"I don't want the chemo."
"But, Mr. Ramsey,-"
"It won't increase my chances of surviving, right?" I interrupt, growing more frustrated by the second.
His eyes dart away from mine, as if he dreads voicing the answer. If I was in his, or any other doctor's, position, I would dread it too. I wouldn't be able to tell someone that he's dying, that he has not even a year left to live. I wouldn't be able to tell someone that he has an inoperable brain tumor that even chemo won't treat.
"Look," I sigh. "You told me yourself that my tumor is inoperable. Why would I bother suffering through chemo, and all of the side effects that come with it, if I'm just going to die anyways? Would you do it?"
He swallows, as if stalling for time. I don't blame him. I've basically forced him to think about what he would do if he were in my position, the position of of a dying man.
"No," he reluctantly squeaks.
I nod, turning my head to gaze outside the large hospital window. The sun glistens off of the many cars. People come and go, some looking more hopeful than others, and some looking more sicker than others. A nurse scrambles to remove the IV drip from my vein.
"Have you told your family yet?" My doctor asks.
I run a hand down my face.
"No," I admit as the nurse begins to bandage the barely bleeding wound.
"And why not?" He wonders with an arched eyebrow.
"Because, as you already know, I have nobody but my younger sister. She'll fret over me more than necessary. She doesn't need anymore extra stress and heartache in her life. She's already dealing with her own shit; she doesn't need me to add to it."
"Wouldn't your death cause her more extra stress and heartache?" He retorts.
"What are you now, a psychologist or something?" I snap, flexing my newly bandaged wrist.
"I just want you to be aware of the consequences that your actions will be causing."
I roll my eyes.
"With all of the death that has impacted my life, I'm pretty sure I'm well aware of actions and consequences as well as cause and effect," I curtly tell him, rising to my feet.
As if noticing that I'm ready to leave, he asks another question.
"What is your sister dealing with?"
"Nothing," I lie.
It's her story, her secrets, to tell, not mine. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
"Are we done here?" I inquire in a harsh tone, pissed at him for prying into my family's secrets and personal lives.
He runs his tongue over his teeth before nodding. I speed walk through the hallways. The cancer wing is depressing, and I loathe it deeply. Death seems to always be thick in the air in the wing, creating nothing but a morbid wave that seems to drown each and every patient that enters along with their families. I breath a sigh of relief when I catch the sight of the elevators. I hastily press the down arrow, lightly tapping my foot as I wait for the doors to open. When they finally do, my heart shatters at the sight of a young girl with thin, blonde curls and blue eyes. She's hooked up to a rolling IV drip and has a blue air purifying mask covering the lower portion of her face. I offer her a smile. I can tell she returns it by the way her pale skin at the corners of her eyes crinkle and her blue orbs light up. She waves at me as I enter the elevator and she exits. I wave at her, still smiling. As the doors close, I let my smile slowly fall. It's refreshing to see a happy patient. Doctors are always saying that hope and optimism are the keys to survival. What about patients like me? I don't know about other patients with inoperable brain tumors, but I find it extremely difficult to stay positive and happy when I know that I'm going to die, and there's no way to avoid it. A ding sound is heard as the elevator doors open. When I exit the hospital, I inhale a deep breath as if trying to cleanse myself of the smell of death and antiseptic. I jog across the parking lot to my car. Patting my pockets in search of my keys, I panic slightly when I don't find them. I check my pockets several times, eventually flipping them inside out. I search the asphalt around me, checking to see if they might've fallen out. I groan when I realize that I probably left them in the hospital room. Not in the mood to go back in there, I search my pockets and the ground again. As a last resort, I cup my eyes and peer into the car window.
"Yes!" I exclaim when I see my keys hanging from the ignition.
I then curse myself for being so stupid. I easily open the driver side door, thanking God that the door wasn't locked. As I turn the key and my car roars, I wonder how I could've been so stupid and forgetful. I would've been seriously screwed if somebody had stolen my car or if the doors had been locked. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I drive through the maze that is the hospital parking lot, barely managing to resist the urge to scream at a driver who runs one of the stop signs.
