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heavyy12 · 3 years

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Colin and Tripp: Part 1

When Colin was in high school and vacationing at his parents’ summer home in the Hamptons, he ran into his parents’ best friend’s son, Tripp Larson. Tripp was over a decade older than Colin and someone he always admired. At fifteen, Tripp lost both parents in a plane crash. As the only child with little family left, the Laceys made sure he completed prep school without issue and attend Cornell like his late father.

Tripp came out as gay to the Laceys his freshman year at Cornell. Colin was just five at the time and his parents were dealing with their oldest daughter’s teen pregnancy. Although accepting of Tripp’s admission, the Laceys weren’t present as much as Tripp hoped during that difficult time.

During the summer going into Colin’s junior year of high school was one he’d always remember. At sixteen, his parents had just bought him a new Mercedes and allowed him to spend the summer at their house in the Hamptons, permitting he maintained a summer job. It was at the local country club where Colin was working as a caddy that he ran into Tripp Larson.

Tripp didn’t recognize the teen immediately because it had been four or five years since they last saw one another. The thirty-year-old Manhattan executive to his late father’s textile company was playing a round with friends from Cornell. Colin was immediately attracted to him. He was tall and had a thick, rugby look to him under his pale blue polo that hugged his pecs and biceps.

Colin had grown a lot in those past few years and stood about an inch shorter than Tripp at 6’2. He was playing lacrosse and rugby at the same prep school Tripp attended years ago and also had come to terms with being gay.

After bumping into each other at the clubhouse, Tripp asked Colin to join him on the deck after his game. The two caught up on just about everything. Toward the end of their conversation, Colin confided in Tripp that he was also gay and planning to tell his parents by the time he finished high school. Tripp was more than supportive and gave Colin his number in case he ever needed anyone to talk to.

Throughout the same summer, Colin had been fooling around with another caddy from the club. By August, the two were fucking each other in his parents’ Hamptons home almost daily… and everywhere else they could manage. The other caddy, Zane, was another prep school kid from Manhattan and the same age as Colin. The two parted ways at the end of August and kept in touch for a couple weeks after.

By Halloween, Colin was preparing for holidays across the world with his family and applying to colleges. After a couple weeks of the stomach flu, Colin was concerned he could be pregnant. A test soon confirmed his concerns.

All four of Colin’s siblings were eight years or older than him and he wasn’t particularly close to any because of the age gap. He didn’t want to tell his parents, so he remembered having Tripp’s number from the summer. He reached out to Tripp, who suggested Colin take the train into Manhattan the following week, Colin’s seventeenth birthday, and he’d help him with an abortion.

Colin took the train the following weekend and met Tripp at his apartment in Chelsea. It was a palatial penthouse with four bedrooms and six bathrooms. Tripp greeted him and let him get settled in one of his guest bedrooms before ordering take out.

Tripp mentioned he made reservations Sunday for a special birthday brunch for Colin before his scheduled procedure the following day. The newly seventeen year old was beyond excited for his first drag brunch experience. On Saturday, Colin had the run of Tripp’s apartment while the older family friend dealt with a work issue.

After drag brunch on Sunday, Tripp took Colin to Central Park for a walk and ice cream. It was on their walk that Colin confided in Tripp that he was really excited to get pregnant someday when he was ready. Tripp made a mental note of the conversation after realizing Colin mentioned “getting pregnant” instead of “having kids”.

On Tuesday morning, Tripp accompanied Colin to the train station after his abortion the previous morning. The two hugged and Colin thanked him for everything before heading back to Connecticut. Tripp checked in with Colin daily for quite some time after and the teenager very much appreciated the support.

Colin was accepted to Cornell and started the following year. He decided to play lacrosse, like Tripp, and had an amazing freshman year. He came out to his parents the summer before he started and was accepted by his teammates and friends.

During his second year, Cornell was hosting alumni for their final game against Columbia. Tripp messaged Colin on Instagram to inform him he’d be at the game and wanted to see him during his visit. The two old family friends met up before the match and Tripp wished the young twenty-year-old good luck. He also couldn’t get over how mature Colin looked.

At twenty, Colin could easily pass as twenty-five. He stood 6’2 and weighed about 215 with muscular, hairy legs, tanned olive skin, and beautiful blue eyes. He had really grown up since the last time they saw each other on his seventeenth birthday.

Cornell ended up winning the game 5-4. Tripp and some of his buddies met the team and coaches in the locker room to congratulate them. Tripp made a point to find Colin in the process.

“Congrats, big guy!” Tripp said as he approached Colin while he changed.

“Thanks, man!” Colin said, going in for a hug with Tripp.

“Do you have some time to show me around the campus? Things sure have changed since I was here.” Tripp asked.

“Yeah, I don’t have anything planned until later-- let’s go!” Colin said excitedly.

The college student left his keys and other belongings in his locker and the pair headed on their tour. The truth was, Tripp was a major donor of Cornell and he had been there within the last three years. He wanted to spend some quality time with Colin and catch up.

Flirting was exchanged almost immediately into their walking tour of campus. Both men caught each other looking at one another numerous times throughout their campus excursion. At the library, Tripp mentioned his first sexual encounter with another boy being in the old stacks during his freshman semester exams.

“Damn, I wouldn’t mind trying that someday!” Colin joked.

As their two-hour tour ended and they approached Colin’s locker, Tripp suggested they meet up later for drinks.

“I’d really like that” Colin replied as be shut his locker after grabbing his things.

The two locked eyes in that moment and the younger man dropped his belongings and pushed the alumnus into the locker behind him and started making out.

“Have you ever done it in a locker room?” Colin asked, referencing Tripp’s comment about his library hook up during his heyday.

“I haven’t, but I’m willing to try.” Tripp grinned.

Colin lowered himself to his knees and swiftly undid Tripp’s belt and pulled down the older man’s chinos. He began blowing him for several minutes before Tripp pulled him upwards for a kiss and suggested he return the favor.

After a couple minutes, Colin pulled Tripp up for a kiss and then discreetly turned himself around, exposing his bare ass, and planted his forearms on the lockers. Without words being exchanged, Tripp used his own spit to lube his cock and gently inserted it into Colin’s willing hole.

Tripp picked up speed and the clapping of Colin’s ass cheeks intensified, as did the twenty-year-old’s groans. Nearing climax, Tripp pulled Colin back by his neck and made out with him ferociously while he deposited a big, warm load deep into the lacrosse player’s hole. After he pulled out and kissed Colin all over his back and neck, Tripp turned Colin around so he could finish him off by accepting the younger guy’s load in his mouth.

Neither man had an experience like that in their life. Although a nearly fifteen-year age gap, there was sexual chemistry like no other. Colin had another month of school and a European trip planned with friends, so the pair decided to reconvene in August at Tripp’s family’s home in the Hamptons before Colin began his junior year at Cornell.

When Colin returned from six weeks in Europe, he texted Tripp, “Hey man, when do you think we can meet up? Sooner rather than later, I hope ;)”

Colin drove to the Hamptons in the Mercedes his parents had bought him years earlier for his sixteenth birthday. When he arrived at Tripp’s, the newly thirty-five year old was tanning by the pool. Colin snuck up on Tripp as he lay on his back on an outdoor lounger.

“Getting your tan on?” Colin asked as he straddled Tripp over the lounger.

“I thought you might appreciate that.” He responded.

“I sure do!” Colin exclaimed taking off his shirt as he rubbed his ass against Tripp’s growing erection.

Colin pulled lube from the backpack he carried outside with him and within minutes of reuniting, Tripp was inside Colin. They fucked near the pool, on the lounger, against the bar, and on the pool steps for nearly an hour before retreating to the bathroom to freshen up.

“It looks like you ate well in Europe” Tripp joked as he poked Colin’s noticeably larger belly.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how I managed it, honestly!” Colin fidgeted as he embarrassingly grabbed a shirt. “There was so much walking and hiking over there!”

“I was just kidding, Colin.” Tripp replied, stopping the younger man from putting on his shirt. “I think it looks cute!”

The two spent almost an entire month together before Colin was expected to return to Cornell. During that time, Colin’s belly only grew larger.

In bed one morning as the pair cuddled, Colin suggested he might need a pregnancy test. The two discussed how he wasn’t having any of the symptoms he experienced when he was in high school and that the last person he hooked up with was Tripp. On their last day together, they drove to a drug store and got two tests.

“Well, babe, you were right.” Tripp said walking into the master suite with two positive pregnancy tests.

“I can’t believe it. I’m not even twenty-one and I’ve managed to get pregnant twice!” Colin exclaimed as he sat in disbelief at the foot of the bed.

“You must be one fertile lad.” Tripp joked.

They immediately started discussing their options. With the timing of their last hook up at the end of May, Colin was easily twelve weeks along. He had already gained nearly fifteen pounds. Tripp suggested he bring an OB/GYN to the house the following morning and Colin pushed back his return to Cornell by a couple days until they figured everything out.

“So I have some exciting news for you boys.” The OB/GYN said during Colin’s ultrasound atop Tripp’s bed. “You’re having twins.”

Colin and Tripp looked at each other in disbelief.

“I’d say you’re about thirteen weeks along, so that puts your due date around, uhh, February 20[sup]th[/sup].”

“Wow, well thank you, Dr. Houston.” Tripp said as the woman in her forties began packing up.

Colin and Tripp saw her out and the pair retreated to the back yard. It was a hot August afternoon and normally they’d be in the pool.

“So, what do you want to do?” Colin asked Tripp over some lemonade on the patio furniture.

“That’s up to you, babe.” Tripp replied. “You need to get back to school. You need to finish school.”

“I know, I know.” Colin said, “Honestly, this all feels right, though. Does it feel that way for you?” he asked Tripp.

“Very much so, Colin. We’ve only spent a month together but I can already see ourselves growing old together.”

Tripp stood up and pulled Colin up from his seat. The two embraced for quite some time and kissed before Tripp lifted up Colin’s shirt and gave his belly a rub.

“You’re going to make a fantastic parent.” Tripp suggested as he kissed Colin’s tanned and protruding belly.

“You will too, Tripp.”

As the pair continued to embrace, Tripp moved his hands into Colin’s pants and grabbed a cheek in each hand.

“I like the idea of you carrying my children. You’re going to look so beautiful growing our babies inside that fertile womb of yours.”

“I’m glad you’re excited, babe, because I’m kind of excited to see what’s in store for us.”

Colin packed up and left for Cornell the following morning. Tripp had a realtor looking for properties in Ithaca the same day. Within a week, Tripp purchased a townhouse near campus so he could split his time between Manhattan and visiting Colin.

Colin moved his things into the townhouse shortly after and began telling friends of his twin pregnancy. Colin turned twenty-one in early November and planned on returning to Connecticut for Thanksgiving with Tripp to break the news to his family.

The pair regretted not telling Colin’s family sooner, but they were still worried about their reaction with Tripp being the father and them being in a relationship. Their age gap was nearly fifteen years, after all.

As Colin packed for Connecticut, Tripp was organizing an elaborate dinner to soften the blow to his young, pregnant lover’s family. He planned on having a catered dinner at his family’s home near the Laceys the day before Thanksgiving. Colin called and broke the news to both his older sisters. Beth and Liza both knew Tripp very well and were beyond surprised of their situation; however they seemed supportive.

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heloflor · 3 years

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Nightmares

AO3 link

Nightmare disorder :

Nightmare disorder, also known as dream anxiety disorder, is a sleep disorder characterized by frequent nightmares. The nightmares often portray the individual in a situation that jeopardizes their life or personal safety. Though most people have experienced at least one nightmare during their life, subjects with nightmare disorder experience them with a greater frequency.

The nightmare sufferer is often awakened by these threatening, frightening dreams and can often vividly remember their experience. Upon awakening, the sleeper is usually alert and oriented within their surroundings, but may have an increased heart rate and symptoms of anxiety, like sweating. They may have trouble falling back to sleep for fear they will experience another nightmare.

