J
Jinxy
Guest
Waiting for my banana bread to bake.
Thinking about watching a movie, going a little stir crazy ... happy I bought wine.
Thinking about watching a movie, going a little stir crazy ... happy I bought wine.
Game What are you doing right now?
- Thread starter Devildog4590
- Start date
In bed having a power nap
F
FallenFreya
Guest
Making a tomato, pepper, and broccoli quiche from scratch.
They look scrumptious
Watching horse racing from Gulfstream Park,
one of the only live sporting events still going
one of the only live sporting events still going
Dare I say it, but I am premeditating a murder. I'm about to kill my heroine off.
Vincent offers me a hand to rise and leads me to the bedroom where after undressing; I climb in and get under the covers, really starting to believe it’s the flu now as my joints are starting to ache. Although I am feeling better in the morning, I am still unable to face food and settle for just a slice of dry toast to have something in my stomach after throwing up its contents last night. After phoning work, I settle down on the sofa to rest until the time to visit the medical centre arrives. Vincent drives us there and walks inside with me which I am very grateful for as I am now also feeling a bit light-headed.
“Come into my office, Dayna. I won’t ask how you are. You look pale.” Doctor Amos Cartwright beckons us inside and offers two chairs. “So, tell me what’s going on.” I explain about the champagne and feeling ill, the throwing up, the low-level headache, the not being able to face food mood and being overdue for an influenza shot then he’s thoughtful for a while. After checking my pulse and blood pressure, an examination of my eyes, ears and throat follow. “It does sound a lot like the flu. I’ll take some blood for a blood test after I give you the shot. I’ll write you a script for something settle the stomach. Do you need a certificate for work? I think you should have the rest of the week off”
“Yes, I better get one, thank you Doctor. Vincent has been away for a few days and I don’t want them thinking I took the day off just to be with him.”
“Ah, young love,” he quips as he’s updating my records and printing out a note I can hand to work. After Vincent gets his shot as well, Doctor Cartwright stands and opens the door. “Come down to the day surgery room and I’ll get a blood sample.”
Whether it was two needles in a row or something else, I don’t have time to decide but within a minute of him taking the blood sample, I have to hurriedly excuse myself and make a dash to the toilet. On my return ten minutes later, Vincent looks concerned and the doctor thoughtful. “I’m sorry about that.” I mention.
“Come on Dayna, I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.” Vincent shakes the doctor’s hand then with his arm around my waist, we head back to the car.
“The doctor said he’ll call when the results are in. You really don’t look well, Dayna.” Vincent mentions on the way out of the carpark.
“I’m not feeling very well. I feel bloated and am having cold sweats.”
“It definitely sounds like influenza to me but I’m the wrong sort of doctor to being diagnosing medical symptoms. Just get some rest and we’ll let the flu shot work its magic.”
I didn’t hear the phone ring the next morning but I find out when Vincent wakes me and tells me, the doctor wants to see me again today, as soon as we can get there. “Are you up to going to see him?”
“No, but I think I had better.” Throwing back the covers, I tenderly climb from the bed.
What’s that,” Vincent points at my side. “It looks like a bruise.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t bumped anything.” I say, twisting around to have a look before moving to the mirror for a better look. “It looks awful.”
“It looks a bit like a haematoma, from the little I know about medicine. That’s probably why the doctor wants to see you right away.”
“I don’t like it, Vincent. I’m scared.” Vincent gives me a reassuring hug then helps me to dress. I don’t even notice the drive to the medical centre, so engrossed in my thoughts am I. Like Vincent I know some about medicine but as my field is more research orienteered, I lack any sort of knowledge to diagnose. I’m thinking it might be my immune system because I do know a little more about that due to the effects of a cloned skin graft having rejection issues with the new host. Bruising around the graft usually indicated something related to the body’s immune system was rejecting the graft which in most cases, caused it to fail until we worked out how to overcome it.
“Come in, Dayna, Vincent and please have a seat.” Doctor Cartwright offers then sits down on his chair. “I have the test results back and I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than the flu.” On hearing this, I find I am squeezing Vincent’s hand a bit tighter. “I’m going to send you to the hospital. I want them to perform an excision biopsy on a lymph node.”
“What do you suspect, Doctor?” Vincent asks because he most likely feels my tension and guesses asking would be a very difficult thing for me to do right now.
“There is no easy way to say this but Dayna, the test revealed you have signs of lymphatic cancer. We need to know how advanced it is so we can plan a treatment.”
“What’s the prognosis Doctor?” Vincent asks, knowing I can’t ask for fear.
“I can’t say until I get the results of the biopsy. In the early stages, it is quite treatable but that becomes more difficult if the cancer is more advanced.” He hands Vincent an envelope. “The is a letter of admittance to the hospital. Don’t leave it too long. The procedure is usually just a local anaesthetic, takes a couple of hours but they don’t like you to leave until you can walk and you urinate, understand? They may request an MRI scan, or similar, but I’m expecting that. They’ll explain it in detail at the hospital.”
