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 thelastthing 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