The death of a loved one or a stressful life event can be enough to cause a nightmare

- Wikipedia

Note : Another thing from a random idea that came to mind (you know these moments when you brain suddenly starts thinking about a random small scenario ? That’s what this fic is). This fic takes place some time before the duo was sent on a mission in Danville, so some time before season 1 (at least two years before it given how they were already on pistachio duty in “The Llama Incident”, which takes place the year before the show). And as usual, old married couple (and I finally have an excuse to write them in a scenario where they can be an actual affectionate couple without either of them showing restrain ! : D ). Also the place is their house, in the future/their present (I can’t help but think that being a time-traveler pays pretty well. I mean, they almost got to a trip in Hawaii after losing their job) Enjoy !

WARNING : The first part is pretty gruesome. So if you’re sensible, skip the text in italics (there’s a short line at the end of the part).

And regarding that first part : don’t worry, I’m completely fine ! I have no idea why it came out so dark but I swear it has nothing to do with a potentially bad mental state.

Also, after writing that, I’m starting to realize why I insist so much on the idea of Dakota having trauma when I talk about the rogue arc and how much of a mess Dakota was during it.

It was a stormy day when they arrived to 942. The woods they chose to hide their car in was dark with the dense cover of clouds and leaves over them. As they came out of the car, they could feel a few drops from the rain. Aside from the blow of the wind through the leaves and the tempo of the rain drops, the place was silent.

Balthazar talked. Telling about their mission, about where they needed to go. He listened, his back against the car, smiling at the man. Balthazar was in a good mood. He looked fierce, determined to succeed, to give his all. It was one of those moments where Balthazar had never looked so alive.

He loved it.

It made him want to give his all as well. To run along, Balthazar by his side. To go anywhere and everywhere with him. For all eternity.

The storm because louder, closer, and before either of them could react, it hit. A three caught on fire and fell. They tried to run, but the fire was faster. And it landed on them, on him. Balthazar was crushed. He could feel the body going limp near him. He could see the blood pool out and spread around the tree, it’s metallic sent taking over his senses.

He was still alive. His legs were caught under the trunk, but he didn’t feel any pain. He just felt numb. How could he not ? Balthazar was gone.

He tried to get out, to run to the car, but he was helpless. He didn’t have the strength to push the tree away. He tried, over and over again. He needed to go to the car, to fix this, to get him back !

Another flash, and another tree caught on fire. He held his breath, horrified as it fell, landing right onto the car. The vehicle’s alarm spurted to life, creating a cacophony that he could barely handle.

nonononononononono !

This couldn’t be happening ! He needed the car ! Or the intercommunicator ! The communicator…

The communicator had been crushed, along with Balthazar.

What was he supposed to do now ?! He couldn’t just wait around for help ! If the bureau were to find him, they would see that Balthazar died ! He wouldn’t be able to go back, they would notice ! So what now ?!

He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think. The car was too loud ! The blood…the blood was everywhere ! It was all too much ! Tears fell from his eyes as he tried to block it all out.

Leave. He needed to leave ! Now !

Another lighting.

Another flash.

Another tree.

He could only scream as the wood came closer, crushing his upper body. He tried to keep breathing, to not let himself faint. He couldn’t die ! He needed to save Balthazar !

He could see his own blood pooling out, adding to the crimson colors of the grass.

No. He couldn’t die…He needed to go on.

He heard the crack of a branch above him, and everything went dark.

----------

Vinnie woke up in a spurt, breath heavy, sweat dripping from his forehead.

It took him a few moments to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t in a forest, it wasn’t wet or cold, there was no unbearable noises. It smelled…it smelled like lavender. And the “ground” he was sitting on was soft and comfy instead of hard and uncomfortable.

Vinnie looked around, feeling his pulse slow down as he recognized at the familiar room : The bookshelf that mixed animals encyclopedias, time-travel theory books and adventure stories, an animal refuge poster next to a Professor Time one, a few items there and there, Dennis, Balthazar’s favorite comfort companion.

Balthazar

Vinnie looked next to him. The man was sleeping soundly, his mustache moving slightly at each breath, a hand on Vinnie’s leg. If the commotion possibly got the taller man out of a deeper sleep, at least it didn’t wake him up. The shorter man sighed in relief. Balth was fine. He was alive.

Vinnie noticed how Balth was frowning and gently took his hand, kissing it before gently caressing it. They came back home after an exhausting mission, and his husband deserved to rest. Besides, there was nothing he could do to help Vinnie, and knowing that he had yet another nightmare would only worry the taller man, which Vinnie would rather avoid.

Once Balth looked more relaxed, Vinnie let go of his hand and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about his nightmare. He remembered this mission. Lightning had struck a tree, which crushed his partner. Of course, Vinnie had been able to go back and keep Balth close. And yet…

He sighed. His dreams had a tendency to twist the reality in the worse ways possible. At least during some nights. Most of the time, his nightmares were memories of Balth’s most gruesome deaths and he woke up the moment his partner was a goner. But then there were those nights where things were much worse than a repressed memory.

Vinnie thought about going to take a midnight snack. Maybe drink some water. But he could still feel himself shaking, and he didn’t want to leave Balth. So he lied back onto the bed, snuggling against his husband. Soon enough, he felt the man wrap him into his arms. He smiled. Balth was safe. Vinnie could go back to save him. He always could.

It had just been a bad dream.

--------

Vinnie woke up grudgingly. The warmth next to him was gone. When he opened his eyes, he could see the sunlight illuminating the room, with the blinds stopping it from reaching Vinnie’s face. The man smiled. It never failed to amuse him how much care Balth gave to his eye condition.

The small man put his glasses on, stirred and walked out of the room. He made a stop to the bathroom to get his recommended treatment for his nightmares along with some sleeping pills to put on a counter, where he won’t forget them this night. That is, if they sleep home this night. He couldn’t bring the pills to the past. With Balth’s luck, he couldn’t risk it. He needed to be able to stay alert at all times.

Balth was already at the table in their kitchen/living-room, tea in hand. In front of the opposite seat was Vinnie’s usual cup of coffee, along with a biscuit box.

“Good morning, dear.”, Balth greeted.

“Hey.”, Vinnie replied with a yawn. His husband eyed him with curiosity before noticing the boxes in his hand.

“Another nightmare ?”, he asked, concerned.

“It’s fine.”, the shorter man shrugged. He went to his partner, letting the taller man cup his face and kiss him. “I didn’t stay up long afterwards.”, he continued after pulling away.

“Still. It’s the third this week.”, Balth pointed out. “Was it a moderate or a bad one this time ?”

“Everything’s fine, hon.”, Vinnie just shrugged again, taking his seat. “You don’t have to worry about me.” He could tell that his partner wanted to ask more, but after doing this for years, he knew how pointless it was.

“Well…”, Balth still decided to continue. “If you ever want to talk about it. You know I’m here. And if you want to go back to seeing a professional…”

“Thanks. But no thanks.”, he replied with a comforting smile. He knew Balth hated seeing him suffer without being able to do anything about it. And he knew the man hoped everyday to see him open up about it. Truth be told, Vinnie wasn’t that much happy about it either. He didn’t like having to push his husband away like that. And it was worse the nights when Balth would be woken up by him, especially when he had the worst nightmares. At first, it’s nice. The taller man cradles him, rubs his back, plays with his hair, making Vinnie feel safer than ever. He would fall asleep in the other man’s arms, feeling completely at ease. But then would come morning, and Balth just wouldn’t stop asking the shorter man for an explanation.

But he couldn’t tell him. He simply couldn’t. Balth was all about respecting the rules. If he knew he was meant to die…Vinnie didn’t want to lose the love of his life. As for seeking professional help, Vinnie had tried at first, when he and Balth first started sharing a bed and Balth saw him waking up in terror on the regular. But after a while, he decided that trying to forget and using meds would be more efficient than giving a therapist hypothetical scenarios and hoping them to understand. Besides, what if the therapist told B.O.T.T. about his actions ?

“So, did we get the info for today’s mission ?”, he tried to change the subject. Balth still looked worried and skeptical, but he decided to go along with it.

“We received a call earlier.”, the taller man confirmed. “We have to travel to 1374 and divert some man’s attention. Apparently he was supposed to prevent an important figure from getting wealthy through a sell. We have to make this sell happen and assure this person’s future.”

“1374, huh.”, Vinnie commented. “Well I guess we’ll use the ‘three don’t’ rule again.”

“The ‘three don’t’ rule ?”, Vinnie almost laughed at Balth’s confusion. Truth be told, it was a name he had thought of yesterday.

“Yeah. You know : Don’t kiss. Don’t flirt. Don’t use first names. I would add more but, you know, those are the main ones.”

“…Did you seriously decided to name those restrictions ?”, Balth looked moments away from a facepalm.

“What ?”, Vinnie teased. “How was I supposed to call it ? ‘Balthazar’s paranoid restrictions on our relationship’ ? That’s way too long.”

“…Nevermind that.”, his partner sighed. “And I don’t think we will need much restrictions anyways. This will be a quick mission with no need for accommodations.”

“You mean we’ll be back to sleep at home instead of in some random shelter in the past.”

“Exactly.”, Vinnie didn’t miss the way Balth eyed the medicine still on the table.

“Well.”, the shorter man stood up. “I guess we’d better get ready then.”, he headed towards the bathroom but was stopped as Balth grabbed his wrist. He faced the other man and his smile dropped as he saw the worry in his eyes.

“Vinnie, are you sure you’re alright ?”

“I’m fine, Balth. I swear.”, he tried reassuring but Balth’s expression didn’t change.

His partner opened and closed his mouth before deciding to hug the smaller man.

“aw, come on honey.”, Vinnie protested. But despite his protests, he couldn’t help but grab on the man’s Professor-Time-themed pajamas and bury his face in his neck. In an instant, Balth’s hands were on his hair and back. The man also planted a few kisses on his partner’s head. Vinnie felt himself dose off and let the warm embrace overtake him.

After what felt like way too soon, Balth pulled away. The shorter man whined at the loss.

“Come on Vinnie.”, Balth said. “We’re going to be late for our mission.”

“There’s no ‘getting late’ here, Balth.”, Vinnie yawned in protest. “But since you want to get ready and I want more of you, how about we compromise ?”, he raised his eyebrows suggestively as he pointed to the bathroom.

“Not today.”, Balth replied, his soft expression gone. Looks like Vinnie ruined the moment. Whoops.

“Alright. Have it your way.”

While Vinnie went to the bathroom, Balth went back to the table to clean their cups. As he reached the door, Vinnie couldn’t help but look back at his husband. When the taller man took the meds and put them on the counter, he gave Vinnie a glance. Nothing was said. And yet, Balthazar’s determined expression told a thousand words.

You take care of me during the day. Somehow, you’re always here when I’m in danger, and you make sure I don’t get hurt. You’re able to fight the force that led me to be so accident-prone.

Now it’s my turn.

Let me be the one who protects you during the night.

Let me be the one to fight the force that drove all those demons to you.

Let me be here for you the way you are for me.

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sneezyminniejo · 3 years

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I really want an allergic Taehyun fic after all the recent clips! Maybe he's in denial or downplaying it, but after sneezing through promotions for a week, the members are like, actually, you might need some help with this etc. and provide some caretaking. Love all your fics!

Here it is. Hope you enjoy

It Started with an Itch

Winter had just ended, and this year Taehyun was wishing that winter could just stick around a bit longer. It appears the second youngest of TXT had developed a pollen allergy, and he just did not want to deal with it. He had spent the past couple of days with an extremely itchy nose, wondering why he hadn't started sneezing yet. However he was also thankful that he had yet to start sneezing because he didn't want to worry his members. Particularly since his sneezes sounded like coughs.

When he rolled out of bed in the morning, Taehyun found that the tickling sensation in his nose had grown much more intense. "Heh-ugh, ischh, heh-stishhh." Taehyun groaned as the fit only lessened the itch and didn't make it go away. He grabbed a tissue and tried to blow his nose, only to cause the tickle to intensify once more. "Hih-tiew, hep-tschh." Thankfully, his sneezes were quiet enough, he didn't wake up his roommate Kai. Taehyun left his room knowing it would be a long day of trying to get through comeback promotions without sneezing too much.