I’m three steps from the car when my legs buckle. “Dayna,” Vincent catches me. “What happened?”
“I’m scared, Vincent. I’m really scared.” I’m trembling all over and can’t stop it. “I don’t want to die.”
“Hush that foolish talk, girl.” Vincent pulls me to his chest and I cling like a drowning person clings to a saviour. “It’s alright, Dayna. I’m here for you always.”
I don’t know how I know but I know there is something very wrong inside me. It feels like a slow grasp, ever so slowly tightening. I want to cry, to scream, to demand to know where the justice in this is. Despair is threatening to overwhelm me until I remind myself, we don’t know for sure. I try to use the same thinking I use at work, discount nothing without proof. I don’t want to lose Vincent and I think of my Mother and Father. Father, I need your strength now. He’d fight this. I’ll fight this. Dammit, I will fight this. I have too much to live for. The drive to the hospital I am barely aware of, the walk into emergency and the waiting. An orderly brings a wheelchair; it’s standard hospital policy I’m told and wheels me to an elevator then delivered me to a anteroom next to a surgery. Nameless and faceless doctors come and go, some talking, some examining and all very detached from the reality of what I am facing. Do they really understand the enormity of the situation for the individual lying on the gurney? I want to scream, I am a real person. I have hopes and dreams. I have feelings. I have emotions. I have fear. They deal with mortality every day whereas someone like me is facing it for the first time. Do they really understand?
*evil gnashing of teeth followed by a sinister laugh*
Ls x
Vincent offers me a hand to rise and leads me to the bedroom where after undressing; I climb in and get under the covers, really starting to believe it’s the flu now as my joints are starting to ache. Although I am feeling better in the morning, I am still unable to face food and settle for just a slice of dry toast to have something in my stomach after throwing up its contents last night. After phoning work, I settle down on the sofa to rest until the time to visit the medical centre arrives. Vincent drives us there and walks inside with me which I am very grateful for as I am now also feeling a bit light-headed.
“Come into my office, Dayna. I won’t ask how you are. You look pale.” Doctor Amos Cartwright beckons us inside and offers two chairs. “So, tell me what’s going on.” I explain about the champagne and feeling ill, the throwing up, the low-level headache, the not being able to face food mood and being overdue for an influenza shot then he’s thoughtful for a while. After checking my pulse and blood pressure, an examination of my eyes, ears and throat follow. “It does sound a lot like the flu. I’ll take some blood for a blood test after I give you the shot. I’ll write you a script for something settle the stomach. Do you need a certificate for work? I think you should have the rest of the week off”
“Yes, I better get one, thank you Doctor. Vincent has been away for a few days and I don’t want them thinking I took the day off just to be with him.”
“Ah, young love,” he quips as he’s updating my records and printing out a note I can hand to work. After Vincent gets his shot as well, Doctor Cartwright stands and opens the door. “Come down to the day surgery room and I’ll get a blood sample.”
Whether it was two needles in a row or something else, I don’t have time to decide but within a minute of him taking the blood sample, I have to hurriedly excuse myself and make a dash to the toilet. On my return ten minutes later, Vincent looks concerned and the doctor thoughtful. “I’m sorry about that.” I mention.
“Come on Dayna, I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.” Vincent shakes the doctor’s hand then with his arm around my waist, we head back to the car.
“The doctor said he’ll call when the results are in. You really don’t look well, Dayna.” Vincent mentions on the way out of the carpark.
“I’m not feeling very well. I feel bloated and am having cold sweats.”
“It definitely sounds like influenza to me but I’m the wrong sort of doctor to being diagnosing medical symptoms. Just get some rest and we’ll let the flu shot work its magic.”
I didn’t hear the phone ring the next morning but I find out when Vincent wakes me and tells me, the doctor wants to see me again today, as soon as we can get there. “Are you up to going to see him?”
“No, but I think I had better.” Throwing back the covers, I tenderly climb from the bed.
What’s that,” Vincent points at my side. “It looks like a bruise.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t bumped anything.” I say, twisting around to have a look before moving to the mirror for a better look. “It looks awful.”
“It looks a bit like a haematoma, from the little I know about medicine. That’s probably why the doctor wants to see you right away.”
“I don’t like it, Vincent. I’m scared.” Vincent gives me a reassuring hug then helps me to dress. I don’t even notice the drive to the medical centre, so engrossed in my thoughts am I. Like Vincent I know some about medicine but as my field is more research orienteered, I lack any sort of knowledge to diagnose. I’m thinking it might be my immune system because I do know a little more about that due to the effects of a cloned skin graft having rejection issues with the new host. Bruising around the graft usually indicated something related to the body’s immune system was rejecting the graft which in most cases, caused it to fail until we worked out how to overcome it.
“Come in, Dayna, Vincent and please have a seat.” Doctor Cartwright offers then sits down on his chair. “I have the test results back and I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than the flu.” On hearing this, I find I am squeezing Vincent’s hand a bit tighter. “I’m going to send you to the hospital. I want them to perform an excision biopsy on a lymph node.”
