Death and other side eff.., p.10
Death and Other Side Effects, page 10
“Well, you didn’t.”
“Have you ever had one before?” he asks, clearly concerned.
“No, that was my first.”
I know the simple fact that it was my first seizure makes him feel all the more guilty, but what am I supposed to do, lie?
“Could you feel anything?” Jonah asks, hesitantly.
“Not really, I think I might have been unconscious. All I remember is us talking and then Rhonda was there. My tongue kind of hurts, though.”
“Yeah, you were biting it. I was afraid you were going to make yourself bleed if you didn’t stop.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about people actually biting their tongues off during a seizure. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The doctor did warn me that I would probably have one, or more than one—I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t bite your tongue off.”
“Me too.”
Neither one of us knows what to say after that. It’s not like we’re exactly on the best of terms. At least now I know that he doesn’t hate me. Seconds after I had the seizure, it was like I could sense how much he still cares. I can’t explain it. I could just tell that he wanted to get out of his bed more than anything, but he couldn’t. His eyes were so nervous looking and his forehead was permanently creased with worry. I hate to see him like that, but some sick part inside of me was rejoicing at the same time, because now I know that some small part of him still cares about me and maybe—just maybe, an even smaller part of him still loves me. At least I hope that’s the case because I don’t think that I will ever stop loving him.
12
“Rock N’ Roll Doctor”
—Black Sabbath
I feel like I am being held hostage. My parents along with my doctor, Dr. Scott, are in my room giving me the third degree. He looks like the cool English teacher from that chick-flick, Never Been Kissed, with his blonde hair and dimpled cheeks. It should also be noted that he’s one of those guys who doesn’t have to try to be cool, he just is, in that lazy sort of I’m not trying, I just am kind of ways. Annoying-I know…The moment that I sit up in my bed, my mother rushes to my side.
“Are you ok, sweetie? Oh my gosh, you scared me and your father half to death.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t apologize. I just—we just wanted to make sure that you’re ok.”
“I’m dandy, Mom.”
“Don’t act like that—Not now, Alexis,” it’s my father, who speaks up this time.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say, with a little more sincerity than I’m feeling at the moment.
“How are you really doing?” This time it’s Dr. Scott who is asking.
“I’m ok, I guess. I mean, I don’t know, it’s not like I could actually feel the seizure or anything...”
“In some cases, people remain mostly conscious during a seizure, but it sounds like you’re saying that you were not. Is that right?” he asks, all calm and doctorly.
“Right. I was not—conscious.”
“What does that mean, I mean, is that a bad thing, Dr. Scott?” my mother asks, clearly shaken up still.
“No, it’s not a bad thing,” Dr. Scott reassures my mother.
“Well, that’s good,” she says, taking a deep breath.
“Yes, it is,” he says.
It’s funny how they’re all standing in here talking about me, but I don’t feel like I’m actually here in the room.
“We’re going to run some tests on you today, Alexis,” Dr. Scott says, coming over to the side of my bed to get a closer look at me.
“Ok.”
“What kind of tests?” my father asks, from the corner of the room.
“I want to do another MRI. Just some routine tests, so that we can see how the tumor is progressing. Nothing major,” Dr. Scott says, making my death sentence sound so mainstream.
“Wait—does that mean that I have to go to the hospital?”
“Yes, it does,” Dr. Scott replies.
I hate hospitals. They’re so sterile and functional, which makes me think that under all of the white coats and cotton linens, there’s a seedy underbelly—just teeming with germs and the nastiest diseases that a person could ever imagine. I think the only thing that I hate more than hospitals are nursing homes and sick little kids with nasty, snotty noses. Alanis Morissette probably had me in mind when she wrote that song, because a dying girl, who’s afraid of contracting a disease, is a little too ironic.
“We’ll be with you the whole time, Alexis. Don’t worry,” my mother tries to reassure me.
“Yeah Mom, it’s fine,” because having my parents there to hold my hand the whole time will surely make everything better.
I’ll probably even forget all about those nasty little microbes crawling all over my skin, while I’m lying inside of the MRI machine. Not likely...but a girl can dream.
“So, when should we head over to the hospital?” my dad asks the doctor.
“I’m heading over there myself now so if you’d like to go right over, that should be fine,” Dr. Scott says, gathering his things so that he can leave.
“Ok, sweetie, are you ready?” Mom asks me.
“Uh—I should probably change.” I look down at my holey GBH t-shirt, with a graphic of Charlie Manson’s eyes over my breasts.
“Just grab a sweatshirt,” my dad says, clearly in a hurry.
“Alright.”
Jonah raises his hand in a half-wave to say good-bye, as I walk out the door with my parents. My mom starts talking immediately, not really about anything—I think it’s a nervous habit of hers. I nod politely and act concerned when she does, following all of the normal social cues. My dad is mostly quiet, he looks nervous too. I try to focus on keeping one foot in front of the other and if at all possible, training my mind away from all thoughts tumor-related, but that’s easier said than done. I chant a pep talk in my mind while we’re walking to my parent’s car, it’s just an MRI, you’ve done it before, you can do it again. It doesn’t help that I’m extremely claustrophobic, though.