What Taehyun hadn’t been counting on was Soobin walking past his room as he was having his sneezing fit. "Taehyunnie, that cough didn't sound great. Are you feeling okay? He asked as he felt the younger's forehead. Taehyun nodded. "It was just a little tickle hyung, I'm fine." Soobin wasn't sure whether to believe the younger, but he didn't feel warm. Soobin decided not to push the issue.

The beginning of breakfast hadn't been particularly interesting. Yeonjun had made the group scrambled eggs and toast. Taehyun, whose nose was still incredibly itchy, made the mistake of putting pepper on his eggs. "Heh-ugh, ischh, heh-stishhh, heh-istiew." That last one was kind of wet, so he quickly grabbed a napkin to clean himself up. When he finished, he found four pairs of eyes on him.

"Guys, I'm fine, the pepper just got to me is all." Soobin and Yeonjun just raised an eyebrow each at the statement. "Hyung, if you don't believe me, feel free to take my temperature." Yeonjun took the younger up on his offer. Like Taehyun said, his temperature was completely normal. Taehyun isn’t sure why he doesn’t just admit that he’s developed an allergy to pollen, but in his mind it’s easier to to not admit anything and let everyone come to their own conclusions. Either way Taehyun was fully prepared to dodge any questions about his health.

Sadly for Taehyun, there wasn’t enough time in the morning for him to look through their medicine stash for even a meager decongestant, so he was stuck trying to keep his nose under control as much as he could without help. As such the car ride to the radio station was full of a bunch of sniffling from the second youngest who was trying his hardest not to sneeze.

Beomgyu thankfully had a travel pack of tissues and offered it to Taehyun, who gladly accepted it. A few seconds after Taehyun got the tissues, they pulled up to the radio station. Taehyun got out of the car as quickly as possible and booked to the nearest bathroom. Taehyun locked himself in the nearest stall, and unleashed what he couldn't hold back anymore.

"Heh-ugh, ischh, heh-stishhh, heh-istiew, HEH-ISTIEW, HUH-UGHIEW." Taehyun used the toilet paper in the stall to blow his nose, as he wanted to save the tissues for later. "Those sounded like they hurt hyung" Taehyun startled at the sound of Kai addressing him.

Taehyun opened the stall door with his nose still firmly buried in the toilet paper. "Hyung, I don't think you should sing today. Those coughs sound like they're doing a number on your throat." "I'm fine Kai, no need to worry." Taehyun quickly cleaned himself up before leaving the bathroom and joined the others in the radio room. Yeonjun gave Taehyun a pointed look while handing him a mask. Taehyun rolled his eyes, but put the mask on nonetheless because he was still unwilling to admit it was allergies.

The radio interview didn't go well. Taehyun repeatedly had to turn away from the mic in order to sneeze, and Soobin insisted on doing his part. Admittedly, by the end of the interview, Taehyun was exhausted and wanted to go to bed. When they all got into the car to go to the company building Soobin announced "I've arranged with manager-nim to adjust our schedules a bit so that Taehyunnie can get some rest." Soobin then looked over at Taehyun, "you don't even have to partake in the live when we get to the building of you're not up to it." Taehyun shook his head. "Hyung, I'm fine to do the live. I j-just ne-need t-tschh, istchh to take some medicine and let moa know that I'm going to be a bit sneezy." The others knew that Taehyun was being adamant about this and wouldn't budge, so they relented.

The hour long live went about as well as anybody expected. Taehyun had three sneeze fits that were longer than his usual double or triple. After the third fit, which was particularly messy, Taehyun had to excuse himself to find some tissues. Shortly thereafter the live ended and the members went back to their dorm for dinner.

The members were discussing what to eat and Beomgyu had suggested soup since Taehyun was sick. "Hyung, I want gimbap for dinner." Taehyun whined. "Taehyunnie, you're sick and soup is the best thing to eat when sick. Taehyun was fed up at this point and didn't want to be treated like he was sick, so he finally decided to admit what was wrong.

"I'm not sick." Everyone gave Taehyun a pointed look, not believing him for a second. Taehyun was about to speak further, but felt the all too familiar prickling in his sinuses. He quickly grabbed a handful of tissues. "Heh-ugh, ischh, heh-stishhh, HEH-ISTIEW. It's allergies." Taehyun blew his nose rather productively.

The members decided to take Taehyun's word for it as the pollen count was unusually high, and they knew some idols with mild allergies who were suffering as well. They figured if he was sick, he would fess up eventually. The pollen count was also expected to drop in a day or two, so if it is allergies, symptoms should clear up soon.

The rest of the week was much of the same. Taehyun was, for the most part, a sniffly and sneezy mess. It has gotten to the point that the others were considering talking to the manager about removing him from their schedule until his symptoms calmed down or he saw a doctor. However, they let it slide until Friday.

Over the course of the week, the pollen count had indeed gone down. However Taehyun’s sneezing had not gone down any, if at all. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. By Friday, Soobin made the executive decision to call the company doctor to look over Taehyun and hopefully give some advice on treating the now apparent cold symptoms.

Taehyun was still adamant that it was allergies, primarily due to the fact that his symptoms lined up more with allergies than a cold or flu. When the doctor arrived, he gave Taehyun a thorough examination and also came to the conclusion that it likely wasn’t a cold. Now the only question was, what is Taehyun allergic to?

The group began tearing up the dorm trying to find a potential cause. They initially made Taehyun sit on the couch, but didn’t have much luck. They then decided to sit down and try to map out where Taeyhun’s symptoms were the worst, as that would probably pinpoint the location of the allergen.

All the discussion revealed is that the allergen was most likely primarily in the dorm. Taehyun’s sneezing and sniffling was the worst at the dorm, and calmed down a little when they went to their schedules, only to pick back up upon arriving home.

“Okay guys, what was added to the dorm about a week ago when Taehyunnie started sneezing?” Yeonjun asked, ready with a pen and paper in case there was a list “Two w-eeks hyu-itschh, itschhiew. It was closer to two weeks hyung. I spent about a week with an insanely itchy nose before the sneezing started.” The other four members looked a bit stunned at the confession of suffering for a whole week while flying under the radar.

After Taehyun admitted that the timeline was closer to two weeks instead of one, Soobin noticed his oldest dongsaeng beginning to look a bit guilty. “Beomgyu-yah, do you have any ideas about Taehyun’s allergies?” Beomgyu nodded. “Around two weeks ago I bought a bunch of those plug in air fresheners.” Beomgyu looked extremely apologetic as he ran around the dorm collecting all of them. Yeonjun went to do laundry to get the scent out of all the bedding and clothing, Kai went to open the windows, and Soobin decided to get started on lunch.

With everything cleaned and aired out, Taehyun was nearly symptom free by dinner time. Thus confirming Beomgyu’s suspicion of the air freshener being the cause. He felt a bit guilty still over making his dongsaeng sick, even though Taehyun repeatedly told him there wasn’t anything to be sorry about as no one knew about the allergy including himself. Nonetheless, Beomgyu decided to make it up to his dongsaeng by doing his chores for the next month.

#txt #tomorrow x together #sickfic #sneeze

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cristinablackthornkingson · 3 years

Text

What Might’ve Been, Part 4.

It is a cold Autumn day in the year of the Chinchilla when Alex receives a phone call that changes everything forever.

It’s been 6 months since he and Sophie met and became the very best of friends, over those 6 months they’ve become increasingly protective of one another, so when Alex answers the phone and hears Sophie crying, he immediately starts to worry.

“Alex.” Sophie sobs down the line, the minute Alex picks up.

“Sophie, what is it? What’s wrong?” He asks in a concerned tone.

“Alex I missed my period again and the last couple of mornings I’ve been sick, and I’m putting on weight too.” Alex clearly remembers Sophie anxiously telling him last month that she missed her period for the first time. She did admit she had recently had unprotected sex, but she didn’t want to face the possibility that she could be pregnant, so they both brushed it off as a fluke, But now she’s having other symptoms and missed her period again, it really can��t be a fluke at this point.

“Shit.” Alex swears. “You think you’re pregnant?”

“Yeah.” Sophie sniffs.

“Oh fuck.” It’s no wonder Sophie is so upset, for one thing she’s not ready to have a baby at 17, but for another the father of the baby, the only person she’s ever slept with, was gleaned last month. Sophie didn’t love him or anything so it wasn’t absolutely devastating, but it was still hard for her, as all deaths are since she’s an empath, and now she’s going to have his baby.

“Can you buy me a pregnancy test? I’ll send you the money, I just... I can’t be seen buying a test, people recognize me and I don’t want word getting back to mom and dad before I can tell them myself.” Sophie quietly and hopefully asks, running a hand through her hair.

“Yeah, yeah of course.” Alex immediately agrees. “Do you want come over to my place to take it? My mom’s out for a few hours, and I’m not going to dad’s till tomorrow, so you’ll have more privacy here.”

“Yes please.” Sophie sniffs, wiping at her tears.

“Okay, meet you at my place in about 20 minutes?”

“Okay.”

About 25 minutes later, Sophie finds herself standing in Alex’s en-suite bathroom, turning an opened pregnancy test over and over in her hands.

“Are you sure your mom won’t be back anytime soon?” She wearily asks Alex.

“Yeah I’m sure.” Alex assures her. Sophie nods and takes a breath.

“Okay, can you wait outside while I take this, then?”

“Of course, good luck.” Alex squeezes her hand before going back out into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Sophie lets out a shaky breath and pulls open the cardboard box, making sure to put in her bag and not Alex’s bin, doing the same when she rips the plastic wrapping from the test. She then takes the cap off, places it beside the sink and shoves the test between her legs, holding it there for the 8 required seconds. Once that’s done, she puts the cap back on and places it beside the sink, washes her hands and sets the timer for 2 minutes on her phone.

After a few seconds of waiting she realizes she doesn’t want to do it alone, and goes out to the room to wait with Alex.

“Well?” He asks, as she sits down to next to him.

“I dunno yet, I have to wait 2 minutes and I don’t want to wait alone.”

So they wait together, for 2 minutes, before Sophie’s alarm goes off.

“Come with me?” She hopefully asks Alex, after turning her phone alarm off.

“Of course.” He slips his hand into hers and they walk into the bathroom together. As they near the sink, Sophie’s grip on his hand tightens. She takes a deep breath, then looks straight down at the test.

‘Pregnant.’

Sophie can’t hold back her sobs, and Alex immediately wraps her in a tight embrace.

“It’s okay.” Alex quietly says. “I’m here, I love you and I support you no matter what.”

“Can I stay here a while longer? To think about my options and stuff?” Sophie weakly asks.

“Of course.”

A few minutes later they once again go back into the bedroom. At Sophie’s request Alex turns his TV on selects something at random to watch. They lie on the bed together, Sophie’s long blonde hair splayed across the pillow and her face scrunched up in concentration as she does research on options, on her phone.

They stay like this for about 2 hours, before Sophie puts her phone down and turns to Alex.

“I made up my mind, I want to place my baby for adoption, open adoption. I’m not ready to be a mom but I do want to carry this baby and choose their parents for them.” She quietly explains. Alex places his hand over hers.

“I support you, I’m here every step of the way, I’ll even help you look for parents if you want.” He tells her.

“Will you be with me when I have the baby?” She hopefully asks, unable to think of a better birth partner than her best friend.

“Absolutely.” Alex agrees immediately. It will be hard seeing Sophie in so much pain, but it’s part of his job as her best friend, to be there for the big moments like this.

“Thanks for being the best friend in the whole world, I love you.” Sophie softly says, moving in to hug Alex.

“Ditto.”

After another hour or so, Sophie decides to head home. On her walk there, she decides she wants to tell her parents now, instead of trying to hide the pregnancy until she just can’t anymore, she trusts her parents and has never kept anything from them before, she doesn’t want to start now.

When she arrives home, she leaves her bag in her room, then goes in search of her parents, hoping they’re home. Being High blade means her mom gets called out all the time for lots of reasons, so there’s a high chance just her dad is here.

