'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and sits there. I didn’t know it would hurt this much. I didn’t know that everything good that’s ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it.
It’s happening now and it’s really, really true and however much they all promise to remember me it doesn’t even matter if they do or not because I won’t even know about it because I’ll be gone.
A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like material rippling through trees.
I hear myself moaning from a distance. I don’t want to listen. I catch the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Mom. Their hushed voices. Panic spills from Mom's throat.

Not yet. Not yet.
I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars.
Mikey comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he stands next to Mom, quiet and small, and whispers,
" What’s wrong with him? "

" He’s got an infection."

" Will he die? "

" They’ve given him antibiotics. "

" So he’ll get better? "

Silence.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. Leukaemia is a progressive disease. I’m supposed to get weaker and weaker until I don’t care any more.

But I still care. When am I going to stop caring?

I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached angle of a jaw bone.
I want to tell Mom how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up from a bowl of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery.

" Don’t let me fall. "

" I’ve got you. "

" I’m falling. "

" I’m here. I’ve got you. "

But her eyes are scared and her face is slack, like she’s a hundred years old.

*------*

I wake to flowers. Vases of tulips, carnations like a wedding.
I wake to Mom, still holding my hand.
All the things in the room are wonderful – the jug, that chair. The sky is very blue beyond the window.

" Are you thirsty? " Mom says. " Do you want a drink? "
I want mango juice. Lots of it. She plumps a pillow under my head and holds the glass for me. Her eyes lock into mine. I sip, swallow. She gives me time to breathe, tips the glass again. When I’ve had enough, she wipes my mouth with a tissue.

" Like a baby, " I tell her.

She nods. Silent tears fill her eyes.
I sleep. I wake up again. And this time I’m starving.

" Any chance of an ice-cream? "
Mom puts her book down with a grin. " Wait there. "
She’s not gone long, comes back with a Strawberry ice-cream. She wraps the stick in tissue so it doesn’t drip and I manage to hold it myself. It’s utterly delicious. My body’s repairing itself. I didn’t know it could still do that. I know I won’t die with a Strawberry ice-cream in my hand.

" I think I might want another one after this. "
Mom tells me I can have fifty ice creams if that’s what I want. She must’ve forgotten I’m not allowed sugar or dairy.

" I’ve got something else for you. " She fumbles in her jacket pocket and pulls out a fridge magnet. It’s heart-shaped, painted red and badly covered in varnish. " Mikey made it. He sends you his love. "

" What about Dad? "

" He came to see you a couple of times. You were very vulnerable, Gerard. Visitors had to be kept to a minimum. "

" So Frank hasn’t been? "

" Not yet. "
I lick the ice-cream stick, trying to get all the flavor from it. The wood rasps my tongue.

Mom says, " Shall I get you another one? "

" No. I want you to go now. "

She looks confused. " Go where? "

" I want you to go and meet Mikey from school, take him to the park and play football. Buy him chips. Come back later and tell me all about it. "

Mom looks a bit surprised, but she laughs. " You’ve woken up feisty, I see! "

" I want you to phone Frank. Tell him to visit me this afternoon. "

" Anything else? "

" Tell Dad I want presents – expensive juice and loads of music magazines. If he’s going to be shitty, he can at least buy me stuff."

Mom looks gleeful as she grabs a bit of paper and writes down the brands of magazines I want. She encourages me to think of other things I might like, so I order blueberry muffins, coffee and a six-pack of Creme Eggs. It’s nearly Easter after all.
She kisses me three times on the forehead and tells me she’ll be back later.

After she’s gone, a bird lands on the window ledge. It’s not a spectacular bird, not a vulture or a phoenix, but an ordinary starling. A nurse comes in, fiddles about with the sheets, fills up my water jug. I point the bird out to her, joke that it’s Death’s lookout. She sucks her teeth at me and tells me not to tempt fate.

But the bird looks right at me and cocks its head.
" Not yet, " I tell it

The doctor suddenly whizzes in. " So, " he says, " We found the right antibiotic in the end. "

" Eventually. "

" Bit scary for a while though. "

" Was it? "

" I meant for you. That level of infection can be very disorientating."
I read his name badge as he listens to my chest. Dr Braden Jones. He’s about my dad’s age, with dark hair, receding at the crown. He’s thinner than my dad. He looks tired. He checks my arms, legs and back for bleeding under the skin, then he sits down on the chair next to the bed and makes notes on my chart.

Doctors expect you to be polite and grateful. It makes their job easier. But I don’t feel like being tactful today.

" How much longer do I have? "

He looks up, surprised. " Shall we wait for your Mom to be here before we have this discussion? "

" Why? "

" So that we can look at the medical options together. "

" It’s me that’s sick, not my Mom. "

He puts his pen back in his pocket. The muscles round his jaw tighten. " I don’t want to be drawn into time scales with you, Gerard. They’re not helpful at all. "

" They’re helpful to me. "
It’s not that I’ve decided to be brave. This isn’t a new year’s resolution. It’s just that I have a drip in my arm and I’ve lost days of my life to a hospital bed. Suddenly, what’s important seems very obvious.

" My best friend’s having a baby in four weeks and I need to know if I’m going to be there. "

He crosses his legs, then immediately uncrosses them. I feel a bit sorry for him. Doctors don’t get much training in death.
He says, " If I’m over-optimistic, you’ll be disappointed. It’s equally unhelpful to give you a pessimistic prediction. "

" I don’t mind. You’ve got more of an idea than I have. Please, Braden. "

The nurses aren’t allowed to use doctors’ first names, and normally I’d never dare. But something’s shifted. This is my death and there are things I need to know.

" I won’t sue you if you’re wrong. "

He gives me a grim little smile. " Although we managed to cure your infection and you’re obviously feeling much better, your blood count didn’t pick up as much as we’d hoped, so we ran some tests. When your Mother gets back, we can discuss the results together. "

" Have I got peripheral disease? "

" You and I don’t know each other very well, Gerard. Wouldn’t you rather wait for your Mother? "

" Just tell me. "

He sighs very deeply, as if he can’t quite believe he’s about to give in. " Yes, we found disease in your peripheral blood. I’m very sorry. "

That’s it then. I’m riddled with cancer, my immune system is shot and there’s nothing more they can do for me. I had weekly blood tests to check for it. And now it’s here.

I’d always thought that being told for definite would be like being punched in the stomach – painful, followed by a dull ache. But it doesn’t feel dull at all. It’s sharp. My heart’s racing, adrenalin surges through me. I feel absolutely focused.

" Does my Mom already know? "

He nods. " We were going to tell you together. "

" What options do I have? "

" Your immune system is in collapse, Gerard. Your options are limited. We can keep going with blood and platelets if you want to, but it’s likely their benefit will be short-lived. If you became anemic straight after a transfusion, we would have to stop. "

" What then? "

" Then we would do everything we could to make you comfortable and leave you in peace. "

" Daily transfusions aren’t feasible? "

" No. "

" I’m not going to make four weeks then, am I? "

Dr Jones looks right at me. " You’ll be very lucky if you do. "