Unfinished Perfection

Start of Time

As Murphy's law dictates: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Lynette came back from classes one day to find Harry curled up in his bed, looking decidedly unwell. He was a little short of breath, but given his CF, it didn't seem very out of the ordinary.

It was very much like the flu at first. Lynette stayed up all night while Harry shivered and coughed in bed.  He had a slight fever, but because it wasn't particularly high, Lynette let him stick the night out, vowing to force him to the hospital if it got even a little worse. In the morning, however, Harry's fever suddenly spiked and he began violently throwing up. Lynette rushed around alternating between cleaning up their stained bedsheets and holding the trashcan still as Harry dry-heaved.

"That's it, Harry. I'm driving you to the hospital."

Harry sat up a little and winced. "Couldn't I take some cold medicine and stay in today? My head is pounding."

"Precisely why we're going. I just feel like this isn't your typical cold."

Harry shakily stood up, one hand cupped around his abdomen.  "My stomach hurts."

Lynette ran over and gently helped him into a chair before checking on his surgical scar. It looked a little swollen.  "I think, Haz. We'd better go now."

Ignoring his protests, Lynette led Harry to the car and began driving to Cambridge U. Medical Center, which really wasn't very far at all. The doctors took one look at Harry's file and admitted him.

"Acute rejection. Probably from the decreased dose of immunosuppressants," the doctor said grimly. "We'll put him back on the recommended dosage." Seeing Lynette's expression, he reassured her, "We'll keep on eye on his stitches--it won't become infected again."

Lynette paced around the waiting room as they ran tests on Harry, who seemed to want nothing more than to go back to sleep. As the day wore on, he was treated for his fever and placed on a high dosage of immunosuppressants.  Lynette came in after the doctors had finished their examinations and found him in a feverish daze.  Feeling rather helpless, she ran a hand over his forehead, gently wiping away a sheen of sweat, and felt tears welling up.

You can't be weak, not again, she angrily berated herself, willing the tears back. But they spilled over in spite of her, large droplets that she furiously wiped away. Vainly hoping he might hear her in the haze he was in, her fingers brushed his hairline and she said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady, "It's going to be better. Once the medication kicks in, I promise..." Harry's breathing grew more labored and he coughed weakly, his eyes closed.  Lynette felt her own throat closing up with every gasping breath he took--she couldn't speak to him like this.  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she began singing a song that comforted her the night she thought she'd lost him.

"Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable.  And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.  No one can find the rewind button, now.  So cradle your head in your hands,"

"And breathe, just breathe."

Harry still shifted restlessly as he struggled for each breath. In a shaky whisper, she finished the song.

"Oh breathe, just breathe."

Finally, after some minutes, his coughs subsided and he seemed to relax, and Lynette took her well-worn seat by his bedside and fell asleep with her head resting on the edge of his blankets and one of her hands holding tightly to his.

It was well past midnight when Lynette felt the hand she was holding squeeze hers. She shifted and her eyes met Harry's. He had dark bags under his eyes and looked exhausted.