Status: FYI: two chapters posted March 20; COMPLETED

Do Not Resuscitate

Chapter 13

It starts as a violent cough and morphs into full-blown, stomach-hurting laughter. I can’t stop it. I’m bent over, clutching my stomach, tears filling my eyes. I can’t breathe. It hurts. My throat is on fire, and my stomach is cramping. And I laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Danny?”

Dad sounds so confused, so lost, so unsure. He probably thinks I’m a lunatic. Ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Going to jump out of the bed, strip naked, and run my skinny ass down the hospital halls while singing the alphabet.

Which makes me laugh harder.

I’m going to die. From laughing. I can’t catch my breath no matter how hard I try. I’m going suffocate. Ironic.

“Danny. Danny, stop.”

There’s panic in Dad’s voice. I can barely see him through the tears clouding my vision, but he’s staring at me, starting to rise from the bed. He really thinks I’m going to go crazy or that I’ve already lost my marbles. There’s a break in the constant, low beeping.

And then pain.

A sharp shock stings my body. What feels like a kick to the chest knocks the wind out of my lungs, a thumping pain that makes me fall back against the uncomfortable hospital bed. It only lasts a second, and then it’s gone, and my body hurts, and I’m so exhausted my eyelids are drooping.

What the hell was that? What happened?

The round, sticky pads. That woman lied to me. Those pads don’t monitor my heart. They shock me. Like some new, hip version of shock therapy. I’m not crazy. I don’t need shock therapy. I don’t need a facility for a problem that doesn’t exist. I don’t need a therapist. I don’t need someone to talk to. I don’t need these stupid, little pads.

I reach for them, grip the wires in a bouquet, and… Dad grabs my wrists. My eyes fly to him. He’s got that stern Daddy expression on. He uses the same expression on Brooklyn to get her to eat her peas.

“No,” he says, drawing the word out real slow in case I can’t comprehend anything in the midst of my lunacy. “No. That was the ICD.”

The… excuse me? You let them put a machine in me that karate kicks me in the chest? You may as well let them leech me while you’re at it, Dad.

“At least we know it works,” Val says. Weakly.

Points for effort.

“Let go,” Dad says.

I do what he tells me to.

Because holding my arms up is taking a lot of effort and energy, and they’re kind of heavy, and I think I’m going to collapse in a fit of much needed sleep any second.

Sleep sounds delicious.

I settle against the uncomfortable mattress the best I can and watch Dad. Wary of him and his decision-making skills. Drowsy to the point that my eyes are closing longer and longer each time I close them, and it’s becoming awfully difficult to keep them open, and this bed is becoming more and more comfortable.

These drugs are crazy. I’ll take fifty.

“Don’t touch the pads, okay?” Dad orders.

Do. Not. Salute.

He must find agreement or understanding in my lazy posture because he sits again and let’s that stern expression fall so he can put on a smile that’s not quite a smile. I get it, Dad, you think you’re adorable. Now go away. I can’t sleep until you stop watching me.

“Did it hurt?”

When I fell from heaven?

I snort and giggle. I’m so funny. I could be a comedian.

Dad glances at the heart monitor, then pins me with sober eyes. I try to swallow my giggles, try to put on an equally sober expression or the blank one that I’m normally a pro at, but my lips refuse to tip down and my eyes are crinkling and I snort. Again.

“You’re heart’s pretty banged up.”

It’s broken. Like the rest of me.

That’s sad. I don’t want to be sad. I want to be happy. And sleep. I really, really want to sleep. Sleep would make me happy. I should sleep. I close my eyes, let them stay shut for a minute or two or ten. I could sleep here. On the uncomfortable mattress. Under a thin sheet. I could do this.

Except Dad’s talking. Dad, Dad, stop. I need sleep.

“Matt,” Val mumbles, “the pain meds.”

It’s a gentle reminder, but it makes stop his longwinded rant about… well… I don’t know… I wasn’t listening. He sighs, brushes the hair from my face, and stares. I can feel it, and I’m not opening my eyes to see his sappy expression. Because it looks goofy on him and I will laugh and the ICD is going to kick me again. I’d prefer sleeping to getting kicked in the chest.

Dad’s weight leaves my side, then Val’s does. They whisper in low voices. I don’t follow the string of words. I drift. Drift in darkness and warm pain meds and soothing murmurs and beeping machines.

