Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I tug on a pair of black leggings and a light-blue jumper, slip my feet into my trainers, and put on a surgical mask, the elastic scraping against my cheek as I tug it into place.
I know this is out of an abundance of caution, but I’m not going to be the victim of a common cold while immunosuppressed.
Outside, the morning air hums faintly with traffic and distant chatter, the city already alive while I feel half dead.
The walk to the shops is short. Luckily, it’s located right across the street because I don’t think I’d be able to carry much of anything back to my flat if it were any further.
I browse the aisles, my eyes catching on the “international” section, which boasts a tiny shelf of Scottish goods.
Not that I think you can call tinned haggis and neeps a “good,” but I’m sure they’re a staple for Archie, the old geezer I met at my first infusion.
I’ll never admit it to him, but I don’t think I’d have gotten through it if it weren’t for his incessant chatter and obvious effort to distract me from the discomfort of the whole situation.
I hope he’s well and not six feet under somewhere.
I grab what I need as my legs start to fatigue, palms slick on the trolley handle, knees trembling slightly with the effort, and by the time I finish, I’m bloody exhausted.
It’s taken twice as long to grab the few items as it normally would to fill up an entire trolley.
I’ve got a couple of pieces of fruit, a bag of lentils, a small bag of white rice instead of the massive one I’d usually buy but can’t carry home now, and a few veg.
Great, Adhira. Now you have food, but who the hell is going to cook it?
If I were still living with Chelsea, she’d take care of it. My heart sinks at the thought, shoulders slumping as I drag this shite to the checkout. That woman has the energy of a squirrel on a sugar high, but I miss her. Even if she did annoy the hell out of me with her very existence.
The walk from the checkout to my flat is torturous, fatigue pressing down on me and worsening with each step. I need to purchase a folding trolley of some sort, or cancer will be the last thing on my mind. I’ll die of starvation before my mutated cells have the chance to take me out first.
Three more metres and you’ll be in the lift and back home. You can do this.
I manage to get all my things to the door of my flat, practically collapsing against it when I arrive. There’s a box left beside the door that I’ll have to grab after I get this inside.
After unloading the minimal groceries and taking a break to drink one of the disgusting protein shakes my oncologist gave me as samples, the chalky, metallic taste coating my tongue, I make my way to the door to bring the package inside.
The side has a description of the contents with an outline of a children’s tea set. My brows scrunch as I check the label, confirming it’s addressed to Elijah Elliott.
Does this man have children that I don’t know about?
I shake my head. It’s none of my business if he does, unless of course, he’s planning to bring them here to disturb my peace.
I collapse onto the sofa, my body aching with such intensity that I feel it right down to my bones.
My phone chimes with a notification that the pharmacy has filled the new prescription Dr. Alvarez sent to better control my nausea.
When she called the other day to see how I was holding up after my first infusion, I was shocked, but it was a small reminder that I’m not entirely alone in this.
Most doctors don’t call to check in on their patients, or they have staff do it, but this might be more run-of-the-mill in oncology.
I hope to never know from the provider side of things.
I refuse to subject myself to a life of treating the same disease that is trying to kill me right now.
I clear the notification and sort through other messages I haven’t bothered responding to yet, opening my group chat with Elise, Chelsea, and Letty.
Chelsea
HELP!!! I think I’m fucking dying.
Letty
Quit being so dramatic. It’s probably allergies.
Elise
Calm tf down.
Chelsea
My nose won’t quit leaking. My eyes are red and pussy and my throat burns like a bitch.
Elise
You’re in the UK now, just say cunt. Bitch feels too soft.
Chelsea
My mama would feel a disturbance in the atmosphere and fly out here to whoop my ass if I did.
Letty
Excuse me, are we all just going to ignore the fact that Chels wrote “pussy” instead of “puffy”?
I hate that my brain didn’t even register the typo, because that’s something Chelsea would casually slip into conversation.
Chelsea
Ope. Autocorrect is a real bitch these days, huh?
Elise
Adhira, if you don’t start answering soon, I’ll break down your fucking door.
Letty
Wow, someone is in a moooood today.
Chelsea
She’s always in a mood.
Can we get back to me and my impending doom now? Come on, people. Work with me here.
The messages have been going like this for the last hour I’ve been gone, and lucky me, there are only two additional threats aimed at me by the time I reach the end.
I was grocery shopping, you absolute bloody eejits.
Chelsea
FUCKING FINALLY!!! I HAVE BEEN HERE WAITING ON MY DEATH BED!
I’m sure Chelsea wouldn’t be going on like this if she knew what I’ve been dealing with, but I’d never fault her for it. It’s not on her that I’m keeping things from them. But when I eventually tell her, I really hope she doesn’t think back to this conversation and feel any kind of guilt.
I start triaging her, firing off questions to work through possible diagnoses and whether it’s something I can suggest treatment for or if she needs to see someone.
In the end, I determine she likely has allergies from moving into a new place with Letty, which, according to her, had a layer of dust so thick it may as well have been carpet.
Take an allergy pill and use some of that nasal spray I got you last time something like this happened. Twice a day. Oh, and a neti pot to flush that shite from your sinuses.
AND rinse your eyes out too.
Chelsea
Blessed be. You sweet, sweet angel.
What would we do without you?
I hope they never have to find out. Though if my body doesn’t respond properly to treatment, they may be crossing that bridge sooner than any of us would like.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my doom spiral and launching me straight into another as I register the name on the screen. I groan, clenching my eyes shut and releasing a long, calming breath.
If I don’t answer, she’ll know something's wrong and start bothering my friends, whose texts and calls I've already been struggling to respond to with enough consistency to keep them appeased. If she reaches out to them, I’ll be bombarded with calls and people banging down my door, which is just about the last thing I want right now.
I don't need another reminder of everything I'm losing, and I certainly don't need more people to disappoint.
So I put my big-girl knickers on, pulling them up so high they cover my nipples and give me a metaphorical wedgie.
“Beta, who do you keep talking to on the phone all day?” The delicate lilt of my mother’s Gujarati accent filters through the speaker, the sound itself feeling like home. I can almost smell her kitchen, longing gnawing at my chest.
“What do you mean, Mummy? I haven’t been on the phone all day.”
“Ah, ah.” She tsks. “You must have been since you haven’t called your Mummy in two days.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, beta,” she scolds, knowing me too well for my own good.
There’s no use denying it. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. How has your weekend been?”
“It’s much better now that I’m talking to my only daughter. Have you eaten today? You looked thin at graduation.”
“Yes, and I went to the shops today too,” I tell her, knowing that if I don’t steer her away from a conversation about my food intake, she’ll pry into what I’ve eaten and open up a whole other mess of lies.
We talk for the next thirty minutes, her pestering niggling its way into my chest and making me feel a little more whole than I had a few hours ago.
Overbearing love is often overwhelming, and I don’t process it the way most people might, but growing up in a Desi household, I got used to this kind of treatment from my family.
It’s friends and strangers that get under my skin.
“I love you, Mummy,” I say before ending the call, feeling like absolute rubbish for the many lies of omission I’ve strung her along with. The pain it causes me is nothing compared to the loss she’s already suffered, and I’m determined to protect her from any more burden for as long as I’m able.
That was both fuelling and draining, all at once. The flat is quiet now, the dim screen light fading across the wall as I sit in the stillness, too tired to move.