“I know you hate these things, but it will be over before you know it,” Mom says because as much as I may try to deny it, she knows me better than most.
“Yeah, I’m trying not to think about it,” I tell her—and I am. It’s funny how the things that we don’t want to think about, are often what we spend the most time thinking about or trying not to think about.
When I get in the car, Dad turns the radio on and some bubble gum pop star sings about California and how it’s always sunny there. I swear pop music is the bane of my existence. It has the unique quality of being able to make me feel superficially happy, while the song is playing and then somewhere in the middle, I start to feel dirty inside because I find myself almost liking the beat and humming along to the words. I’m not saying that I’m some kind of visionary or revolutionist, I think it’s just a teenage right of passage to hate all things popular.
“Don’t you just love this song?” my mom asks, turning around to look at me in the backseat.
“Yeah, love it.”
It doesn’t make me want to kill myself at all...
Dad turns the radio off, “Sorry, I can’t hear myself think with this thing on.”
Me either, it was kind of nice—not thinking, though.
People are buzzing all around the street corners and coffee shops. I can almost smell the coffee roasting, even with all of the windows rolled up in the car. The aroma seeps through the ventilation system, making me want a cup. I don’t have the stomach to drink it black like my dad does, but I could go for one of those sickly sweet syrupy concoctions. I see a group of girls by a stoplight, standing there and drinking cups of what looks like mostly whipped cream and I wonder to myself if things were different, would I be one of those girls? The thought is kind of depressing, but at the same time I don’t think it would be that bad—Being normal, that is.
“Here we are,” Dad says, pulling into the hospital parking lot.
My stomach knots up and I feel like I might have to make a run for it to the bathroom. I try to calm myself down by breathing deeply. It kind of works. Mom and dad walk briskly, with their hands at their sides. I know they’re trying not to get too emotional, for my sake, but I can tell that they’re having a hard time with this—Maybe, even harder than I am.
“I’m so hungry, I think this baby is taking all my nutrients,” Mom says, only half-seriously.
Food is the last thing on my mind, but then again, I don’t have a little leech inside of me, sucking me dry.
“I’m sure they have vending machines in the hospital, dear,” Dad says, trying to appease her.
“Yeah Mom, I’m sure the baby would love a chocolate bar or some fun-onions.”
“I almost forgot about the fun-onions!” Dad exclaims.
“How could you forget about the fun-onions?” I ask, incredulously, almost forgetting that we’re in the hospital reception area until an older woman looks at me disapprovingly for being too loud.
Last year, when mom got a little tipsy at one of her bunko games, better known as drunko...She was going on and on about how all she wanted was a bag of fun-onions. She even talked Dad and me into going to the store and getting her some at ten o’clock at night. Since then, we’ve never let her live it down.
“You two are too much,” Mom says, groaning.
“Sorry sweetheart, we shouldn’t be making fun of you in your fragile state,” Dad says, sweetly to mom, while simultaneously shooting me a conspiratorial grin.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Oh, it’s fine Alexis, I know how much fun you and your father have teasing me.”
“Such a good sport,” Dad says, wrapping his arm around mom’s shoulder, as we approach the front desk.
“Alexis Gun,” I tell the middle-aged woman, who’s running the desk.
“Ok, here to see Dr. Scott, right?” she responds, with a smile.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Ok, have a seat. He’ll be right with you, hon,” the receptionist says, smiling brightly.
It’s funny how people treat you so differently when they know that you’re sick. I swear that people were never this nice to me before. I know they just feel bad for me, but it’s still weird.
“Go ahead, Mom. I sit all day long,” I say, encouraging my mom to take the only open chair.
“You sure?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alexis?” A pretty nurse asks as she comes out from the swinging double doors.
“That was fast,” Dad says.
I walk towards the nurse and she leads me and my parents down the brightly lit hall to Dr. Scott’s office.
“Hello, again,” he says, when we enter the room.
I’m taken off guard by him being in the room already. Usually, I have to wait a good half hour before he comes in.
“Hi, Dr. Scott,” my parents say, almost at the same time.
“Ok, let’s get you to the MRI room. You remember, it’s just down the hall,” he tells me.
“Yup,” I say, unenthusiastically.
When we get there, the giant white machine takes up most of the room. My stomach does a few somersaults and I have to remember to breathe in through my nostrils to calm myself down. I swear, this has to be worse than a pap smear or a colonoscopy—not that I’ve had either, but just thinking of that contraption that I had to put my face in last time, gives me the chills. I wonder if it’s too late for me to get out of this… I mean, I’m sure the tumor is still there—
“Here’s a gown for you and the radiology tech will be in shortly,” Dr. Scott says, handing me the blue cotton hospital gown that I’m all too familiar with and making his exit from the room.
“We’ll step out of the room too,” Dad says.
“Ok, thanks guys,” I mutter to my parents, trying my best to conceal my emotions.
