Do Not Resuscitate

“Clear!”

…

“… losing her!”

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“… got you, sweetie…”

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“She looks… likely anorexia.”

…

“… sudden cardiac arrest… arrhythmia… weakened muscles.”

…

“… surgery… put in a defibrillator.”

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“But can she…”

…

“… risky…”

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“Danny, wake up.”

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“Please…”

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“How is she?”

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“They got a picture… tabloids… Shit.”

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“Danny.”

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“I need you, sweetie.”

…

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep… Beep…

That beeping better be Satan chirping in my ear or I swear I will flip a fucking table.

Metaphorically speaking. Or whatever. I don’t know. I don’t pay attention in English.

God, what happened?

My body is heavy. So, so heavy. I can’t move. And my head is pounding. Like someone is stabbing an icepick right in the back of my skull. Repeatedly. Every time I swallow, well, I don’t actually swallow. I have no spit to swallow. My throat is dry and sandy and very much some kind of eloquent simile involving a desert.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of being tired.

I screw my eyes tight and twist my head. Something’s wrong with my incredible mattress. It’s hard, uncomfortable. The comforter that normally keeps me warm is gone. It disappeared. I’m cold and shaky and I have a thin sheet covering me.

Where am I? School? The nurse’s office? Did I pass out? Yeah, yeah I did. In the middle of the hallway and made a fool of myself. Great.

There’s a TV on low in the background and a constant beeping in a steady tempo hitting my ears and… my name. Somewhere over the roaring in my ears, someone is saying my name, trying to wake me up and take me out of this sad excuse for a bed. A deep, scratchy voice, pitched in frantic excitement.

Dad?

“Danny, sweetie, wakeup.”

Dad.

“Come on, Dannilynn, you can do it.”

Val.

There’s glue keeping my eyes shut. I’m convinced. I want to go back to sleep. I want to drift away into nothingness and stop failing at the most basic human action.

“Danny. Danny.” A weird choking sound. A warm, tight grip on my hand. “Please.”

He sounds desperate. For me to wake up. I don’t understand, but he won’t leave me alone. He won’t let me sleep. So I pry my eyes open.

There’s Val and Dad hovering over me, concern etched on their faces, tears hanging on Dad’s lashes, and an ugly, white, tiled ceiling.

This isn’t the school. This isn’t their crappy ceiling that should be fixed because tuition is through the roof. This isn’t the nurse’s office. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I was just at school. I just blacked out. How did I get here? Where am I? What happened?

Oh, God. The beeping. The low television. The smell of antiseptic. The armrests attached to the uncomfortable bed. The palpable relief oozing from Dad and Val.

I’m in the hospital.

No.

“You’re awake.” Dad’s smile is blinding. He turns the debilitating expression on Val. “She’s awake.”

No, no, no.

“I’ll go get a nurse,” Val says.

Something happened. Something bad.

Val leaves, and Dad’s expression is back on me, happy relief in full force and making my gut twist painfully. This isn’t good. What happened? Why is he so relieved? Why am I in the hospital? What is going on?

“It’s okay,” Dad says, “You’re awake. It’s going to be okay, Danny.”

But it’s not okay, Dad. It’s so far away from being okay.

“You went into cardiac arrest.”

Please tell me this is some kind of cosmic joke or I’m really in a coma and dreaming this whole conversation and I’m about to be taken off life support or I’m dead and this is a sick version of Hell, Satan’s version of a crappy soap opera.

“The nurse, the school nurse, she had a defibrillator, and she did CPR, and she saved your life.”

I fucked up on the highest level of fucking up.

“You could have died. If this happened at home, I… Danny… I… you wouldn’t have made it.”

Tears dribble down his face, but he doesn’t understand. That’s how it was supposed to work. I supposed to die in bed, at his house, where no one had a goddamn shocking machine around to jumpstart my heart.

I didn’t even know the nurse had a defibrillator. She’s not a real nurse. She gives students butterscotch hard candies when they come in and lets them rest on uncomfortable beds. That’s what she prescribes. Rest and hard candy. Without fail. And someone said it was okay for her to work a defibrillator? I can’t believe this.

I can’t believe I fucked up this bad.

“I’m so happy you’re alive.”

I’m not.

“Well, hello there.” I don’t recognize that voice, but Dad smiles at the woman in greeting. “How is she?”

“Awake,” Dad says.

Stop reminding me.

I watch them all in a stunned haze. Laying on my back. Staring at the ceiling and the discombobulated faces that pop in and out of frame. Alive. A woman in scrubs takes my vitals, smiles, fake. Dad and Val watch, alternately smiling at me and sending worried glances at the woman while she does her job. They talk at me. Low, calming tones. Assure me everything is all right. Their words a long slur of nothing.

I’m alive.

I could have died. I was so close.

Someone raises the bed so I’m sitting up, shoves a cup of water at me. I gulp it down. Choke on it. Sputter, cough, cause a bunch of sticky, round pads to fall off my chest. The woman lectures me. Dad rubs my back and murmurs soothing words, to take the sting out of the nurse’s words, I think. I don’t care.

I can fix this. I can. I haven’t ruined everything yet. I was close. I’m still close. This is just a hiccup.

There’s a blur of words. Vitals okay. Getting the doctor. Surgery incision looks clean. ICD working. She’ll be fine. Doctor will here in a moment.

ICD? Surgery?

She’s gone before I can send her a questioning glance, before I can gesture at the stitches she checked and open and close my mouth in silent question. So I do it at the spot where she once stood. Silently beg her to come back and tell me what the hell an ICD is. But she’s gone and I don’t know what’s going on and my lungs are constricting and there’s ice in my veins and I don’t think I can breathe and I can’t deal with this.

