The show must go on

Chapter 36 - If I only could

Jade POV

It didn't. It did not get okay.

Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, soon to be months I was now lying here in the hospital, in my private, personal, single room. Everyone who works here knows me by now. At least that's how it feels. And I hate it. I am polite and nice to everyone, always thank them, am also honestly grateful for everything they do for me, for all the help I get. But silently I hate every moment I have to spend here. I hate that I need the help at all. I hate not having been home for so long. And most of all, I hate that despite being here for so long, and despite all the attempts to heal me, there is no improvement in sight. On the contrary, I'm getting worse and worse. I myself am slowly losing all hope, my doctors are slowly becoming clueless and worst of all: Perrie is losing her optimism. 

Perrie was nowhere else than here, not even for a second. She took her own statement seriously. Her job, the break of the band and our bank accounts allowed her to take a complete break from life and everything outside the hospital. So she could live every moment with me, every low blow, and got through it with me. She slept here as well, even though she was told several times that this is actually not the norm, but she didn't care at all. And I was very grateful to her. She was the only light, the only thing that kept me sane.

Time went by and the improvement didn't happen and even though no one said it out loud, the worry grew. What if all my negative thoughts during this battle will be right in the end? What if I can't beat this disease? Perrie doesn't want to believe it, she clings to every spark of hope and with all her might she represses the possibility that in a few weeks my strength could finally leave me. I, on the other hand, already feel like I'm at the end of my tether, and with every further dose of chemo, with every further setback, any possible hope fades. So while Perrie completely blocks out any possible reality, I don't think about good, positive outcomes. Needless to say, we could both really use some good news. But we don't get them, quite the opposite.

One morning my doctor, whom we now call by his first name, comes into the room.

Daniel's expression is darker, gloomier than usual and we both know immediately when we look at his face that he is not bringing good news. We both sit up straighter, looking directly for each other's contact, holding hands to give us comfort, strength and support. But nothing could have prepared us.

"Good morning," he greets, but we quickly see through him and know that he has a serious topic to talk about.

"Spit it out, what's going on," I prompt him, already weary of the conversation to come.

Still, he hesitates, albeit briefly, which makes me suspect the worst. He pauses, watches us in front of him, even takes a chair to sit with us. A behaviour that is uncharacteristic for him, we don't know him like that.

"We're not really making any progress with your treatment, Jade," he then confesses in a heavy voice and even though I feel it in my own body, when I experience it myself and am quite aware of it, it's hard to hear.

"And quite frankly, we're running out of options," and hearing him say it is like a slap in the face. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying not to let this shock show, while Perrie doesn't even bother to hide the inevitable tears.

"What...what do you mean?", I barely dare to ask.