The doctor’s words streamed out, but they sounded like the adults in that old cartoon, the one with the boy in his yellow striped shirt with the few sparse hairs atop his head. Charlie something. Medical jargon. Life expectancy if I continued to respond to new treatments with varied failure and success. The doctor spoke endlessly, and the students devoured every syllable. It was performative, sincere care slipping away as I became little more than a specimen. Zoning out in these kinds of moments was self-preservation.
Despite his voice sounding garbled and strangely-pitched, I did make out a single word—transfer.
I should be used to this endless cycle.
Initially optimistic doctors trying everything in their arsenal to make me better.
Their inevitable descent into resignation.
Crestfallen parents as they absorb more disappointment.
Finally, the termination point before it started all over again. Another facility. Better doctors, more equipped to handle me. Fresh promises soon to be broken.
A nauseating wave of grief and anxiety washed over me. I didn’t want to be the new sick kid on the ward again.
Yet, then I heard… ‘bright’ and ‘house’. Maybe things were looking up? Maybe I could go home? A bright future. A warm house. Hugs from my brother every day. He probably wouldn’t even recognize me now.
The doctor paused, turning to his students. My brain buzzed, but my parents’ voices cut through the din.
"Maybe weshouldconsider the state program," Mom whispered.
"You can’t be serious," Dad hissed back.
“I want her to get the care she needs without destroying us in the process!”
Was the state program some new type of financial aid? That would be good… I was old enough to understand how much money I stole from them, simply by being alive.
My illness consumed everything. My parents’ happiness and money and emotional stability. I was this noxious black hole, sat at the center of their world, sucking everything into my blackness. Nothing escaped my destruction.
“Let me know what you decide,” the doctor’s voice filled the room again. “The sooner the better, beds fill up at Brightfield quickly. She may not get this chance again.”
Brightfield…
Not my own house.
“We’ll consider it carefully,” Dad said slowly.
“And give you an answer by the weekend,” Mom added on quickly, almost enthusiastically.
The doctor said goodbye after patting me on the shoulder and saying something that I’m sure he imagined was uplifting. “As long as you’re alive, tomorrow becomes today.”
The Omega disease specialist was no poet.
The room went quiet as the door closed behind the last student.
I thought I might drown in the waves of silence.
“You guys are moving?” I asked.
“We are,” Dad’s tone was careful when he answered.
“It’s nearer to Tom’s school,” Mom explained. “Smaller, but nice. The mortgage is less and?—”
Dad gave mom a withering look which made her stop speaking. It was too late though; Mom had said enough to make me understand that the move wasn’t exactly a choice.
“At least you won’t have to fight with Mister Gary about the fence anymore,” I forced a smile, but when a memory hit, the grin became genuine. “Remember when he painted the whole thing lime green overnight just to make you mad, Dad?”
“I certainly do,” Dad chuckled. “I painted it bright pink two days later.”