Dad’s hand squeezes mine. His face up in my space. Too close. I can see the panic in hazel eyes, panic I’m sure is reflected in my eyes because I don’t know what’s happened.

“Danny, breathe.”

I try. I do. I take breaths and fill my lungs and try to focus on Dad’s warm hand and his wide, concerned eyes. Val perches at my knees, leans over, and presses the cool cup against my forehead, my cheek, my other cheek. Holding it in each place for a few seconds. Forcing Dad to back up. Strange but the cold is grounding, distracting, something to focus on. My breathing becomes normal again, and I lean against the uncomfortable mattress. Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out.

Whatever’s happened, I can make it better.

Val takes the cup away, studies me, places a hand on my knee. Either grounding herself or grounding me. Dad keeps his death grip on my hand.

“This is scary, isn’t it?” Val says finally. Calm, level, a pleasant flow of words washing over me. “Waking up in a hospital attached to machines, us freaking out, the medications making you zone out. We understand. We’re scared, too.”

Her words, her tone, take the fight out of me, make my body sag. I’m tired. I want to sleep. I want to cry. I want to curl in a ball but the little, sticky pads monitoring my heart will come off and the woman will come in to lecture me again and the mattress would press against my bones uncomfortably anyway.

“We’re not helping, I know. I mean, we’re the adults.” She sends a self-depreciating smile at Dad, and he returns it. I think she’s trying to sedate his nerves, too. “We’re supposed to handle the big things so you don’t have to, but, Dannilynn… We weren’t prepared for this.”

I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. I can fix all of it. Take me out of here, disconnect the machines, leave the ICD—whatever that is—and I’ll take care of everything.

“There’s no guidebook for this. Your heart failed.” Val pauses, seems to really take in what she said, shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re sixteen, and your heart failed. It’s damaged. It can’t pump on its own. You can’t reverse that. Of course, we’re scared. You’re too young to be dealing with this.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“This’ll be a lifelong thing. The medications, the doctor’s visits, the threat of your heart giving out again. But Dad, Mom, and I are here for you. Every step of the way.”

There’s still a chance. I can still make things right.

“The ICD should help. It’s a defibrillator. Implanted. That’s all. It’ll take care of the arrhythmia, send a shock when your heart skips beats, make sure it pumps. Not foolproof but it’s something.”

My world tilts. Everything turns on its axis. My body buzzes. I feel like I’m coming out of my skin, in a body that’s not my own.

They’ve put it in me.

They’ve put the goddamn shocking machine inside me.

“You’re lucky the doctor could operate on you.”

Lucky? You call this lucky, Val? Let me explain you a thing: lucky would have been dying on the floor of the school, lucky would have been being in a coma, lucky would have been dying on the operating table, lucky would have been finding out my organs are too destroyed for me to live longer than a week. Lucky is not having your suddenly-involved-in-your-life, absentee father and his wife making stupid ass decisions to keep you alive.

“You’re underwe—“

“You haven’t been eating,” Dad cuts her off, his soulful eyes on me.

Fuck.

“We’re not mad,” Val adds quickly.

I don’t give a fuck, Valary.

“I…” Dad swallows. He’s going to cry again. Great. “I just want to know why, Danny. What is going on?”

Well, Dad, you see, I was trying to die, but you fucked it the fuck up like a fucking jackass.

Note to self: Google how to make an ICD malfunction.

“You’re hurting yourself. You’re cutting and you’re starving yourself and the doctor thinks you’ve been making yourself throw up. Why?”

Because the world is shit.

Maybe I could dig the ICD out with a knife.

Tears fall from his lashes. Again. The droplets bypass his cheek completely to fall onto the thin sheet. He cries more than me.

I might be able to reopen the stitches to pull the ICD out.

Dad takes a deep, tortured breath, over a loud beep from one of the machines, over the sound of medication being dispensed into my veins. “I know, you don’t want to talk.” He shakes his head and tries to smile. “You probably never want to speak to me again. I get it. This is embarrassing, and you’re angry, and that’s okay. But I’m going to help you.”

What the fuck ever, Dad.

I wonder what would happen if the ICD shocked my heart too much.

“I’ll do anything.”

Kay, you do that.

Too much stimulation to a heart has to be dangerous.

“Anything, Danny. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

That’s so funny, I could laugh.

Wait. I’m actually going to laugh. The feeling bubbles up inside of me, in my chest, claws at my throat, makes the edges of my lips wobble. I am going to laugh at Dad’s heartfelt plea. Because it is the biggest piece of bullshit. In his I want to save you, Danny voice. Which is fucking hysterical.

What kind of drugs do they have me on?

Don’t smile. Don’t laugh. Don’t engage. Don’t do anything. Suppress, suppress, suppress.

Oh my God, I’m going to laugh.

“This is serious,” Dad says, frustrated, upset, irritated by my almost smile in a situation he seems to think is dire.

Whoops.

I snort, cover it with a cough, shield my mouth with my hand. I am so not going to laugh. I won’t. Really. What would my laugh even sound like? A whoosh of air? Choking? Coughing? If I can’t talk, will I make a noise? If a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Fascinating.

Dad’s talking again. He’s droning on, but I can’t make out the words he’s saying. It’s one long buzz. The colors of the room look brighter. My mouth feels dry again. There’s this buzzing, tingling sensation going through my limbs. I can smell colors. A pleasant drowsiness blankets me. This medication is amazing. No wonder people get addicted to it.

“…listening… love you… eat… want the best… I… overnight… Mom said… talking about… we don’t want to but… eating disorder treatment facility.”

He says the last words low, like he’s afraid to say them and acknowledge that this is happening, but I hear him, and I latch onto the words. Eating disorder. Treatment. Eating disorder. Facility. Eating disorder.

I laugh.

Out loud.