Another blanket lands on top of my sheet, tucks around my body, a tight pod of comfort. Murmurs through the fog. A kiss on my forehead. I love you, Danny. I’m here. Humming. The smell of food. Greasy food. Yummy. More murmurs. A phone buzzing. Frantic talking. Dude—deep sigh—I don’t know what to do. Someone patting my arm.

“Danny. Danny, wakeup. The doctor’s here.”

I crack my eyes open. There’s a blur of white at the foot of my bed. The doctor standing there, waiting for me to acknowledge his existence so he can tell me I need to be locked up in the loony bin. No thanks.

I shut my eyes.

“She’s been in and out of sleep for the past few hours,” Dad says, “I think the pain medication is too strong.”

I snap my eyes open fully. Force them to stay open even though I want to go back to sleep. This medication is the best thing that’s happened to me. I’m not letting Dad ruin that, too.

The doctor has a stern frown on his face. His eyebrows are big and bushy. His eyes are sharp, all-knowing, all-seeing, capable of weeding through all bullshit. He’s got a clipboard clutched to his chest. That clipboard has all my information. Nothing is sacred on that clipboard.

I already hate him.

“Hello, Dannilynn,” he says.

Goodbye, Doctor.

“You gave your parents quite a scare.”

Can I go back to sleep now?

There’s a pause filled with constant beeping from the heart machine. I wish it would shut up. Flat line. But the ICD would shock me or the doctor would find a way to revive me against my will, and really, I don’t need more of that in my life. I need more fun meds in my life.

“I’m sure Dad has gone through this with you, but I want to make sure you understand what’s happened, what’s going to happen, and what you can do to avoid any further complications.”

Boring.

I wonder how many splotches are on the ceiling. One, two, three, “cardiac arrest,” four, five, six, “weak heart muscles,” seven, eight, nine, “ICD,” ten, eleven, twelve, “battery-powered and connected to your heart,” thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, “medicine as instructed,” seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, a loud beep from the medicine machine, “medical alert bracelet so paramedics will be aware of your condition,” twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, “should be fine around,” twenty… uh… which splotch was I on? I pick… that one. Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, “I gave Dad list of devices,” twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

I’m tired. Are we done here?

“Which brings me to your eating.”

Insert internal scream of agony. For serious. Leave me alone.

“Eating disorders are very serious.”

I don’t have an eating disorder.

“What you’re doing is dangerous. Your body needs fuel to function, and not giving it the proper nourishment causes a plethora of problems that you won’t be able to reverse. If you continue down this road, you’ll die.”

Good.

“Dad and I have talked.”

And no one consulted me. Not surprised. I don’t need to be here for this. Let me go back to sleep.

Sweet baby Jesus, I’m exhausted and the colors are getting brighter and my limbs are heavy and this conversation is going nowhere fast. The drugs are kicking in. Make this quick, doc, you don’t have much time before the drug-induced haze knocks me on my ass.

“We’re working on setting up a team to help you. A psychologist, a nutritionist, your family practitioner, and a cardiologist. Dad’s started setting up appointments for you.”

Collecting doctors like baseball cards. Yeah, I’m hardcore. I even do prescription drugs. Through an IV. While in the hospital. Hardcore.

“We’ve discussed the possibility of inpatient treatment.”

More like impatient treatment, am I right?

I’m going insane.

“I’m hoping this experience has brought the severity of the situation to light for you. That being said, I know that’s not always the case for patients with eating disorders.”

I don’t have an eating disorder. Maybe, someone should listen to me for once. Novel concept, listening to the patient, listening to your child, listening when someone wants you to listen.

Oh, look, a bird. Bye, birdy.

“… giving you a week to show progress. Basically, we just want you to gain two pounds this week, and every week, you’ll have a new weight goal. Should you not gain the weight, we will be forced to hospitalize you.”

Two, too ooh, to you, screw you. Ho, ho, check out my mad skills. Now drop the bass.

“Sunday, tomorrow, you’ll get out of here, and I am hoping I don’t see you come back.”

Tomorrow is Sunday? Rebecca Black, come to me. Explain to me how I lost the chunk of time that was Friday. Time travel. Aliens. Magnificent medicine that makes me sleep for days. Defs the medicine.

Speaking of sleep, I have been up way too long. I’m collapsing under the weight of my own body. It’s time for bed. Go away, doctor.

“Do you understand, Dannilynn?”