However she soon finds them both in the kitchen, her mom cooking something at the stove and her dad standing behind her mom, his hands on her waist as he leans in to say something that makes her laugh. Sophie can so easily picture them 18 years ago when they were expecting her, they always tell her how excited and thrilled they were when they found out she was on the way, she wishes her own pregnancy were such a happy occasion.

Her dad is the first to spot her, lingering in the doorway.

“Ah we were wondering if you were ever going to come home again, I hope you didn’t get Alex into any trouble.” He teases, knowing how mischievous Sophie is, she looks so sweet and innocent, but she’s far from it, she and the very quiet and shy Alex make an odd team, but they also make sense.

“Oh Michael leave her alone.” Marie admonishes, turning to smile at her daughter, quietly noting the tear tracks on her face, trying not to let fear and worry for her daughter get the best of her.

“A-are you guys busy?” Sophie asks, her voice hoarse.

“Never too busy for you dear.” Marie softly says.

“Can we talk, please? I have to tell you something.”

“Of course, what is it?” Marie asks, taking a seat at the kitchen table and gesturing for her husband and daughter to join her.

Sophie had planned to beat around the bush a little before telling her parents the truth, but when sits down across from them, her nerves get the better of her and her plan goes out the window.

“I’m pregnant.” Sophie blurts out, wincing at how the words sound.

There is a tense silence for a moment, before Michael speaks up.

“Is it Alex’s?” He asks in a toneless voice. Sophie shakes her head.

“No, Alex and I are friends, best friends, but nothing else. It’s always been that way and it will always be that way, and besides, he’s gay.”

“Well then who is the father? And is he going to be involved? I hope he knows I’m not about to sit back and let the boy who knocked up my daughter, just walk away from the situation.” Marie’s tone is firm with more than a hint of anger.

“It’s no one you know, just a guy from school I had a bit of a fling with, we weren’t even really together, just went on a few dates, and obviously slept together. But no, he won’t be involved, he can’t be.” Sophie tells them, cringing slightly when she notices anger flash in her mother’s eyes.

“Is that what he told you? He can’t? That, my dear, is absolute bullshit. Who is this boy? I want to speak to him.”

“No mom, you don’t understand!” Sophie protests.

“Oh I understand perfectly well Sophia Amelia, don’t think you’re off the hook, I’m very disappointed in you but we’ll take about that in a minute.” Before her mother can start lecturing her again, Sophie interrupts her

“He can’t be involved because he’s dead, he was gleaned a few weeks ago, by Scythe Madison.”

The anger in Marie’s expressions is immediately replaced with shock and guilt.

“Oh.” She quietly says. “Oh Sophie I’m so sorry, I would never have asked had I known.” She reaches over to cover her daughter’s hand with her own. Sophie shrugs.

“It’s fine, it’s not like we were madly in love or anything.”

“Are you going to keep the baby?” Michael asks, speaking for the first time in a few minutes.

“i’m going to have the baby and then place them for adoption, I want to carry and bring this baby into the world myself, and choose their parents myself. I’m not fit to be a mom or raise a baby, but I want to do something for them, even if it’s just carrying them and giving birth to them myself, instead of letting The Thunderhead incubate the baby and place them with the right family.”

“Well, as your mother said earlier, I am disappointed in you Sophie. You were taught better than to have unprotected sex when you aren’t ready for a child, there are a lot of options for protection out there, it was very irresponsible of you not to use any of them.” Michael calmly says, looking his daughter straight in the eye.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Sophie admits.

“And I think I can speak for your father as well as myself when I say we aren’t thrilled about the pregnancy, we’re not mad or angry but disappointed.” Marie adds in.

“That being said.” Michael starts, his tone still very calm. “You’re choice to place the baby for adoption is a very mature one, and responsible, and for that I’m proud of you. We will support you every step of the way through this, you’re our daughter and we’re always going to love and support you.”

Sophie feels as though a weight has been lifted off her chest, she was so worried her parents would be furious with her for making such a big mistake. It is a relief beyond words to have their support.

Over the next few months, Sophie does her very best to hide her pregnancy, as the daughter of The High-Blade, a teen pregnancy would cause a lot of scandal and drama, and would lead to people questioning her mother and father’s parenting skills. They both made it clear that Sophie absolutely did not have to hide her pregnancy, they didn’t care what people said about them they just want her to be happy, but Sophie wanted and wants to keep this pregnancy as quiet as possible.

She does manage to hide the pregnancy, right up until 5 months.

On a warm day in March, when Sophie is meant to be studying for school but gets distracted reading about her parents history, online, her phone suddenly starts to buzz, continuously, with notification alerts.

With a confused frown Sophie turns away from her laptop and picks up her phone, her eyes widening when she unlocks it and sees the screen filled with notifications of people tagging her in posts, on social media. She clicks through the first one, and is brought to twitter. What she sees when the post loads, makes her heart sink into her stomach.

The post has been made by Caroline Thatcher-Edison, daughter of Scythes Margaret Thatcher and Thomas Edison, she’s 1 year Sophie’s junior and does not like her at all, Sophie’s mom says it’s because Caroline is jealous of Sophie’s fame as the first child born to two Scythes. (Although, technically Alex is the first, being a month older than Sophie, but since he was off grid for most of his life, the title still belongs to Sophie.)

Caroline has posted a picture of Sophie standing outside her home here at Fallingwater, in the picture Sophie is in the process of zipping up a baggy jacket, but with it unzipped you can clearly see her perfectly round stomach, under her white t-shirt.

‘Look what I found in the Thunderhead’s back-brain!’ The caption reads. ‘Seems like little miss perfect @SophieFaraday-Curie isn’t so perfect after all.’

“No.” Sophie quietly says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh no no no!” She opens up the other notifications to find that the picture has already blown up and received many responses, good, bad and in between.

Alex Kwon @AlexanderKwon 45 seconds ago.

‘Hey take this down, you have no business using a private photo of Sophie, you’re not even meant to be in the back-brain, you just admitted that your parents broke the law by letting you do something that’s only reserved for Scythes and their apprentices.’

Lucia Peron @luciaP 40 seconds ago.

And I’m suppose to care because....?

William Ford @WillFord 20 seconds ago.

Oh god I use to have a crush on her! Now she’s just used goods, ugh! It’s always the pretty ones, she probably let some asshole guy who doesn’t treat her right, knock her up, when she could have had a genuinely nice guy like me! What a slut!

Sophie feels sick to her stomach after reading the last comment, how can someone talk about another human being that way? Just as the tears start to fall, she hears a soft, familiar and comforting voice.

“Sophie.” She turns, and sees her parents standing in the doorway, both looking worried but also furious. Seeing them is a big comfort to Sophie, she needs them right now, more than ever.

“Mama, daddy, I....” Sophie begins, but breaks off as the sobs start to catch in her throat.

“Oh my love.” Marie softly says, quickly making her way across the room and embracing her daughter tightly, with Michael following behind.

“Lets put this away for now, hm? It’s not going to do you any good to read through the replies.” Michael softly suggests, picking Sophie’s phone up and placing it in her desk drawer.

“I-I knew Caroline hated me but why would anyone do something like this to anyone?” Sophie asks in a tight tone, resting her head against her mother’s chest.

“Oh Sophie, my sweet girl, I’m afraid there are a lot of nasty people out there who just want to hurt others. I think your father and I may have sheltered you a bit too much, we never wanted you to hurt like we did.” Marie quietly says.

“You’re the most precious thing in the world to us Sophie, always have been and always will be, we wanted and want to give you the most perfect, happy life possible, but I think in the process of that we forgot we all have to experience some degree of hurt at some stage, as a little girl we could protect you from the harsh realities of the world, but now you’re growing up and we can’t protect you quiet so easily anymore.” Michael says in a wistful done, brushing Sophie’s hair back from her face.

“How am I suppose to deal with this? I don’t really care what people think of me, but I don’t want to have to face those heinous comments everyday, both online and in real life.” Sophie asks, worried that this is going to be her life from now on.

“People will talk Soph, no matter what, I’m afraid there isn’t anything we can do to stop it, but we will be here to love you and support you through it all, and in time it will become old news and people will stop talking about it. It might take a couple weeks, or months or maybe even years, but it will get old eventually and will be forgotten about.”

Over the next couple of days Sophie’s Aunts Anastasia and Munira help her write an address to the public, confirming her pregnancy but also telling them that she’ll be placing the baby for adoption.

Of course, when people hear of this 2 days later, it causes a lot of uproar and focus on her. A lot of people think Sophie should have to keep the baby, as they are now technically next in line to be High-Blade, since Sophie has rejected the claim to the title herself. If the baby is adopted out and no longer legally Sophie’s child, then they will also loose their claim to the title.

Some people message Sophie and plead with her to place her baby with them, though it’s very clear they just want a famous kid, which is the exact opposite from the type of parents Sophie is looking for, she wants her baby to have a normal, quiet life with people who don’t care about her biological relation to the High-Blade.

2 weeks after the revelation, Conclave takes place, and of course Sophie’s pregnancy is the main topic of conversation among the Scythes.

As Marie and Michael make their way into the Rotunda to begin Conclave, they hear many comments about Sophie and her situation.

“Did you hear about Curie’s daughter?” Scythe Eisenhower asks Scythe Addams.

“No, what about her?”

“She’s pregnant!”

“No!”

“Yes, and apparently the father went and got himself gleaned just weeks before she found out she’s pregnant.”

“My god, what a mess!”

As they near the front of the room, they hear a conversation between Scythe Victoria and Scythe Bush.

“Is it true that The High-Blade’s daughter has gone and got herself pregnant?”

“Yes it is.”

“And she’s only 16?”

“Yes, and she’s not even keeping the baby, she’s placing it for adoption.”

“Disgraceful. she needs to step up and accept responsibility, stupid little girl.”

Michael has to physically restrain Marie from whirling around and yelling at Scythe Bush for calling Sophie ‘Stupid little girl.’

As Marie takes her place at the podium at the front of the room, Michael takes his seat in the middle of the first row, right in front of Marie. It’s where he’s sat every single Conclave for the last 16 years, since Marie became High-Blade.

The murmurs from the crowd immediately start to fade, when everyone notices Marie take her place, giving them all a hard stare.

“First matter of business today.” Marie begins. “You will all get my daughter’s name out of your mouths and stop your childish gossiping about her, you should all be ashamed, grown adults who are meant to be the most respectful people in our society, sitting around gossiping about a 16 year old, my 16 year old.

Let me make it clear right here and now that Michael and I support our daughter no matter what, Sophie made a mistake, as many young people do. By choosing to place the child for adoption, Sophie is not avoiding her consequences nor being selfish, she is doing the very opposite. She has chosen to give up nine months of her life to carry and bring her child into the world herself, and find the best parents the child could ask for.

She knows she’s not ready to be a parent, and by choosing to place her child with someone who is ready to be a parent, my daughter is making a very brave, noble, mature and selfless choice.

I will not make any further comment on the topic, so do not even think to ask. I am also banning this topic of conversation at Conclave, forever, effective immediately.”

Meanwhile, Alex is possibly the most angry he’s ever felt in all his life. He can’t believe someone would hurt his best friend this way, and that people would react so cruelly to such a tough situation.

“It’s just not fair mom! Why would people do this to Sophie? What has she ever done to deserve anything like this?” Alex exclaims in a furious tone, pacing around the living room while his mother tries to calm him down.

“Because people are assholes Alex, for no reason sometimes. I use to be one of those people, I use to like hurting people because it made me feel better about myself, it didn’t matter if the person had done anything or not, it made me feel powerful and in charge. You’re the one who changed that about me Alex, don’t ever forget that.” Olivia tells him, knowing that if she hadn’t chosen Alex over Goddard, and this all happened while Goddard was alive and she was still infatuated with him, she would have been one of the people talking shit about Sophie, too.

“You’re a Scythe can’t you glean them?!” Alex blurts out in a moment of frustration. Olivia’s heart feels like it stops for a minute, this is what she has always been afraid of, that Alex would turn out to be like Goddard, that though they share no biological condition, Goddard did impact and affect Alex during Olivia’s pregnancy.

