Hello, I Dislike You Intensely. Have a Nice Day.

I knocked on Alex’s door today, and he was there to open it. All the while walking up to the door, the scene from last December buzzed ominously behind my vision, a ghost-like parallel to my actions in the present. The similarities between these two incidents made me cold walking up his driveway, but a warm spring wind touched my shoulder and reminded me the seasons had changed. This wasn’t the same nightmarish scene to be played out over and over with the nauseating infinity of two mirrors held up to each other. A Death Cab lyric floated out to me, The seasons have changed and so have we. I tried to breathe deeply. It was true, but our lives weren’t as depressing as the context of the song. The dream-like idea flew to me of a world where every change was for the better. Wished I could believe in it.

I tapped three times on the center of his door, trying to make the sound as soothing as possible. Or, you know, I at least tried not to give the knocking the brash urgency of police or neighbor on fire. When he stood perfectly real on the doorstep in front of me, final proof that history wasn’t repeating itself, I smiled so broadly the corners of my mouth felt like they were trying to shoot free of the confines of my face.

“Alex. There’s somewhere you should go to,” I said.

“I’m guessing, by your maniacal grin, that this place is either amazing or one that’ll be of extreme humiliation for me. What place is this?”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

“Oh, God. That points unmistakably to the second option, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t worry! Alex, I think this will be a very positive experience for you,” I added in a serious tone.

“Which of course makes me immediately suspicious!”

I laughed. I loved the sarcastic, witty bends our conversation was stretching to. It felt very sitcom-like, except better because there was no script.

It was only three days ago since he knocked on my door and yelled his story to me, loud enough for probably the neighbors to hear. Once I realized that, I felt terrible for basically forcing him to do that, and wished I could maybe very covertly kill the neighbors or somehow dispose of them in a discreet yet effective way. Alex told me it wouldn’t be necessary, though, and I had basically no choice but to accede to his wishes. I wondered briefly if he was getting better about his former rabid secret-keeping, then realized I should probably just let him be. Who was I to change him? The only person that can really and truly change a person is themselves. Besides, all the things about him that used to hurt me when we were in a relationship are a lot less relevant now that we’re friends. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think it’s so much easier to accept friends for their flaws. I guess when you’re in a relationship, you expect the other person to be like your savior, like your own personal Jesus. (Great, now the Depeche Mode song will be stuck in my head all day.)

Over a course of three hours, he told me everything he’d kept from me, all the details that filled up the time he had vanished from earth. The diagnosis, and how he’d thanked the doctor afterward for no apparent reason; thinking about it later, he’d wanted to bash the man’s face in for acting so calm as he branded Alex with his condemnation. Then the move to a special hospital for cancer patients, Alex not remembering until they were already speeding down the highway of when I’d written of Roger and Marina in my entries. He hated himself afterward for being just like the others, but there was nothing he could do by that time. The guilt made everything worse once he got to the hospital, made him unable to keep food down, infected his sutures. The surgeries left him reeling and disoriented, the anesthetics came with long fine-print lists of risks and legal stipulations that made it hard to sue if something did go wrong. Sometimes the nurses would try to make him laugh, which just made things worse – he described them to me, the one with red hair and brown roots, the one with tiny hands, the crucifix one, the one with an afro and a soft Creole accent. She was the only one he liked.

He told me about the bald-headed kids he’d pass in the halls, their eyes almost inhumanly large, gray underneath like charcoal smears. Always he’d feel guilty around them and now he has survivors’ guilt because he got off easy; and then there’s how the fate of those kids will be unknown forever and there’s nothing he can do for them but think about them. Alex made a long interlude about this, and I could tell it was partly because he really cared and partly because he didn’t want to talk about himself. Which was more than understandable. But the look on his face said he’d get to the end of his story no matter how hard it was to say it all.

Alex told me about the birds that alighted by his window and banged on the glass with their beaks, the bad reality shows he watched on the cable TV and how Jersey Shore confirmed his worst suspicions, the MRI technician that told the same story over and over of how his mom had met Elvis in the 50’s. He told me of his near-constant fever and loss of appetite, hearing people through the walls screaming or crying or vomiting, the surgeon with unnaturally pale blue eyes that reflected back creepily the blinding lights of the operating room. How scared he was of waking up in the middle of the surgery but paralyzed and unable to speak because of the breathing tube. Once he’d had a nightmare where exactly that happened, and found himself yelling and flailing around so much when he woke that they sedated him because too much adrenaline was bad.

He talked to me about red toxic waste disposal containers and the harsh scent of hospital cleaner that was supposed to kill virtually every microorganism known to man, while it was probably encouraging resistant strains at the same time. There was the Mary statue in the sanctuary with a noticeable paint chip in one pupil. Flowers would wilt after a day, because nothing could grow in there. Such was the atmosphere of phobia and hopelessness that permeated everything perceivable to the senses. He showed me the scars on his neck that looked like someone had tried to off him, said he’d be wearing scarves for a while.

Besides being probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to hear, it was also hard to get over myself and quit feeling bitter that he’d hurt more than me. At the end I hugged him because it was the only thing someone could do in that circumstance; words would only glide over the surface. But it was more than an act of moral necessity, I meant it, too. Already I could feel the resentment lifting like vapor in sun, leaving behind a kind of awe. Because that’s the kind of strength that’s beautifying. Granted, things’ll probably be awkward between us for a little while, seeing as how we just broke up, but it’ll be okay.

The mysterious place I took Alex to today was Hargreaves. The green-faced lady, who by now knew me (I found out her name was Margot), waved me on through, and I led Alex up to Coralie’s room. On the way, tears pooled in his eyes, having realized who we were going to see. Outside her door, I asked him if he was sure he was ready. He said it was funny, because ever since being sick everything was a lot less scary. I knocked on the door, heard a voice from within telling me to come in. Caught a glimpse of the both of them crying before I shut the door quietly and went back downstairs. Alex finally came out when it started to get dark, and he didn’t say anything of what happened in the room. I hadn’t expected him to, though. There was just a sense of rest and contentment glowing pearl-like over his features and I inferred that it had gone well. His eyes shone love and guilt and he sat in a trance-like stillness on the bus ride home, but more than anything he exuded an overwhelming peace.