Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
The cool overhead lights and the incessant buzz and beeps of machines rattle my brain. Every sound is so sharp, like an electric shock to my already tattered nerves.
“Are you doing okay?” someone asks, but I don't have the energy to respond. My mouth feels glued shut, and only as I peer up to see the concern etched between the brows of Jenna, the brunette nurse, do I realise my jaw is clenched and I'm white-knuckling the armrests.
“Adhira, is there something I can get for you?”
How do I tell her the only thing I bloody want is a body that won't betray me?
“N-no, I'm okay. Thank you,” I manage.
“The first infusion is overwhelming for everyone. I can't promise that it'll get better. I won't lie or try to placate you, but I can tell you that as the process becomes more familiar, at least the infusion itself won't be so anxiety-inducing.”
I appreciate her bluntness more than she can know. Of course, I don't tell her that. I'm not able to give her more than a grunt and what I hope is something resembling a small smile.
The IV tape tugs at the fine hairs on my arm, each pull a small, grounding sting, reminding me that I’ll have a port placed soon.
“I'm going to grab you a bottle of water and let you relax for a few minutes before I start the infusion. Okay?”
I nod.
Jenna walks away, and as she leaves me, I breathe a sigh of relief. It's not her fault that everything just feels like…too much. I'm exhausted and overwhelmed by it all the same.
“Jenna's my favourite of the nurses. She's a good stick, too, and if you look real pitiful, you can trick her into sharing some of the homemade sticky toffee pudding she brings in for her coworkers with ya.”
It takes several seconds for me to realise the words, spoken with a heavy Scottish accent, are meant for my ears.
I turn towards the voice, picking at my nail polish as I stare blankly at him. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
The older gentleman releases a deep-bellied laugh that doesn't match the atmosphere of this place. “It's been a long time since anyone's ignored me quite so thoroughly, lass. But seems like ye need a wee somethin’ to distract ya.”
“You could say that,” I grumble.
His humour cuts through the static in my head, something warm to latch onto.
And that's how I wind up spending the entirety of my first infusion with a chatterbox of an old Scot. He remains well past the time his infusion is complete, keeping me company with stories of his youth and inappropriate jokes that have me cracking my first real smiles in what seems like forever.
“You plan to have your friends or family join ya for the next one?” Archie asks at the end of my infusion as Jenna removes the IV from my arm.
Guilt splinters through me—sharp and uninvited. An absurd loneliness of my own creation, worsening the prickling feeling spreading from the centre of my chest throughout my limbs.
I ignore the question, gathering my things, and rush out of the building like my arse is on fire, sparing Archie a wave.
It takes twice as long to get home as it did to find my way to the infusion centre. My mind races, and the walk to my flat does little to quiet my thoughts.
The flat smells of fresh paint as I unlock the door and slip inside, sagging against it with a relieved breath. Judging by the distinct lack of additional items, my new flatmate hasn’t arrived yet.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on me. Rather than stick around to meet him, I make quick work of changing into pyjamas, drawing the blackout curtains shut, and slipping beneath the covers for a well-deserved nap.
The rush of my own pulse fills my ears, vision tunnelling as if the world is narrowing to a pinpoint.
My gaze darts around the room in search of anyone to rescue me from this quiet prison, but the blurry faces surrounding me shift into familiar ones of friends and family. People I know I’m going to let down with my actions. I want to scream for them, beg them to understand.
My tongue feels tethered to my soft palate, air no longer filling my lungs. I’m suffocated by the first tragedy I ever faced—time not healing the wounds, but rather, dulling the hues of that horrific memory.
My parents stand over a casket, one too small for an adult. I try to call for them, but no sound comes out as they turn to face me, tears pooling in their eyes, their hands raised to beckon me over.
I walk on shaky limbs, heart racing, fear gripping me.
The air smells faintly of marigolds—the same cloying sweetness that clung to my brother’s corpse.