“Alex, 1. I’m not a Scythe anymore, I gave that up for you and I don’t regret for a second, and it means I can’t glean anyone. And 2. Even if I could it be extremely immoral and unjust and exactly like something Goddard would do.” This immediately catches Alex off guard, and makes him realize what a horrible thing that was to say.

“Oh my god you’re right! Oh my god mom I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean it! I-I’m just so angry and want to do whatever I can to stop Sophie hurting and I... I swear I’m not like him!” The panic in Alex’s tone breaks Olivia’s heart, and she quickly crosses the room to pull him into her arms, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his back soothingly.

“I know kiddo, I know.” She softly says. “It’s okay, you’re fiercely loyal, like me. That’s a good thing, but you also have my temper, you just need to be careful and not act on spur of the moment thoughts, okay?” Alex nods, holding onto his mother tightly.

“I love you mom.”

“I love you too Alex.”

One month later when all they hype and gossip dies down, Sophie starts actively looking for adoptive parents for her baby. She’s decided to start her search on a website where expecting parents can look at perspective adoptive parents’ profiles, and choose to ‘Match’ with them, after which they can message privately, arrange to meet up, exchange more information and details, etc.

After about an hour of trawling through the website and not finding anyone she likes, Sophie comes across a profile that catches her eye.

The picture is of a woman with dark brown skin, long and curly black hair and warm, big brown eyes. Her smile is the first thing that catches Sophie’s eye, it’s so bright, full and real.

The name below the picture reads ‘Safiya Adel.’ Sophie clicks through to her profile.

The first thing she sees is a picture of Safiya sitting in what seems to be a living room, she is beaming into the camera as she has her arms around two dogs, a golden retriever and a border collie. This instantly makes Sophie like Safiya anymore, Sophie loves dogs and has plans to have many, many of her own when she’s a bit older and moves out on her own.

Below the picture are a few lines written by Safiya. They read

‘We haven’t met yet but I already love you and your child, and hold you close in my heart. I promise to give your child a happy and safe home, with a mother who loves them beyond all words and will do anything for them.’

It almost brings a tear to Sophie’s eye, it is so sweet and meaningful.

On the left of the profile is some information about Safiya, and preferences for a child.

Quick Facts About Safiya.

Age: 36.

Sex: Female.

Gender: Trans woman.

Preferences For a Child.

Age: Any.

Sex: Any.

Multiple Children: Twins, triplets, etc. And sibling groups.

Race/Ethnicity: Any.

Post Adoption Contact/Openness.

Open. (Open to all contact pre and post placement, open to meeting pre and post placement, regular visits, letters, photos, etc.)

Sophie then clicks through into the ‘About’ section, to learn more about Safiya, she’s trying not to get her hopes up but so far she seems like the perfect person.

Work and Education.

Education: Masters in Business.

Occupation: Business Owner.

Environment.

Country: Merica.

Region: EastMerica.

Relationship: Single.

Neighborhood: Modern.

Residency: House.

Pet(s): 2 dogs.

Children: None.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual.

Sophie can no longer hold back her excitement, Safiya is exactly the kind of person she’s been looking for. She seems warm and friendly and definitely someone who could give a child a lot of love. She’s okay with an open placement so Sophie can still see the baby once they’re born, and she lives nearby so it won’t be hard to see the baby often.

She is about to click the ‘Contact’ button, when she hears a voice from the doorway.

“There you are, I was wondering where you had wandered off to.” Sophie looks up to see her dad coming into the room, wearing a casual white jumper and black trousers, he and Marie never really wear their robes at home, just casual street clothes, they started doing that when Sophie was a baby and if they wore their robes around her they would end up having to wash them almost everyday, so a few weeks after her birth they decided to just wear normal clothes at home, and put their robes on for gleaning, Conclaves, meetings, etc.

“Did this really use to be Aunt Anastasia’s room, when she lived with mom?” Sophie curiously asks, shifting to a more comfortable position on the small sofa in front of the fireplace.

“I believe it was, yes. What are you doing up here?” Michael asks, coming to sit next to Sophie.

“Looking for adoptive parents, I just found the most amazing sounding person, look.” Sophie hands her father her tablet that’s still open to Safiya’s page on the adoption website.

Michael takes a minute to skim through it, before turning back to Sophie.

“She does sound ideal, with her being so close by, just over in Eastmerica, it will be easy for you to visit her and the baby.” He notes, handing Sophie back the tablet.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. I think I’m going to choose her, dad.” Sophie quietly says, hugging the tablet to her chest.

“She sounds like a great person.” Michael then reaches out and squeezes Sophie’s hand. “I’m so proud of you Sophie, and I love you so much.”

A while later Sophie sends a message to Safiya, asking to meet up so she can get to know her better, because she’s chosen her as her baby’s adoptive parent. Safiya is of course overjoyed and beyond thankful to Sophie, and happily agrees to meet her next week, at a café just 20 minutes from Fallingwater.

Marie, Michael and Alex all offer to go with Sophie to the meeting, but she insists on going on her, she wants to make a good first impression and not intimidate Safiya by bringing along A. Her mother, High-Blade of Midmerica. B. Her father, famous and well known Honorable Scythe Faraday, and C. Her best friend, the son of the former Scythe Rand and technically the late Scythe Goddard.

Before she knows it, Sophie finds herself sitting across from Safiya, getting to know her. She runs a clothing shop here in Eastmerica, a very successful and popular one, and seeing as she’s her own boss she can take as long as she feels fit, for maternity leave, once the baby arrives.

“I just want to say again how grateful I am to you for choosing me, I know it can’t have been an easy decision and I so admire your strength and bravery.” Safiya tells Sophie, in an admiring tone. Sophie blushes and shrugs her shoulders.

“I want to do what’s best for this baby, I want them to have as equally an amazing life as I did.

You’re welcome to be really involved in the rest of the pregnancy, you can come to scans and stuff all the time, and be at the hospital when the baby’s born, but not in the delivery room, no offense but I only want my mom and my best friend there, you can come in after the baby is born.

Also, right after they’re born, I want some time alone with them, just half an hour or so. I’ll always love this baby as my own, no matter what, before I place her with you and let you become her mom, I want a few minutes with her, a few minutes as her mom.” Sophie is beginning to get teary eyed, she really wishes she were in the right position to keep this baby, she loves them so, so much and the idea of placing her for adoption is just heart wrenching, but she knows she needs to do it, for the baby’s sake.

“Of course, whatever you want. The baby is still yours as of right now, and it’s your pregnancy, so whatever you say, goes.” Safiya assures Sophie, making her sigh in relief.

They talk for another hour or so, before they part ways. While Safiya heads out to her car, Sophie stay in the café for a bit longer, to process everything that just happened. She looks down at her stomach and places her hand on her bump, stroking it softly with her thumb.

“We did it baby, we found you the perfect home.”

The next 3 months pass by in a blur, and soon Sophie is just a week from her due date. She’s tired all the time now, and oddly desperate for the pregnancy to be over, and to go on a bit longer. On one hand she won’t miss the fatigue and how heavy the baby is, but on the other hand she’ll miss feeling her kick and having her with her everywhere 24/7.

Currently Sophie is standing at the kitchen sink, filling up a glass of water. however just as she turns the tap off, she is gripped with an immense pain in her stomach and back, a pain like no other. She imagines this is what it would feel like if someone stabbed her.

She bites her lip to prevent a groan or scream of pain, and grips tightly onto the edge of the sink, bending over a little and trying to breathe through the pain.

“Mom!” Sophie weakly calls out, as the pain starts to intensify. She’s really getting scared now.

“Sophie? Are you alright dear, what is it?” She hears her mom ask, and soon feels a hand land on her back. Sophie lets out a shuddering breath.

“I think I’m in labor.” She weakly says.

“Do you want to go to the hospital now, or wait a bit?” Marie asks. She had opted to have a home birth with Sophie, so has no experience in when the best time to go into hospital is.

“Now, I want something for the pain.”

Marie drives Sophie to the hospital, while Michael agrees to follow them in an hour or so, since Sophie only wants him there after the baby is born, and her labor could last hours.

On the way to the hospital she calls Alex, who agrees to meet them there. She also calls Safiya to let her know she needs to start making her way to the hospital.

Even with her nanites adjusted to help ease the pain, Sophie’s labor is still awfully painful and very, very long. She is beyond glad to have Alex and her mom with her, they’re such a huge comfort and help to her.

After 15 hours of labor, Sophie finally feels ready to push and decides to do so sitting upright at the end of the bed, Alex holding her hand and her mom helping to support her and keep her calm.

The pushing is very difficult, but Sophie’s midwife is extremely encouraging and doesn’t try to force her into positions that will get baby out faster.

“Okay Sophie I can see baby’s head now, nearly there.” The Midwife calmly says, two hours into pushing. Sophie feels some relief at having finally gotten somewhere and made some progress after so long.

She takes in a shaky breath, grips Alex’s hand and leans forward into her push, letting out a long and deep groan of pain.

“That’s it keep it coming sweetheart, keep it coming.” The midwife encourages as baby’s head slowly but surely starts to emerge.

After a few more seconds Sophie stops the push as her contraction ends, and takes a minute to catch her breath.

“Baby’s head is out now Sophie, well done, nearly there.” The Midwife smiles up at her, from her position crouched on the floor, ready to guide baby out.

“It really hurts.” Sophie says in a breathy, wobbly tone.

“I know but it’s almost over I promise.” The midwife tells her.

“You’re doing so well Sophie, so well. It’s almost over now, just a couple more pushes and it will be over.” Marie quietly says, wiping the sweat off Sophie’s forehead, with a damp washcloth.

“You got this Soph, you’re the strongest person ever, you can do it.” Alex encourages, squeezing her hand. The next contraction starts to wash over Sophie and she starts to push again, griping Alex’s hand so hard he almost yelps in pain.

“Oh god Alex I hate you!” Sophie wails as the pain intensifies.

“Me? Why me?” Alex asks in a confused tone.

“Because you’re a man and I hate men now.” Sophie pants, making Alex even more confused. He looks to Marie for help, she just smiles lightly.

“Don’t worry she doesn’t really hate you, I said the same thing to Michael when Sophie was being born, I didn’t mean a word of it and neither does she. People talk nonsense when they’re overwhelmed.” She gently explains.

“Okay Sophie, baby is out up to their shoulders now, one more big push and they’ll be here.”

Sophie groans, takes a deep breath and starts to push again.

A few seconds later she feels the baby slip out into the Midwife’s awaiting hands, and soon a sharp wail rings throughout the delivery room.

“Oh Sophie you did it! Oh you clever, clever girl I am so proud of you.” Marie says in a tight and teary tone, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair and kissing her temple.

“You did awesome Soph, really awesome.” Alex tells her.

“Boy or girl?” Sophie asks the midwife.

“Girl. Would you like to hold her?” Sophie nods and holds her arms out for the baby. The midwife carefully passes her up to Sophie, tucking a blanket in around the baby to keep her warm.

Sophie brings her baby to her chest and immediately falls in love with her all over again. She looks so much like her, with her skin tone, bone structure and eye shape, as well a few wisps of blonde hair. She is absolutely perfect.

Tears of joy well up in Sophie’s eyes and she pulls her baby closer and kisses her forehead.

“Hello.” She quietly says. “I love you. Letting you go is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s not forever, we’ll still see eachother all the time. I wish I was in the right place to give you your best shot at life, i love you so much and I really want to be your mom, but you deserve just as happy a childhood as I had, and I can’t give you that.”

“Oh Sophie she’s so beautiful, well done my dear, well done.” Marie softly says, smiling down at her granddaughter as she rubs her daughter’s back soothingly.

“I can’t wait to be her favoriet cool uncle.” Alex grins at Sophie, his face lighting up when the baby wraps her little hand around his finger. “Aw see! She loves me already.” Sophie laughs and leans her forehead against Alex’s.

“You’re such a dork.” She sniffs.

“Yeah but you love me for it.”