“We’ve got it,” Dad says, answers for me.

“Get some sleep. The nurse will bring in dinner, check up on you through the night, and assuming nothing goes wrong, I’ll see you before you get discharged.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

Dad’s voice is full of real gratitude. This man saved my life, kept a massive scandal from exploding all over Dad’s reputation, is giving him the opportunity to fix me from the safety of home before a last ditch effort in a facility. I’m grateful, too. No. Suicide. Watch.

I win, and my reward will be sleep. I’m cashing in. Right now.

I finally—finally—let my eyes slam shut and glue together at the lashes, listen to the sounds of the doctor leaving and Dad heaving a sigh, and let the happy drugs take me away.

Steady beeps. I can’t believe I didn’t notice. The television turning up slightly. How are we going to…? Shoes squeaking against the floor. A large hand stroking mine. Warm. Comforting. Brooklyn won’t want to leave her. The television a little louder. I’ve tried so hard. Loud, medicine machine beep. The television cranked up.

“Matt.”

“Devastating news from Avenged Sevenfold. Lead singer, Matthew Sanders, was seen following EMTs into Huntington Beach Hospital. No word from Matt on what has happened, but the rumor mill is brewing. According to our sources, his oldest daughter, Dannilynn—that’s right, he has two daughters—was rushed to the hospital and is in critical condition. Why she’s in the hospital is a mystery, but you have to wonder why she disappeared from public—”

A weird zapping-clicking sound, and the annoyingly perky voice stops.

“Fuck.”

Bed equals cloud equals sleep equals happy. Distorted mumbles. Val and Dad. Frantic pitches to their low voices. Say something… Twitter… Call the guys… Fuck… Doesn’t need this… Beeping, constant, steady. Tightened hold on my hand. Another blanket, Here, Dannilynn. Yes, yes, thank you disembodied voice.

A high-pitched cellphone slices through the haze, startles me, makes my eyes fly open for a second to see the fuzzy ceiling and close again. Shh, it’s okay, Danny. Fingers rubbing my hand, the inside of my wrist, my shoulders. Soothing and relaxing and nice. Release the fucking statement then. Silence and beeping. See you at home. Walking. Love you, Dannilynn. Brooklyn misses you. Beeping, beeping, beeping.

“Danny. Danny, time to eat.”

No. Bye.

“Pain medication can knock out a man your size. Let her sleep. We’ll make sure she gets dinner in her system when she can handle it.”

Angel nurse.

She leaves on clicking heels and Dad’s thanks. More sleep for me.

I drift in and out. Wake to weird noises like the heart monitor or Dad mumbling words to me or people crying in the hall or nurses consoling people. Fuzzy noises. Noises that don’t register. Noises upon noises upon noises.

Why did this have to happen... Danny… What happened… So happy… Laughed all the time… Giggly… Adorable… Smiled with those cute dimples… Loved life… What happened to my daughter? I don’t… Coughing… I love you. I love you so much. I wish you could understand that. I wish you could love yourself the as much as Mom and I do…

Darkness and the creepy, surreal glow of the TV playing obnoxious cartoons. No sun outside. No sounds in the hallway. No Dad next to my bed. What time is it? When did Dad leave? What is on my rolly table?

What happened to my daughter?

I clutch my knees to my chest. Food. There is food on my rolly table. A tray with a covered dish and Styrofoam container of something and Jell-O and an orange juice and water. How many time have they replaced the tray in hopes I would wake up to eat it? How many times did Dad try to wake me up to eat? How am I going to get rid of this?

What happened to my daughter?

Tears collect, blind my vision, make the tray almost disappear. The medicine isn’t dispersing. The medicine isn’t kicking in. The medicine isn’t muffling the feeling welling in my chest. I lift the cover on the large tray. Shrimp and rice and a roll. The intense smell gets in my nose. My stomach cramps and growls. Why are they doing this to me?

What happened to my daughter?

I failed.

What happened to my daughter?

The tears slip down my cheeks. Slowly. Faster. Harder. Until I’m sobbing against knobby knees and biting through the fabric of my sweatpants in a desperate attempt to make it stop. I hurt. Deep inside where everything is shattering apart and I’m dissolving into a fucked up, stupid, whiny, useless freak.

What happened to my daughter?

Why couldn’t you let me die? Why did you have to do this? Why?

What happened to my daughter?

I don’t know.