And as I peer down into the coffin, it morphs. I expect to see Badal with his short-cropped black hair, closed eyes, and peaceful expression, but it isn’t his face staring back at me.
It’s mine.
My eyes burst open, ragged breaths tearing from my chest. A slick sheen of sweat coats my skin, making the sheets cling in ways that make my body revolt.
It’s no secret that chemo sucks, but I’m consumed by ire nonetheless, my frustrations only mounting because it’s my doing.
I had no business counting on years of playing football to lessen the impact today’s infusion had on my body.
And as I lie here in my queen-sized bed, surrounded by crystals, my favourite orca LEGO sets, and other items that would usually bring me comfort, I relinquish myself to the fact that I may never be truly comfortable again.
Not in body or mind. They’re small tokens of order in a world falling apart, but even they can’t save me tonight.
I remain in a foetal position with a headache that won’t leave me despite my many efforts, curling myself around my body pillow and begging the nausea to lessen, knowing it’s the dreaded optimism that failed me.
This is precisely why I always say to remain cautiously optimistic and decidedly realistic. Nothing good has ever come from overwhelming positivity.
This is a fact that has been proven to me time and again.
My temples throb as I remember last month: I’d gone to the cardiologist for an echocardiogram, certain that the many workups I’d had after losing Badal to a hereditary heart condition would have revealed anything I’d need to worry about.
I was confident that my heart was in tip-top shape and everything would be fine.
Alas, like so many other things lately, I was dead-bloody-wrong.
Not about my heart. That I managed to guess right about. My ticker is still ticking away, how it should. Small blessings, and all that.
However, the fate that had befallen me was far greater.
My skin prickles at the memory of my heart pounding erratically as the tech pressed the cold gel-covered probe to my chest, a fight-or-flight response from hell erupting inside me like a volcano as I thrashed against her, dry-heaving with panic.
“Are you alright, dear? Your pulse is flying,” the tech had said, her wide eyes doing nothing to calm my racing heart as it continued to ramp up the pace.
“I'm—y-yes, I'm fine, just a little nervous is a-all,” I'd told her. I'd clenched my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists as I sucked in a breath for four, held for four, and out for six.
It did fuck-all to stop me from spiralling though.
Behind my closed lids, a motion-picture film of the day I'd undergone that exact diagnostic test played on repeat, featuring Mummy's tear-filled eyes and Papa’s pleas for me to calm down.
His arms had been wrapped tightly around me, pinning mine to my sides as the ultrasound tech wrestled through the thirty-minute test that felt like hours.
Nothing prepares you more for a cancer diagnosis than childhood post-traumatic stress disorder inflicted by the sudden loss of your other half. Or so I’d thought.
I groan with lethargy, tucking my body pillow between my legs and pressing my cheek into the cool satin pillowcase, aching for a reprieve from the discomfort spilling through me. My mouth feels dry, my eyelids heavy as lead, and even breathing takes effort.
That stillness is disturbed by the slam of the front door as my new flatmate, Elijah, comes barging into our now-shared flat.
The noise fractures the fragile quiet I’ve built.
My fingers twitch with the desire to strangle him, fury lighting my blood in a violent assault on my senses.
Luckily for him, I’m too weak to act on them.
“Hey, Adhira,” he calls through the panelled door, his voice a low, unsteady whisper. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”
His voice is too gentle for the day I’ve had. The sound doesn’t belong in this room full of ache.
I moan in frustration, pulling my pillow over my face. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming into it and instead silently beg him to go away.
Another knock, this one softer. I hold my breath as if he can hear it through the door. A few moments later, and I’m met with the sweet sound of his retreating footsteps. I sigh in relief, but it’s short-lived.
I hear him opening and closing doors, not slamming them this time, but maddening all the same. An hour passes before the sound of his footsteps halts, and I hear the front door lock, my body sagging further into my mattress.
Bloody hell, I hope he’s buggered off for the night.