After a few more minutes, Sophie asks one of the nurses to go bring Safiya in, to meet her daughter. The nurse happily obliges and a few minutes later, returns with Safiya behind her.

Sophie smiles at Safiya and gestures for her to come closer.

“Here, meet your daughter.” Sophie quietly says, carefully passing the baby to Safiya, who holds her with all the care in the world.

“Oh.” Safiya quietly says, stroking the baby’s soft little cheek. “Hello beautiful, I can’t believe I get to love you and raise you forever, I am one lucky woman.”

“Do you have a name for her?” Sophie asks, leaning back against the pillows. Safiya smiles and nods.

“Yes I do, Stephanie, Stevie for short.”

“Oh, Stevie Adel, I love it.” Sophie says.

“I’m glad, I want her to have a name you like, too. Sophie I really cannot even begin to explain how grateful I am to you for giving me the gift of this beautiful little girl, allowing me to become a mother.”

“You don’t need to thank me, just promise me you’ll give her the best, most happy life she could ever hope for.”

“Absolutely, you have my word.”

2 days later, both Sophie and little Stevie are discharged from the hospital. Safiya and Sophie walk out of the hospital together, Safiya holding little Stevie.

“I promise I’ll send you pictures as soon as we get home, and you can come visit whenever you want, okay?” Safiya asks, turning to Sophie when they reach the parking lot. Sophie nods.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Safiya pulls her in for a hug, before making her way over to her car. She quickly but gently buckles Stevie in, then gets in and starts to drive off, waving at Sophie through the window.

“You okay?” Alex asks Sophie, as they watch Safiya pull out of the parking lot. Sophie nods.

“Yeah.” She says. “It’s just hard.” Just then she feels a hand land on her shoulder and she turns to see her dad standing there, smiling proudly at her.

“Some of the hardest choices we make, Sophie, are the best choices. I am so incredibly proud of you.”

Sophie knows he’s right, this is the hardest choice she’s ever had to made, but she also know it’s the best choice she’s ever made, and though it hurts like hell, she doesn’t regret it for a second.

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meaningofmotorsport · 3 years

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My opinion of the F1 teams and drivers so far this year!

As F1 is currently on its summer break, I thought it would be a good time to give my report on how each team is fairing so far in 2021!

With this year’s car being very similar to the previous year’s one, it was expected that it would be as easy this year for Mercedes as it was last year! However, with some new rules which were clearly aimed at slowing down Mercedes, it has become a much more difficult prospect for them! On the whole, they have handled it pretty well, I don’t think they have the fastest car, at least over the tracks we have seen so far, so to be leading both titles is a good job, even if it has happened through luck and certain circumstances! Mercedes cannot be totally happy though, as they have lost out on a bag of points through strategy errors, and the car just not working at some tracks. Hamilton has not been perfect this year, with some misjudgements creeping into his game, yet he has been pretty close to it, and will need to stay at that level to keep up with Max. His fitness is a real concern, due to long covid symptoms! As for Bottas, with no wins to his name, and some pretty diabolical weekends to add to that, it has been a sub-par year for him to say the least. Plus, now was when he least needed it, with a massive threat from Russell for his seat!

Despite it being their best start to a season for many years, Red Bull have been massively unlucky so far. If luck was on their side, they would have a big title lead in both standings, but that is not how it has worked out, and the team needs to pick themselves up and come back stronger! They have the fastest car, Perez is getting better by the weekend, and with Lewis showing signs of weakness, and Mercedes potentially signing Russell, it could cause drama at their team too! This season could well come down to the mental strength of Red Bull, which they showed none of after Silverstone, and their overreaction undoubtedly distracted them going into Hungary, where Mercedes beat them in qualifying! Much like Lewis, Max has been near perfect, only some slight errors earlier in the year, and perhaps he needs to tone down the aggression a bit! Otherwise, he has what it takes to bring down Mercedes! Perez would have hoped for more when the season began, whilst there have been highs, there have also been many performances, especially on a Saturday, which have been underwhelming! If he can just gain a few tenths, to put himself above McLaren and Ferrari, and start to upset Mercedes in the race, it would be perfect for Red Bull!

There were high expectations for McLaren going into this year, off the back of 2 growing years for the team, and with a new star driver coming in. In some ways they have matched that, if not bettered it, as Norris is currently sat in an incredible 3rd in the driver’s championship, after a superbly consistent year. Yet with Ricciardo, it has been rather lacklustre on the most part! Obviously coming to a new team won’t be easy, however, he has been the slowest to adapt by far, and even by now isn’t quite where he should be. I think he will get there eventually; it is just the little nuances of the car he is struggling to work around! This team may be the best as a unit so far in 2021, as we have rarely seen them miss a trick at all. Despite this, the fight with Ferrari will be a tough one, and will require both drivers to be up at the front!

The gains that Ferrari have been able to make in what has been a pretty static rule set from last year to this, is impressive to say the least! This has mostly been on the engine side, after the circumstances with their 2019 engine, that I am sure we are all aware of! Leclerc has once again been getting the most out of the Ferrari, including 2 pole positions, however, there have also been some big mistakes in there too, namely at Monaco, which could even have cost them a win! Sainz has adapted the best to his new surroundings of all the drivers who moved, as he was right with Charles from the first round of the year! A couple of podiums show that he has been pushing his teammate hard all year, much more than most people probably expected! That could be their biggest strength in the fight with McLaren, if they still aren’t able to get Ricciardo fully up to speed!

For the most part, it has been another year where Alpine (Renault) has not been able to fight where a manufacturer should be, and the positive trajectory from a couple of years ago has faded away really! That being said, another part of sport is making the most of the opportunities that are handed to you, which Alpine certainly did last time out at Hungary! It was clear that they were slower than the Aston Martin there, yet Ocon and the team got the job done, and I hope this will act as a bounce pad, not only for the rest of this year but also going forwards! Over the 11 races so far, Alonso has really been the better driver, especially given he has just returned from some time out of the sport. Ocon is a very talented driver, he just needs to show it more consistently, at least he has the security of a long term contract!

AlphaTauri looked ominous in pre-season testing, and the expectation was that they would at least be in the battle for 3rd in the constructors, if not winning it! The reality has been far from that though, partly due to strategy and driver errors, and also just a lack of race pace! In qualifying they have been probably 3rd or 4th best, with Gasly at least, but it isn’t often they finish there! Pierre has been one of the stars of the year so far, as whilst there have been some slip ups, he has been maximising the car he has mostly! Tsunoda arrived on the scene with so much hype around him, and in Bahrain he matched the hype, however it has been downhill for the majority of the time since then. Overdriving seems to be the main issue for him currently, as he just expects too much from himself at this stage in his career!

2020 was probably the best year ever for the Silverstone based team throughout all its previous guises. I didn’t see anything wrong with them copying the Mercedes, copying has always happened in our sport, so it was nothing new really. The problem with copying the best team on the grid, is that rule changes will be aimed at slowing you down, and as we have seen this year, it has really damaged Aston Martin in terms of car performance. Bearing that in mind, they have made the best of a bad situation, with some very promising results coming to them throughout the year! Vettel has been reinvigorated at the team, as he may not be a top level driver, but he has made a step forward from his final years at Ferrari. Stroll as you would expect has not been able to match him most of the time, but has not embarrassed himself either, as he gains experience during his time in F1.

When Williams said they had make a ‘peaky’ car for this campaign, it had the potential to work really well for them, as being consistently out of the points means nothing, as opposed to 1 point scoring race! The team was tremendously unlucky to not score points before Hungary, although they have now got what they deserved, with a huge 10 point haul for them! That may be enough to stay 8th, however, they may even be able to grow their lead further in the remaining 12 races! Russell for the most part has been outstanding in what is still a poor car. There have been a few blemishes, such as Imola, but everything else he does is the best advertisement possible to Mercedes, as to why he should be there next year! Latifi has mostly been hidden behind the limelight of George. On the odd occasion he will push him very hard, which is good to see, I am just not sure if it is enough to keep his seat!

Alfa Romeo came to join the Sauber team on such a high note back in 2018, as they grew the star of Leclerc, before he went to Ferrari! Since that point, points have been hard to come by for them, as they battled to stay above the bottom of the table. They should be able to do it again this year, however their position won’t be that satisfying! Their performance isn’t helped by 2 drivers who aren’t a match for the rest of the grid. Kimi in his prime was an excellent driver, but this year especially he hasn’t really shown much to write home about! Giovinazzi has had a few years now to grow in the sport, and although he is beating Kimi very often, he isn’t showing any signs of being a star of the future. I think a driver overhaul for next year would do them a world of good!

It has been a woeful year for Haas, as an underdeveloped car with 2 rookie drivers, is a painful combination. As they focus on 2022, the good thing is that their drivers seem to be improving as the year goes on, to prepare for what they hope will be an upturn in results! Schumacher has been a class above Mazepin, as we thought would happen. It was also nice to see him get his elbows out whilst battling with some of the top runners, even if it didn’t last long! Mick just needs to tune out the crashes we have seen from him this season, otherwise he could have a promising career ahead of him! Nikita has at least stopped his habit of crashing, which plagued him to start the season, now he just needs to get on terms with his teammate in both qualifying and the race.

If the second half of this year is as good as the first, we could have a monumental season on our hands! All I hope is that we have a title fight which goes right down to Abu Dhabi, for the first time since 2016, and maybe some drama along the way to keep it like that!

-M

Thank you very much for reading this article! To keep up to date with when they go out, and to see my reactions to races and other news, follow me on Twitter at: https://twitter.com/MeaningofMotor1

Also, if you want to support me, I have a Patreon Page at: https://www.patreon.com/meaningofmotorsport

#f1 #f12021 #f1 2021 #motorsport

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stevemoffett · 3 years

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A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

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ironwoman18 · 4 years

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We found love in a hopeless place part 9

Chapter 9: Our First Kiss

Early that day, while Spencer was with Emily. Max drove to pick up her younger sister, Eloise, because a pipe broke and the principal sent them home for the day.

When her sister got in the car and hugged her she asked "what's up with your car?"

"Oh Dad had to use it. His car is at the mechanical workshop so he dropped me at school and went to buy food and other things" Max nodded.

"Ok. Lucky I was out early today" she smiled at her "want to eat McDonald's?" Asked Max which made her sister smiled big and nodded. Max laughed and drove to the restaurant.

"So how are things with Spencer? The guy we met yesterday?"

"Well things are going good. He's the sweetest guy I ever met, a little awkward but it's cute" she smiled softly.

"You really like him, don't you?" Max nodded "what does he do?"

"He's a FBI agent"

"Really? That's awesome!" Said Eloise with a smile.

"Yeah but I feel like something just happened because he's out of job for a month. He hasn't talked about it and I don't want to make him uncomfortable"

"Why do you think so?"

"He said he had a nightmare last night and the fact that he's not working right now" she said as she parked the car close to the restaurant.

"Maybe he had a tough case. I heard that kind of jobs can cause PTSD"

"Of course I know it and I'm sure that was what brought him to the doctor where we met" Eloise nodded then they got out of the car and walked in the fast food restaurant.

They ordered two cheese burgers with fries and sodas. They sat down and started to eat then Max looked at her little sister "by the way... How did you know about the PTSD and the FBI?"

"Internet. I had to do an essay about the consequences of war in the army so I just made the connection with a FBI agent" she said matter-of-factly.

Max raised an eyebrow but smiled "of course, you always shock me with the information you discovered on internet"

"Internet is the best tool you could have" she laughed and ate a fry. Max also laughed and both ate and kept talking now and then about Max's work or Eloise's classes.

Their lunch was relaxed. Then Max drove to her dad's house and spent some time there.

When they arrived there was Michelle with her son, who hugged his aunts excited "aunt Max and aunt Ellie. I will go to the spelling competition!" He smiled big and both women smiled back and hugged him tight "The school's principal said I will go to a little competition a week after we start classes. It will be against other kids from the school"

"Congratulations buddy" said Max while ruffled his hair gentle.

"You will nail it Sammy" commented Eloise.

"Thank you aunts. I hope I don't lose my first competition"

"Nah you will do it great" Eloise and Max said at the same time.

