The White Parade

I. The Patient(s):
They call him The Patient.

No one is really sure what his real name is, save the doctors and nurses who treat him, I guess--but really, what sort of shitty general nickname is “The Patient” in a place like this? This hospital is full of patients--most of them running out of patience for their diseases and the treatments that are supposed to help them. But somehow... It doesn’t matter who you’re talking to, or who is talking to you; say “The Patient” with the right amount of inflection and people automatically know. It doesn’t matter how they know--they just do.

It isn’t that he’s remarkable in any way. He’s tall, thin--the thinness in him probably more from his treatments than his diet or lack thereof. His hair is so blonde that in some lights people must think that it’s white, or that he doesn’t have any. There is the possibility that some would call him unusually handsome; he’s certainly got the face for it. Hazel eyes flecked with green, slightly aquiline nose and thin lips that--when not contorted in speech--always seem set at a grim, smile-less rest. His cheekbones make the gauntness of his face less scary to look at and that--I guess--is where the unusual handsomeness works out. To put it simply, he doesn’t look like the other patients here. He sticks out because he doesn’t immediately look like he’s going to drop dead. Not in his face, at least...certainly not in his eyes...

His story is just like everyone else’s. The Patient is here because he’s dying. He’s here because there is nothing anyone can do for him anymore. His doctors are trying to make sure he’s as comfortable as possible, but word is that they’re having trouble doing just that. He’s already gone through three secular counselors, and he won’t even hear of having a religious one.

This, I know for a fact. This, I happened to witness one day on my way to visit my friend Claire in her room. He had been angry that day, arguing with doctors and someone who looked more at home helping kids finger-paint than trying to console a dying young man. What interested me most about that day, though, was his intensity. He was so...so animated--for a guy staring down death, anyway. You would have to wonder why he’s wasting his time yelling at doctors when he could be in bed, sleeping the days away.

It was at the precise moment that I walked by his room that he screamed, “And I’ll be damned if you think I’ll talk to a priest! What the fuck is religion gonna do for me that you people can’t?!”

Needless to say, it stalled me. Or rather, his boldness stunned me enough to walk into a security guard. I went down hard to the sterile linoleum floor, notebooks and pens spilling all over the place. And my rosary...

He had seen me. And he had seen my rosary, the one I always wore hidden under my gloves. The one that I had forgotten to tuck under my glove that day (why, I’ll never quite know) and that had, upon impact, made its way off my wrist and into the garish fluorescence of the hospital lights. He had seen it and had focused on it for the silent entirety of ten seconds, and he had quieted down almost instantly before simply turning around and going back into his room. The slam of the door was so unusually powerful that everyone jumped and no one said a thing.

He had seen me then, but passing him in the hall as I am now, he doesn’t seem to remember or notice me. At least, I don’t think--

“Hey.”

Cold, thin fingers close tight around my arm--tighter than I would ever expect to feel from anyone on this floor. Startled, I turn and find myself looking not so much into the pale, gaunt face of a sick young man...but rather into a pair of powerful hazel-green eyes.

“Hey,” he says again, softly. “You’re the girl from the other day... The one who always comes here. The girl with the scarf. The healthy one, anyway.”

It’s not a question or even a comment hinting at interest or insult. It’s just cold, objective observation, but in the pull of his eyes, I barely hear it. Something about them... He suddenly seems wise beyond his years. “I’ve been through life,” his eyes seem to say. “I’ve been shoved around, kicked, trampled...” Whatever this is...whatever disease he’s got... This is nothing. If he has any complaints, it’s that release is taking its sweet time to reach him.

“I... Y-yes.”

He lets me go and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. Somehow that’s enough to make him look weak, tired. I think he’s going to fall...and he does, sinking onto one of the benches placed along the wall at various intervals in the hallway. And all at once, I see the skinny, frail boy that he is.

I wonder if he gets visitors.

“Why do you come here?” he asks, softly.

“To visit a friend,” I say. “She’s staying on this floor. Why...why are you here?”

I’ve said a stupid thing. I know it, he knows it, but he doesn’t act the way he does with the doctors and nurses. He doesn’t yell at me. He just swallows and stares straight at the opposite wall.

