. I push myself against you. Your hand, hard against my body, runs along it, down to my hips and up my stomach. You kiss my back and hold me so tight, as if you die if you don’t. I grab your hand and press it against my chest. I fall back asleep.

Two more weeks.

It’s been three weeks since I moved out. I live alone. You are still around, stop by for a visit once in a while, fix things in my tiny apartment, making sure that I am comfortable, that I have got everything I need. You even offered to pay for the place. I laughed. Then, I cried. How would I ever explain why I rent this place monthly?

I manage to trick you into believing that I have a lot of fun with my new life, then actually, I wish so much to spend those last months around you for I miss our ten-minute chat at night. I miss a pile of newspapers on a chair. I miss a tiny green light of an espresso machine you forget to turn off.

I tell you none of those. I go out at night and sit at empty movie theaters, watching one-dollar reruns, stare at a half-empty glass, my reflection, so sad, looking back at me, and afterwards, tell you about another great night out with my friends and how much fun all of us had.

You don’t call me that often any more.

Every morning, I study the lines on the palms of my hands, I know every single one of them by now. I find nothing.

Another two weeks pass by.

I pick up the phone.

- Good Morning. I would like to talk to Dr. Schmidt.

A few hours off work, another trip to the hospital, another blood test. I wait for the results while looking though magazines. A lot of magazines.

- Dr. Schmidt is ready to see you.

The same room, the same bright fluorescent light, the same shiny bald spot on the doctor’s head. There is no my friendly nurse, though. There is no “Sweetie”, either.
Dr. Schmidt sounds very professional and extremely apologetic.

There was a mistake. A human error. It happens. I must understand that.

I go home. A round table in my tiny living room, bright sunlight fills up its every corner, leaving nothing unexposed to its warmth; the outside, the scent of flowers, blooming by the creek, the sound of the running water, gets in through the open patio door. My dog, collapsed on the floor, her legs moving in a dream of a chase, makes little sounds now and then.
I am not going to die. I have the whole life a head. The whole life.

I turn on the radio. I make it loud. I dance around the room, my feet barely touching the floor. I caress paperback of the books, resting on the shelves. I am going to read all of them. My dog, awaken, looks at me, confused. She gets up and runs after me as I move around. I grab her paws and we dance together.

I stop in the midst of a wild swing. You. You know nothing of what have happened. I run into the bedroom and grab the phone. I put it back. It’s been a few weeks since I talked to you. I hesitate either I should call you. Do you still remember me?

- Of course, he does! C’mon, girl. Call him!- A child-like voice is singing in my head.

My fingers fly over the buttons. I swing back and forth while waiting for you to pick up the phone. I wait for a while.

- Hello.

Your voice, so missed, so longed for, makes my head dizzy.

- Hi. It’s me.

- Hi.
A strange silence falls in between us.

- How are you? - I hear my own voice, awkward words, so impersonal, as if I never knew you.

You are doing OK. And what about me.

My heart beats so loud, I am afraid you can hear it bumping against my chest.

- I am good. – I swallow. - There is something I need to tell you. – I pause, listening to my own breathing. – Do you have time?

No. You don’t. Your friend is coming over. Is it anything important?

I hear a laugh on the back. Cheerful, happy laugh. A female laugh.

No, it’s not.

Am I sure?

Have a wonderful time with your friend, then.

I hang up.

I am still. I am as still as someone, still breathing, can be.

I am numb. I am blind. I am deaf. No thoughts, no feelings, no senses. Nothing.

My dog comes to me and touches my leg with her cold and wet nose. I pat her on the head, drive my fingers through the short, silky fur in between her ears.

I helplessly look around the sun filled room. Golden dust, suspended in the air. The warmth of sun on my feet. The bitter sweet scent of flowers, tickling my nose. Nothing?

I loved and I was loved.

I thought it was going to last. Forever? I was wrong. It happens. A human error. That’s OK. I will live.

I pause. I think. I smile.

I will live.