"You own me an ice cream" said Eloise laughing and Max rolled her eyes but laughed too.

Then their father showed up with some coffee and some cake for his grandson.

They talked while the kid played with a tablet. Then Max got a message from Spencer asking if they could meet for coffee and she answered with a yes and excused herself with her family.

When she was gone the two sisters smirked "do you think this is the one for her?" Asked Michelle.

"I'm sure he is. She is crazy for him. Today she and I were talking and she quoted some of the things he told her. Even some random facts"

"Well, to be honest. I was getting worry after that idiot and her broke up. She hasn't had look luck with love"

"Yeah I will kill Mike if I see his face again" said Eloise with anger in her voice.

"Me too but back to Spencer" said the older sister "do you know about him?"

"Not much. Max kept some details about him to herself" they looked at Sam playing with some cars and making noises.

"He will come this Saturday maybe we can talk to him" suggested Michelle with a wicked smirk.

"I love your ideas!" Said the little sister excited and high-five her.

Meanwhile Max drove to the park Spencer told her to go. When she arrived she looked for him until she saw him sitting on a bench with a kid playing chess.

She smiled and walked to him "hey there" she said to him.

"Oh hey Max. These are Leonard and Patrick. I met them a few minutes ago and they wanted to play chess but didn't know the rules so while I was waiting. I taught them how to play"

"Really? And how old are you two?" Max asked softly looking at them.

"I'm 8 and my brother is 7" said Patrick then he looked at Spencer "is she your wife?"

They blushed and Spencer shook his head "No, we are dating but she's not even my girlfriend" he said looking at him.

"She's pretty. You should ask her. My mom always said that if you want something you should ask for it" he smiled innocently.

Max could see Spencer was uncomfortable, she bit her lower lip holding a laugh but his answer made her blush "I will think about it Pat" said Spencer smiling "ok kids. I have to go" they growled softly "but don't worry. If you want I can return tomorrow to teach you more" they smiled big "goodbye kids" he stood up and high-five them.

The couple walked in silence for a while then Max said "did they liked how you explained the game?"

"Kids understand easily the game. You just need to use the right words. An investigation said that teaching kids how to play chess will improve their social abilities, of course their math, language and logical thought" he told her "chest is easy to understand, the difficulties start when you have to learn strategies to win"

"My dad tried to teach me but I never understood" she blushed softly "I think my artistic brain couldn't handle to much math" she laughed.

"It's weird because I bet you can calculate pretty good" she raised her eyebrow "you know art is about proportions. You need to know the proper angle to draw a human being or know the right place to take a photo so the light show exactly what you want" she rubbed her chin thinking "it's all math"

"I think you are right" she looked up at him "but it's something we don't realize we are doing it"

"Exactly... I do calculations in my mind but I'm aware of that, you do it in automatic"

"Ok I understand" they arrived to a food truck that have coffee. They ordered and paid for it. When they had it they continued to walk "how was your meeting with your boss?"

"It wasn't a work meeting, she wanted to talk about me, ask me how I was and looked at me" he took a sip of his coffee "we met a long time and before she was my boss, we became friends and all the people at the BAU are like my family"

"Amazing, I feel the same about my job at the school. But sometimes I feel like I should be doing something different..."

"Like?"

"Like... Working in a museum because I know I won't be a great painter like Picasso or Van Gogh but I feel I could do more in a place where art is the main department"

"I used to think that. I wished to work in the cure of the schizophrenia or something like that but I ended up with the FBI" he looked at her "but then Emily showed me that I was helping people with my job there and I realized that I'm a better person because of this job"

She nodded and smiled at him "but it's stressful, right?"

"And sometimes dangerous" he said looking around.

"I can imagine" she looked at him. They stayed in silence for a few minutes. They finished their coffees and sat down "you aren't working because you developed a PTSD?" She asked.

He looked at her and sighed "yeah... I was having some symptoms"

"You don't have to tell me what happened"

"I want to but not today" he held her hand "you are becoming an important part of my life even though we just met a month ago" he looked at her "I'm not the kind of person who likes to express his feelings so when I do. It means a lot"

She looked at him "you too. And to show you I trust you, I will tell you why I had to go to the doctor..." She looked down.

"You don't have to Max..."

"But I want to Spencer" she looked around, the sky was getting darker and the park was getting emptier. She looked at him and smiled "it was two years ago... I met this guy... His name was Mike Davis. He was so sweet and kind, he was tall, he had brown hair and green eyes. A handsome man... We started to date and it was wonderful" she looked down "a few months later we moved together. After that he became something totally different. He treated me horrible, he never hurted me with his fists but he used terrible words to me... He made me feel like an idiot" Spencer felt the need to look for him and punched him.

"You had the mentality of an abused woman... No matter if he ever hit you or not"

"Yeah I defended him and he pulled me away from my family. We were always very close but he managed to break us" she had tears in her eyes. He rubbed her back waiting for her to continue "a few months ago I finally ended that after realizing what was happening. He left to New Jersey and then we met at the doctor"

"Did you talk to her? About this?" She nodded.

"Yes and I told her that I met a man who was helping me to move on and realized that not all men are like Mike" he smiled softly "I never talked about this with people outside my family and closed friends"

He held her hand "I promise that I will tell you what happened to me" he promised "maybe in a private place because it's something really bad" she nodded and held his hand tightly.

"Ok Spence" and without thinking she leaned in to kiss him. The kiss was slow and sweet, he rubbed her cheek gently in the kiss. They broke the kiss slowly but left their forehead together and eyes closed, they smiled.

OOooOOooOO

After next chapter I will start watching season 13 and use some events on the fic. In fact I want to add the guy from New Orleans.

#spencer reid #criminal mind #maxine brenner #maxcer #fanfiction

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debbie-tanthorey · 4 years

Text

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces. Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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kimprzy-blog · 4 years

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My Sweet Avi Girl

A family vacation was just what we thought we needed. We had saved and planned for a long time to make this vacation possible. The day had finally come for us to go but what was supposed to be the “The Happiest Place on Earth” during “Most Wonderful Time of the Year”, turned out to be one of the saddest and scariest times we have ever had. It was Christmas 2014 and we were just about to embark on a fabulous family vacation at Disney. We knew that this was probably going to be the last time we would ever be able to have a family vacation with all our children together, and we were going to make the most of it. It all started going downhill just a few hours into the 20-hour drive to Florida. We have never had much luck with family vacations, one of our kiddos (usually Jesse) always get sick, but this one was BY FAR the worst EVER.

This story needs a little bit of back history, though, to tie it all together, so let’s go back to August 2014. We had just gotten the call that there were two little girls, sisters, in need of foster placement. One of the little girls had a trach and since we are a medically fragile foster home we were asked if could take them. The girls would be our first placement so, of course, we jumped at the chance. Our, now daughter Onna, came to us the next morning, she was as cute as a button. Avery, though, was in such bad shape that they brought her directly to the hospital. She remained in the hospital for two weeks while she recovered.

Avery’s trach was so badly neglected while in her previous home, which caused it to become severely infected. She was filthy from head to toe, and her hair was matted to her head. She smelled horrible! She was tiny and frail and extremely dehydrated. It was obvious that she had little, to no, positive human contact, because she was so afraid of everything and everybody. My heart broke for this tiny little girl.

It took several days for Avery to realize that when I reached out to her I was not going to hurt her, and within a week we had developed a pretty strong bond. I would have to move slowly and gently, but once I would get her onto my lap, she would just melt right into me. A lot of times she would bury her head into my chest and just sob with relief, but If I would make any sudden movements she would lash out, kicking, hitting and biting. I knew this was just her fight or flight protective defense mechanism but it crushed me every time. One day when she did this I just started singing to her quietly. I sang the first thing that came to head. It wasn’t even a real song and seemed silly, but to this day I will still sing it to her when she is upset. It always calms her right down. The words are just, “My sweet Avi girl, my sweet Avi girl, my sweet Avi girl, Avi, Avi, Avi, Avi girl”.

When we were able to finally bring Avery home, we noticed that her trach would often bleed, not just around the sight, but when we would suction it, as well. This is not a normal occurrence with a trach, but when we had mentioned it to the doctor, he just figured it was because of the severe infection she had had. We just needed to watch and wait to see if it got better. She would have days where everything would look normal and then a few days where we would see some blood. Nothing ever too extreme, though.

Vacation day had come and we loaded up the van with our luggage and kids and set out on our big adventure. A few hours into the trip it came time to feed Avery. She was fed through a tube in her stomach, so we didn’t need to stop to do this. We just hooked her tube up and fed her while she sat in her car seat. The formula she was on, back then, was a special formula that we needed to order from the pharmacy. When we went to pick it up from our pharmacy the day before we left on vacation, we were told that it was on back order (it would have been nice to have been informed of that before we went to pick it up). We knew we wouldn’t have enough formula for our trip and that we couldn’t just buy it off the shelf, so the pharmacy started calling around to see if any of the other pharmacies had some. They were finally able to locate some and I set off to get it. Now, when you go to a pharmacy to pick up an order you expect it to be in “sellable” condition. The formula came in individual serving containers and from the outside everything looked fine. I loaded up the boxes of formula into the van and headed on my way.

When we gave Avery the first container of formula in the car everything seemed fine. It didn’t appear that anything was wrong with the formula…until about 20 minutes later. Avery started projectile vomiting. She did this several times within a half hour, but then she stopped. We thought that maybe she just had some car sickness. The time came to feed her again, but this time we fed her when we had stopped to get everyone else something to eat. We thought feeding her while we were out of the car would help with the car sickness. Once again, she got violently sick, this time after only 10 minutes. It then dawned on us that there must be something wrong with the formula. When we looked closely at the container, we were horrified to see that it had actually expired over a year earlier! The pharmacy had sold us expired formula!!! At this point Avery was a hot mess. She now had diarrhea on top of the vomiting. We decided we needed to make an unplanned pitstop at a hotel to call the doctor, clean her up and get her hydrated with Pedialyte.

Everything seemed to be much better the next morning. The doctor felt that it was most likely food poisoning and said if her symptoms improved, it was fine to continue on. The Pedialyte help with rehydrating her and she was keeping it down, so we ventured on our way. When we got to our resort in Florida, however, Avery was beginning to have increased work of breathing, her oxygen needs had gone up, and she had a little more blood in her trach than normal. She was “acting” normal, though. We made the decision to not go into any of the Disney parks that day and to just let her rest and recover a little bit more. The next morning, she woke up happy and everything appeared to be better, so we all got up and decided that we would go to Hollywood Studios. This was the day after Christmas and the park was packed. We had decided to split off into two groups, because the big kids really didn’t want to do the same things as Jesse, Onna and Avery. After a couple of hours Onna really wanted to go see the Frozen show, so we headed there. This was the first time that I noticed there was something “off” with Avery, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on in…mother’s intuition. When we got to the show we ran into the others, and Onna asked them to come and watch the show with her, so they did. I am so glad they did. The show was just about over when I noticed Avery go pale, glassy-eyed and sweating profusely. I told everybody that we needed to leave, that something was really wrong with her. We hightailed it out of the park and made our way back to our room. What happened next was one of the scariest things I have ever been through…and I have been through a lot in my life!

When we got back to our room, we rushed Avery in and onto the bed in one of the bedrooms. She had a pink tinged froth coming from her mouth and she was very agitated. When I took the HME off her trach to suction her, blood just started pouring out of it. I screamed for Tony to call 911 while my son, Caleb, helped me with Avery. Our son, Benjamin, gathered all the other kids and brought them into another room so they wouldn’t see, what we all thought, were Avery’s final moments. There was Just so much blood, she was spewing it everywhere. The panic in her eyes was horrific. She was literally drowning in her own blood.

It didn’t take long for the ambulance to get to us, but it felt like an eternity. When they walked in, the look of shocked on their faces said it all. Avery was literally fighting for her life. Nobody seemed to know what to do. I was bagging her with an ambu bag and had her oxygen was up to 10 liters. Nobody stepped up to take my place with bagging, so I just continued…all the way to the hospital.