“You come on this floor a lot. You should know. Everyone talks about me. I’m dying.”

“Yes, but...” And I know I’m being nosy, but I can’t resist. “What are you dying from?”

The Patient looks up at me, and again... His eyes. Those wise eyes...the ones that give only the briefest glimpse to the life he must have lived to get to this point. A life he regretfully left behind. I know the answer before he tells me. It’s not the disease that’s killing him--whatever he’s got...whatever the doctors think it is...

“Life,” he says. “I’m dying from living.”

***

She’s sitting on the bed in her gray sweatpants and plain black hoodie, pale face buried in her pale hands when I finally walk inside. She doesn’t look up when I draw near; she doesn’t move when I set down in front of her the comic books she asked me to buy. She just stays there, face buried in her hands, medical bracelet peeking out just slightly from underneath a dark sleeve. She doesn’t have to say anything; the pose is enough. Today has not been a good day.

“They want me to stay here longer.”

I swallow a sigh. Set down the bag. Undo the scarf...

“Did they say why?”

...take off the coat. Hang the coat off the back of my usual chair, take a moment to move the bag from the floor to the seat, and pull slightly at the sleeves of my AFI thermal without taking my eyes away from her form on the bed. She gives a shake of the head; she still doesn’t look up. Today has been a bad day.

“Just...just that they know something’s wrong. It’s not what they thought, and they think it might be worse. They’re running more tests...” She sighs. “They started a few of them this morning.”

They drew blood. They used needles. Today has been a shitty day.

Finally, she looks up, resting her chin atop her linked hands while the knees of her crossed legs support her elbows. The hoodie makes her look paler than she is; the winter light from the window outside doesn’t help, giving her skin a strange shine. Luminance. A glow. It makes her look like porcelain. It makes her look more tired than she probably is. It makes her look older. Colder. Her dark eyes stare into some distant space behind me or through me, and for a second the gaze is familiar...

Sit down on the edge of the bed, far enough to respect her personal space, close enough to hug her if she needs it. “Did they say how long?”

Another shake of the head, followed by a shrug. “They aren’t sure. A week...maybe two. At the most...a month.”

She tries to hide it, but I quietly note the waver in her voice as she finishes the sentence, and it scares me. Not the tiny waver that gives her away her silent fear--believe me, I know she’s more scared than I’ll ever be, and I’ve been pretty fucking scared since the word “go”--but the idea that after spending a month here already, they would ask her to spend another...

No, not ask. The doctors would make a show of “strongly recommending” it when really she has no other options. Not if she wants to live.

I take her hand in mine. Hers is softer, a little warmer, than the hand that had grabbed me earlier, and hers yields where his didn’t seem like it was capable of doing so. Interlacing fingers is a way of conveying that you mean what you say, no matter what it is.

“If it takes another month, I’ll stay another month.”

She shakes her head at this, fixing me with a strong look. “You have school to go back to soon. You have a life to get back to.”

“It’s... It’s not that important...”

A sudden squeeze at my hand tells me she disagrees. The strong look in her face intensifies a fraction, but it makes all the difference.

“It’s art school. Don’t ever let me hear you say it’s not important to you again.”

So I promise never to let her hear me say it again. Because, in the end, she’s right. It is art school; it is important to me. But right now, the way things are going...not even art school matters as much as it used to. I’d give it all up, if it meant that she wouldn’t have to put up with any of this shit anymore. All of these doctors with their theories and guesses but nothing concrete... All these days and nights of staying in a place so far removed from the fast pace of city life she might as well be in another world...

“You brought them,” she says with a small smile, picking up one of the comics. It’s amazing how quickly the mood changes, how easily she goes from at least looking upset or worn out to suddenly alert. “And it’s the newest one, too.”

“They’re all the newest issues, just like you asked. I-I couldn’t get coffee, though; Starbucks was murder.”

“It’s Starbucks--the lines are always murder at this hour. But don’t worry about it too much. I haven’t had much of an appetite for anything since this morning...”

The silence starts to settle uneasily, but the tone of her voice is lighter. As she leafs through the first of the comic book trio, she seems a little happier, a little more content than she was before. Today has a chance of improving.