The room seems brighter once I take my clothes off. I hate these stupid gowns. You’d think I’d be used to them by now, but I’m not. Once I’m dressed, I peek my head out the door to tell my parents that they can come back in. My mom gives me a half-smile, trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t work. We wait in the room silently for a few minutes, then two quick knocks on the other side of the door let us know that it’s time.
“Come in,” I say.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Kapoor,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.
I can’t help it, when he says his last name, I immediately start laughing—
“I know, The Office, right?” he asks, smiling back at me.
“Yeah, sorry,” I reply, trying to be as serious as I can.
“Don’t worry, you’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last,” he says, kindly.
I nod and wait for his instructions.
“Ok, take a seat up here and we’ll get started,” he says, motioning towards the machine.
Good, right down to the dirty business.
I lie down, preparing myself for what’s next.
“I’m going to have to strap you in,” Dr. Kapoor says.
“Um—Ok.”
That’s weird, I didn’t have to be strapped in last time… It must be because I had a seizure the other day. Maybe, he’s afraid that I’ll have another one while I’m in the machine.
“Sorry, it has to be a little tight,” he apologizes.
“That’s ok,” I lie.
“You remember the mask you had to wear last time?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Ok, I’m going to put that on you now,” the doctor says, calmly.
“Uh, huh.”
I squeeze my eyes shut because I hate this part. Last time I left my eyes open—big mistake. I freaked out, to say the least...
“Did Hitler invent these?” I ask Dr. Kapoor humorlessly when I feel the mask click shut, my eyes still closed tightly.
“Alexis!” I hear my mom say from the corner of the room.
The doctor just chuckles and says, “I can see why you might think that.”
“Ok, it shouldn’t take too long,” he says, as the machine gets ready to suck me in.
I hum the chorus to the first song that pops into my head, which happens to be “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” by the XRay Spex. The song isn’t quite long enough, though and I can’t remember all of the words. I start humming another song right after to keep my mind busy. The machine also hums it’s own tune and since I’ve never been a fan of electronic music, I hum louder to drown it out. I must sing the whole length of an album or at least the full duration of Bohemian Rhapsody before the machine spits me back out.
“Not so bad, right?” Dr. Kapoor asks.
“On a scale of one to ten, it was probably better than Auschwitz,” I answer, to my mother’s horror once again.
“You’re a very clever young lady, Miss Gun.”
My cheeks redden slightly because he’s kind of hot—for a doctor at least. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t complain if he invited me over to his house for some chana masala.
“Thanks,” I say while sitting there awkwardly.
“Dr. Scott will give your parents a call within the next few days to go over the results,” he says while offering me a hand so that I can get down from the table.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Ready, honey?” my dad asks before I can tack on any more sarcasm.
“Ready.”
I start walking towards the door, when my mom asks, “Are you forgetting something, Alexis?”
I look down at my chest, where my mother’s eyes were and see my blue hospital gown.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll meet you guys out there.”
“Ok, sweetie. We’ll be out in the hall waiting,” Mom says, resting her hands on her belly.
My parents are at the end of the hall looking through the glass of the vending machine when I reach them. Mom feeds the machine a dollar bill and a brightly colored yellow bag with green writing drops from the mechanical shelf and into the bottom container.
“Couldn’t resist, huh?” I ask, from over her shoulder.
“Do you want a bag too?” she asks me, smiling.
“Sure, I hear that they’re great brain-food.”
My dad laughs first, while mom is a little more hesitant. I know that the results from my MRI today are at the forefront of all of our minds, but there’s no use in dwelling on it. It’s not like any of us can change the outcome. So, I figure that I may as well make light of the fact that my tumor could possibly be the size of a grapefruit by now. After all, they say, laughter is the best medicine, right?
“Well, now that we have lunch, are you ready to get outta here?” I ask my parents, fun-onions in hand.
“That’s not lunch. I’ll take you girls somewhere special,” Dad replies.
“Oooh, sushi!” I blurt out, remembering that my favorite sushi place is just around the corner from here.
“Umm—”
“Oh yeah…sorry, Mom. I forgot that you can’t have that. We can go wherever you want.”
“Actually, sushi is fine. I know how much you love it and I can get the California roll or something vegetarian.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says, taking me by the hand.
My mother’s hand feels so fragile in my own. Her delicate skin is warm to the touch, especially against my perpetually cold skin. A pang of sadness goes through my body, as the realization hits me—I am going to miss moments like these. It all starts to feel like too much—the sadness, the guilt, it catches up with me as I’m walking hand in hand with my mom, through the hospital parking lot. I feel like a traitor. Would it really make any difference if I waited and let the tumor run it’s course? Would my parents be less sad that way? Dead is dead, right?
13
Sushi on the Brain
“What’d you do with your parents?” Jonah asks me, once I get settled into our room.
“Oh, you know, the usual—Sushi and an MRI.”
“How was it?”
“Great, I had my face locked in this Hannibal Lecter contraption for what must have been an hour. I thought I was going to die.”