I thankfully manage to make it home before my sister's bus arrives. I enter our house and toss my keys upon the dining room table. I turn on the television, not caring enough to glance at what appears on the screen. Instead, I throw the remote onto the couch and enter the kitchen. I search the cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer in search of something for my sister, Kelsie, to eat. I remove a bag of pizza rolls from the freezer, dump six onto a saucer, and close the saucer up in the microwave, following the instructions on the package. As the pizza rolls cook, I return the bag to the freezer and enter my living room. I glance at the television screen, groaning when I notice Dr. Phil's balding head. I cringe when a video plays of his guest, a bulimic mother. I can't help but think of Kelsie. A flash of yellow through the window catches my eye.
"Shit," I curse, fumbling with the remote to quickly change the channel.
"Banner!" Kelsie yells.
"Kels, we live in a one story house; therefore, there's no need to scream."
"Sorry," She chuckles. "What's that smell?" She wonders with a scrunched up nose.
She chucks her backpack onto the couch, only to have it bounce up and fall onto the floor.
"Pizza rolls," I reply, entering our kitchen and removing the plate from the microwave.
I set it on the table, watching as my sister frowns at it with slightly frightened eyes.
"Please eat," I beg.
"You know I can't, Banner," She quietly states.
"Why not?"
"I just can't!" She yells.
"You have to try, baby-girl. Mom and dad wouldn't have wanted you to live like this," I continue to plead, desperation evident in my tone.
"Leave mom and dad out of this, Banner! They have nothing to do with this!"
"Really?" I snort. "You were fine until they died, Kelsie."
"No I wasn't. I was occasionally skipping meals and restricting my calorie intake. I got worse after they,"-she gulps, unable to voice her thought-",but I was never fine," She concludes, her voice shaking from anger and tears that have yet to fall.
I move forward to hug her, but she takes a step back.
"I'll be in my room," She whispers before turning on her heel.
I flinch as her bedroom door slams. With a sigh, I pop one pizza roll into my mouth and set the plate in the fridge. I take a seat on the couch, staring blankly at the muted television. I feel like such a failure whenever Kelsie and I fight over her eating habits. I know her eating habits aren't normal. I know, although neither of us want to admit it, that she has an eating disorder. I know that she used to self-harm. She told me that she stopped self-harming, but I honestly can't say that I believe her. Suddenly, I hear music start to play. Kelsie loves music and is always blaring it. To be honest, it really doesn't bother me. Her taste in music isn't horrible; therefore, I can tolerate it. She's obsessed with a singer by the name of Demi Lovato. Kelsie claims to be a 'Lovatic', whatever that means. I only know of Demi Lovato from what Kels has told me. Kelsie calls her an inspiration because Demi suffered from self-harming, depression, eating disorders, and also is bi-polar. I don't know if or why that classifies her as an inspiration, but who am I to judge? I find myself humming along to the lyrics, listening as my sister's vocals harmonize with that of her idol's.
Five songs later, I hear an ear piercing scream followed by quick, pounding footsteps.
"Kels, if we had stairs in this house, you'd surly fall down them," I joke, chuckling at her breathlessness and crazed expression.
"Demi Lovato just announced her tour dates earlier today!" She squeals.
I try my hardest not to smirk. I already know this. I've been waiting awhile now for Demi Lovato to announce another tour. Kelsie was so disappointed that we couldn't afford to attend Demi's last tour. I couldn't pay for the concert tickets because of my parents' funeral expenses. That was when Kelsie's eating disorder and self-harming intensified. I purchased two tickets and a VIP package with hopes of giving them to her on Christmas morning.
"Really? Is Demi taking enough time off of her busy schedule to visit our city?" I tease.
"Shut up, Banner! I'm being serious," She whines.
"So am I."
"You're so annoying," She groans before stomping back to her room.
I chuckle at her dramatics, feeling only slightly guilty. She'll forgive me on Christmas, I'm sure. The music resumes seconds later, and I actually recognize the song, Nightingale. It's a beautiful song that causes both my heart and Kelsie's to ache in longing for our parents. Letting my cheery facade drop for a little while, I quietly sing the lyrics as salty tears slide down my cheeks, splattering onto my grey tee-shirt.
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