When I Die [Wattys 2016]

Chapter 20: Luck

The doctors told us that Sam would need to undergo a week or so of hormone treatments and other injections to prepare his body to lose the stem cells. Because of this, he would need to rest a lot, and he was very sore, but he got to stay home from school plus get spoiled by mom, so he said he was okay with it.

I'd never been good at laying still, in fact, my mom had me tested in elementary school to make sure I didn't have something wrong with me. Lately I was stiller and stiller. Although my body was still, my mind was busy. I had music to make, I had songs to write, I had photos to take and places to see, I had things to go do in my life. I thought about all of this, laying in bed. The walls in my room surrounded me so tightly. I felt like they were smothering me, getting smaller and smaller every day. I felt like they were closing in, like a trap. I counted the ceiling tiles every single night, just to make sure it was still as big as the day before.

One day, about four days before the transplant, I woke up from a nightmare. The dream had been about myself, in an ocean. I was being knocked from wave to wave too quickly to catch my breath. I was screaming and screaming in my dream, and to my surprise, in real life too. My mom tried to calm me down, but I couldn't stop. I'd never been like this before. The medicine they'd given me for nausea had caused intense delusions and hallucinations, I knew this. The dreams were vivid and intense. I tried to remind myself it wasn't real, that I was okay. Well, how could it be okay if I still can't catch my breath? I screamed and screamed and my mom called for nurses over and over, asking for help. I was hyperventilating, choking on my tears and my entire face was hot. Is this it? Is this it?

The nurses came in and gave me a shot in my port, which was on my chest. It stayed there all the time, not like the IVs in my arms. It's where I received chemo and fluids and morphine, and now, chloradia... something, or whatever. Something that stopped the panic attack within seconds. My mom told me that after my episode, I was delirious and reaching my hands out to hold hers. I believed it.

Visitors came and went. The pastor of my family's church came to pray with me. I was afraid of not believing in something. The reality was, whatever was beyond life, whatever happened at the end of this road, I had a high likelihood of figuring it out. So when the pastor came to visit, instead of leaving my eyes open in what I'd always considered some sort of silent defiance, I closed them. I closed them tight. I held my mom's hand as hard as I could, and I let myself believe in something.

The days passed quietly. I laid alone for many of them. I listened to the sound of the IV drip, dripping. It was a constant clicking sound and then machine whirring. It was sustaining me. Nurses came in and out, all night, all day. Before, I'd always make sure to try and talk to each nurse, give them a "how are you?", but there were so many, and so often, and I was so weak, that died out.

Before my transplant, I decided I wanted to see Ophelia. My mom asked if I needed anything at all, and so that's what I told her. I didn't know Ophelia's last name, I realized. I didn't even know why she was here. For the life of me, I can't figure out why I never asked her. She just always visited at such awful times, when I was really sick. My mom assured me she would ask around. Ophelia isn't a very common name, she reminded me.

The day before my transplant, I laid in bed as usual. My mom was resting in the cot next to me, and she was so peaceful. I loved seeing her relaxed. I snapped a few photos of her with my camera, the lighting hitting her face just right. She was beautiful. I reminded myself how lucky I was to have such an amazing mom. These walls were closing in on me, and I couldn't leave. My mom was here by choice. And, I know, it seems like because she was my mom that there wasn't a choice... but, my dad wasn't here, and I was his, too.

That evening, after a nap, my mom sat beside me and said,

"Leo, there's no Ophelia checked in right now," her brows were furrowed. I took this as a question.

"What? I mean, maybe she's gone home... can't you ask to speak to her nurse?"

"Leo, sweetie, I don't think they can tell me that information... I'll try to talk to Angela to see what she knows," she said.

Her phone rang then, and she excused herself to answer it. I wondered about Ophelia. I hoped she was okay. I wondered if I would hear from her before my operation, but the more I thought about her, the more mystical she became to me. We spent almost every day before, for weeks. Now, I rarely saw her. It seemed like she knew just when I needed to see her most, when I was the sickest... but I wished she would come by when I was doing well.

I read over the pamphlet they'd given me about the transplant, again and again. Giant red letters covered the third page, "RISKS". Seizures, rejection, infection, the list went all the way down the page. I pulled out my phone, then. I sat it on the moving tray where I ate my meals,  and pressed RECORD.

"I uh, well, this is Leo Hendricks. I am... eighteen years old. I've been fighting this... leukemia for, well, about five months now. I've lost about twenty pounds..." I laughed, "I'm pretty thin... I have a transplant tomorrow. My brother, Sam, he's giving me stem cells..." I didn't know who I was talking to, or leaving this for, but I knew it felt good, saying something, talking about it.

"They said, like, there's a pretty big chance it won't work. If it doesn't, well, I'm gonna die, I guess, ha, you know, I don't think I've said that out loud before now," I continued.

"I mean, I've been here, in this hospital for so long... I can't stay here, in and out forever. There weren't any other options. This transplant has to work."

I took a deep breath and gulped then, biting my lip and looking down, I said,

"I want to be cremated," I blurted out, "I mean, if anything happens... I want to be cremated. I want my ashes scattered somewhere where my family feels good, I guess, the beach or something." I laughed again, "I'm not actually the biggest fan of the beach, but they are. I think they'd be happy with me there. I want to wear, like, clothes that were important to me. This stuff won't be important to me when I'm actually gone, obviously. I don't want my mom to have to go in my closet and look. I guess, just whatever is in my clothes hamper is okay, if it's in there it means I wore it, and where I'm headed, it won't matter if it's wrinkled," I reached up and there was a tear on my cheek. I was talking, and talking, not stopping.

"I don't talk about this part of it. I haven't said this to anyone, ever. It's like, saying there's a chance I'll actually die. I'm supposed to fight this and survive, but, I guess, I'm not sure if that's going to be the outcome or not. I wish I could say definitely yes or no. Right now, nothing is for sure. There's numbers, and percentages, and odds and ratios. It all boils down to a yes or no, really."  I took a breath. There were tears now.

"I know the odds and the chances don't make it seem this way, but I know I'm lucky. I look at my family... my parents, my siblings... I mean, my sister, Hattie, and I just love them so much. Hattie always smiles, no matter what. She makes me feel better because she smiles at times when you probably shouldn't be smiling. My mom sometimes tells her it's inappropriate, but I love that part of her so much. Yeah, I look at my family and I know that I'm lucky. I hope my luck carries over tomorrow... "

My mom walked back in, then. I pressed END on the recording, and put my phone away.

I wiped the tears that covered my cheeks quickly, hoping she didn't see. I felt so much better, and it surprised me the weight that left my mind when I ended the recording. I'd finally found someone to confide in: myself.