The hospital they brought us to was a complete joke. When they wheel us in the door, I was over top of Avery, straddling her, and still bagging her. I was covered in blood. Everyone in the ER stopped what they were doing and just stared at us. Now I was beginning to panic, was I really the only person in the hospital who was actually actively trying to save her? I started yelling things like, “I need suction”, and “don’t you think we should try racemic epi?” I kid you not, everybody just STILL continued to stare. I finally screamed, “I need somebody to help me!”. It was then that a someone got on the phone and called someone to assist. A transport team from an area children’s hospital was called to transport her to a facility that was better equipped to care for her needs, but they were over an hour away with all of the Christmas traffic. Someone then called a local pediatrician, who came in to assist until the transport team arrived.

I can’t remember the name of that pediatrician, I wish I would have had the sense of mind to get his name, but the one thing I can tell you about him was he was a true godsend. Once the transport team got to the hospital he broke down and admitted to us that he, too, had no idea what he was doing. He had been just as terrified as we were. You would have never known that, though. The whole time he was cool, calm and collected. When he walked into the room, he commanded it and appeared very confident (not cocky, though). What we didn’t know was that every time he left the room, he would frantically call the transport team to get their ETA and get further instruction as to how to keep her alive until they got there. He, also, told us that the racemic ep,i that I demanded when we first got there, was what most likely kept her alive. As the transport team was getting her ready for transport we cried and prayed with this doctor. I will be forever grateful for him.

Once we got to the children’s hospital Avery’s condition stabilized. She was definitely not out of the woods, but at least she was comfortable. They kept her heavily sedated for several days. She was on ridiculously high vent settings in the beginning, but gradually improved. She was in the PICU our whole two weeks of vacation. What they thought had happened was, when she got so violently sick from the bad formula, the vomiting had caused an arterial bleed at her trach site. I wasn’t totally convinced, but the bleeding had subsided with a cuffed trach, so maybe. The last day of our vacation they finally deemed her ready to travel. She was very weak but seemed to be okay. We just wanted to her home.

The beginning of the trip went off without a hitch, but at about the halfway point the shit really hit the fan. The bleeding had started up again, and we were in the middle of nowhere! The bleeding, by no means, was as bad as it was the day she went into the hospital, but it was still heavier than her normal bleeding. Her respiratory status was deteriorating, as well. Her oxygen needs had gone way up, and she needed several liters just to keep her pulse ox at 88%. The scariest part was we only a couple of tanks of oxygen left. There was NO way that, at the rate we were going through the oxygen, we were going to have enough to get her home. We prayed the whole way home. The only sound in the van for hours were the sounds of Avery’s pulse ox machine alarming and her labored breathing. When we had to stop and change out her tank to the very last one, we were so worried. The math just didn’t add up and, without a miracle, we wouldn’t have near enough to get home. We had sent a plea out on Facebook asking for ideas. We knew if we stopped at a hospital, they would admit her and we didn’t want to be stuck so far from home. I had been mapping all the hospitals on the route home, so we knew just how far away each one was. I was continually assessing Avery’s condition and we would have stopped if we really needed to. A friend responded to my Facebook post and had contacted a friend of hers who was a durable medical equipment CEO. He inboxed me and let me know that if we could make it to the Michigan border he could ensure we could get more oxygen. That was a huge relief.

By some miracle we made it home with that last oxygen tank. It was, certainly, the quickest trip home from Orlando EVER. We made it in just over 17 hours. I don’t know how fast Tony was driving, and I probably don’t want to, but it was such a relief to be home.

Avery was admitted to the PICU shortly after we arrived home, where she would remain for six long weeks. Once home, she took a major turn for the worst and started hemorrhaging from her lungs over and over. Nobody was quite sure what was wrong with her, but what they all agreed on was it was most likely going to kill her. Every time she would make even a slight movement, she would start bleeding again. Her CT scans and x rays looked horrible; her lungs were filled with blood. They wanted to do a lung biopsy, but she was just too unstable to take her to surgery. They were keeping her heavily sedated and giving her paralytics to prevent her from moving and slow the bleeding. Finally, she has a small window where they thought she was stable enough to perform the biopsy.

When Avery came back from surgery alive everybody breathed a sigh of relief. With the biopsy done they could now start treating her with high dose steroids. Her medical team wasn’t certain, but they were suspecting that Avery had some type of autoimmune disorder causing her lungs to bleed. If they would have treated her with steroids before the biopsy, the steroids would have skewed the result and a diagnosis would, most likely, be impossible. Four weeks later the results came in. Avery, indeed, had an autoimmune disorder called pulmonary capillaritis. This disease causes the capillaries in the lungs to rupture. Most of the time, people who have this autoimmune disorder don’t have all their capillaries in their lungs rupture all at once, but it is thought that the intense vomiting has caused so much pressure in her already damaged lungs and her body just went into overdrive.

Avery would need to be treated with three different immunosuppressive meds for several years. She was just actually weaned from her last immunosuppressive medication and deemed in “full remission” this past fall. It’s kind of ironic, we couldn’t wait for the day when Avery could finally be weaned off all her medications and deemed healthy, but now, we almost wish she could still be on one…hydroxychloroquine. The drug they are saying could, most likely, be a treatment for this horrible COVID19, that devastating the whole world, was the drug she was on the longest to treat her devastating life-threatening condition. Hmmm, irony at its finest.

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kpop-scenarios-multifandom · 5 years

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Stray Kids

medical resdidents au

Bang Chan

He's the resident who's talking to patients even on his break and gives kids sweets to cheer them up when their parents aren't around. It's been his dream to be able to help others ever since he was a little kid, so no one was surprised when he announced that he wanted to become a doctor. He enjoys taking part in patients rehabilitation process a lot and makes sure to visit every one of them and talk about their improvements before he goes home. He really enjoys learning and takes his tasks very seriously, after all he's a hardworking perfectionist! Hes good at everything he does so he finds it hard to choose his field. It also doesn't help that all of the doctors would love to have him in their teams. He knows the importance of mental health as well so he makes sure all of his patients are at ease and tries not to overwork himself, tho he usually leaves the hospital last. He goes to parties to bond with the others but usually ends up leaving after a drink. It's important for him to have good results on his exams, tho he finds the hospital work more important than he's grades so he's not interested in being top of the class.

Woojin

Woojin is that annoying resident who's just naturally good at what he's doing even tho he doesn't put in the most effort. He wanted to have an important role in society so he chose to study in the medical field. He takes working on his shift extremely seriously and will 100% tell the guys he's paired with and the other residents in his year or below him to fuck off kindly leave if they can't take their job seriously. But he's really nice with all of the patients especially with the children! He has an assistant resident with him: Mr. Bear the plushie. He wants to become a pediatric surgeon (children's surgeon)! He works wonders with the children and the parents love him. He studies a lot and answers all of the doctors' and teachers questions (aka the teachers pet) and because of his ego he also likes to be praised and chosen as the example on how to do things right. But ego aside he will drop hints at the others and teaches them how to do things properly and not make so many mistakes! (helps them because he cares like a real tsundere)

Leeknow/Minho

He barely does any of the work since there's always a coven of students, residents, and nurses who are by his side and would do anything for him because he's so "dreamy". Won the secret voting of most handsome med student consecutively since his first year. Not that he's not capable at his work or studies! He does a great job at both but pretty much only puts in effort when he wants to get things done quickly so he goes into a room alone and does his paperwork. Other times he just enjoys the attention and let's his fanclub help him. Why wouldn't he? They're making his life easier! He was planning on becoming a vet for a long time but he had a change of heart when one of his friends got into a car accident. He excels under pressure and is thinking about working as a trauma surgeon. Many people are intimidated by him and his cold city guy character but he's an actual dork once he gets comfortable with someone.

Changbin

Changbin is the resident who arrives 10 to 20 minutes late almost every morning as a result of sleeping in because he was out there living his best life partying and drinking till 5am the night before. He arrives out of breath, hungover and generally just a hot mess. It's miraculous how he's never been caught by his superiors before and has managed to get away with being a mess. Tho he's able to pull himself together very well for the short time he spends with his patients. Thanks to his outgoing lifestyle pretty much everyone knows and likes him. It's not a party without him around! Coming from a richer household he was expected to become someone important and his decision to pursue a career in the medical field was extremely supported by his family. But since he spends most of his free time partying he barely has time for studying for his exams. Tho lady luck and some cheating seems to help him get pretty good grades without much studying and he's more than satisfied with that. He hasn't put too much thought into what he wants to specialize as. He believed when the time comes something will call his name and it will feel like the perfect fit!

Hyunjin

Hyunjin is the directors kid. They didnt need to pull too many strings to get him the residency at the hospital. Because of this he's a lil shit! Pushing everyone's buttons perfectly and he's favourite target is Changbin because he's always a hot mess after all those nights out. Gets away with not doing anything ever and lowkey everyone thinks he's really dumb and only got in because of his father, until they are paired with him and realize that he actually knows everything they need to. Tho he still wouldn't do any of the teamwork and would only say anything helpful or clever when a doctor comes to complain about their lack of progress. A. Lil. Shit. Still Changbin likes to sit next to him during exams cause he's the only smart guy who doesn't cover his answers (Seungmin and Woojin do not tolerate cheating) and god knows Changbin needs all the help he can get! He's passionate about being a doctor and never even thought of any other profession for his future. He wants to follow his father's footsteps and become a transplant surgeon and maybe even the director one day.

Han/Jisung

Jisung is a transfer kid. Nobody knows much about him, his family or his past studies. He'll be at every gathering, drinking the most and being the loudest fucker, probably also going home last as well. Yet he's in the hospital right on time everyday drinking his coffee and doing paperwork like the night before that never even happened. Changbin is secretly jealous at him for being perfectly composed and professional all the time. He's not a show off tho, but always answers every question perfectly without having to think about it twice. Many doctors favor him and he was the first resident of his year who was allowed to help at an operation. He's thinking of becoming a cardiac surgeon and definitely has the talent for it! He's mysteriously good at everything but no one bothers asking too many questions because he'll most likely just joke about it and change the subject. Still most people like him since he's always the life of the party.

Seungmin

Seungmin is the guy who got into the best university and prestigious hospital because he studied his ass off. His dream is to become a well known neurosurgeon and to make his parents proud so he takes everything super seriously! While others are out there getting drunk and doing dumb stuff he's at his room memorizing symptoms and reading about special cases while getting angry at his roommate for being too loud. He is the top of his class and is determined to keep it that way. Of course he enjoys having the best grade but he genuinely enjoys reading about all kinds of diseases and how to treat them, it's his way of understanding the world better. Even the doctors are surprised at the specific things he knows sometimes. He feels like the nights out are just wasting his time and doesn't go to almost any of them. But he's not all that antisocial, he secretly loves hanging out with the others during lunch, even though he acts like they're getting on his last nerve. Because of his vast knowledge he finds something to talk about with everyone.

Felix & Jeongin

Felix and Jeongin are 2 childhood friends, both from medical families. Their parents are all also doctors and best friends so they pretty much grew up together in a hospital, and even though they always had a choice to become anything else they made a promise to each other when they were 5 and 4 that they'd work as surgeons at the same hospital just like their parents do. After highschool Felix spent a year traveling to far away relatives so he could start uni at the same time as Jeongin. Because they spent most of their youth in the hospital they already know a crazy amount more than even most residents in other years do without even having to think about them twice. Because of this they're rarely ever stressed and are always out their doing dumb stuff together and just having fun even at hospital. Thay have a relaxed and composed aura to them so the patients love them! They're also at parties a lot just enjoying themselves and chilling instead of going crazy. Felix has shown interest in becoming an orthopedic surgeon for a while, he also finds being a neurosurgeon like both of his parents (they're a power couple like that) would be too stressful. Jeongin is planning to become a general surgeon like his mother. Both have great grades but Changbin doesn't like to sit next to them as they tend to finish a good half an hour before everyone else and are out of there in a blink of an eye. They're like brothers and both of their parents see the other kid as their own. They're planning on moving in together once they finish their residency.

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