“What do you suspect, Doctor?” Vincent asks because he most likely feels my tension and guesses asking would be a very difficult thing for me to do right now.
“There is no easy way to say this but Dayna, the test revealed you have signs of lymphatic cancer. We need to know how advanced it is so we can plan a treatment.”
“What’s the prognosis Doctor?” Vincent asks, knowing I can’t ask for fear.
“I can’t say until I get the results of the biopsy. In the early stages, it is quite treatable but that becomes more difficult if the cancer is more advanced.” He hands Vincent an envelope. “The is a letter of admittance to the hospital. Don’t leave it too long. The procedure is usually just a local anaesthetic, takes a couple of hours but they don’t like you to leave until you can walk and you urinate, understand? They may request an MRI scan, or similar, but I’m expecting that. They’ll explain it in detail at the hospital.”
I’m three steps from the car when my legs buckle. “Dayna,” Vincent catches me. “What happened?”
“I’m scared, Vincent. I’m really scared.” I’m trembling all over and can’t stop it. “I don’t want to die.”
“Hush that foolish talk, girl.” Vincent pulls me to his chest and I cling like a drowning person clings to a saviour. “It’s alright, Dayna. I’m here for you always.”
I don’t know how I know but I know there is something very wrong inside me. It feels like a slow grasp, ever so slowly tightening. I want to cry, to scream, to demand to know where the justice in this is. Despair is threatening to overwhelm me until I remind myself, we don’t know for sure. I try to use the same thinking I use at work, discount nothing without proof. I don’t want to lose Vincent and I think of my Mother and Father. Father, I need your strength now. He’d fight this. I’ll fight this. Dammit, I will fight this. I have too much to live for. The drive to the hospital I am barely aware of, the walk into emergency and the waiting. An orderly brings a wheelchair; it’s standard hospital policy I’m told and wheels me to an elevator then delivered me to a anteroom next to a surgery. Nameless and faceless doctors come and go, some talking, some examining and all very detached from the reality of what I am facing. Do they really understand the enormity of the situation for the individual lying on the gurney? I want to scream, I am a real person. I have hopes and dreams. I have feelings. I have emotions. I have fear. They deal with mortality every day whereas someone like me is facing it for the first time. Do they really understand?
*evil gnashing of teeth followed by a sinister laugh*
Ls x
Making progress.
Two hours later, I’m in a recovery ward sporting an incision near my left armpit and starting to feel the discomfort as the anesthetic wears off. Vincent is at my side, holding my hand and smiling softly every time I make eye-contact with him. Every ten or so minutes, a nurse comes in to check on me, pulse and blood pressure and then taking my temperature before updating my chart and breezing out as quickly as she arrived. I begin wondering how this will proceed from here. Doctor Cartwright said, once the biopsy was done and the surgeons were happy I had recovered sufficiently, I was to be allowed to go home. They also mentioned planning a treatment program and does this program mean I will have to come here on a regular basis? How often is regular? I start to wonder. The strain and the stress must have tired me out because when I am next aware, I have been moved to a regular ward. Looking around as much as I can, the first thing I see is Vincent asleep in a chair beside my bed, chin resting on his chest, arms folded and looking quite at peace in his slumber. It’s not until he opens his eyes sometime later, I see they are blood-shot and puffy. Has he been crying? Why would he cry? I know why and my tears start as soon as I realise he is the bearer of bad news.
“Hello gorgeous,” he greets me but I can sense the strain in his voice. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel terrible,” I reply but it takes me a minute to force myself to ask my question. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“We have to stay positive, Dayna.” The smile is forced and the courage in his tone shaky.
That’s the answer I didn’t want to hear. “I’m trying, darling.” He takes my hand and offers a reassuring squeeze and his silence gives me time to compose my thoughts. “I don’t want to ask because I don’t think I have the fortitude to face the answer.” He can’t help what happens next and he starts crying. I can see his struggle and his pain and that answers my unspoken question. “Oh Vincent,” I begin but then I’m crying too, a sorrow so deep and soul-destroying that it crushes every hope and dream I have ever held. How long this lasts, I have no idea but it does eventually stop and clarity of thought begins to return. “You’ll have to tell my parents, Vincent. They have to know.”
“I will, Dayna. I promise, I’ll go see them after I leave here.”
Long into the night, he just sits there, un-moving, not speaking, just holding my hand and squeezing a little every time I look at him. He’s feeling like me. There are no words yet. I hate being the reason for his pain. I love him and never want to hurt him but I am hurting him and there is nothing I can do to take away his anguish. Empty inside is the best way I can describe what I feel. Thinking has always been a pleasure but that ended when I realised thinking just makes me want to cry even more. Sleep offers some relief and I drift in and out of sleep until I realise, it’s now dawn. Wards-people come and go, cleaners emptying bins and collecting linen and gowns to be washed and reused, another pushing a trolley bearing trays to serve patients their breakfast but apparently, I am not included and the woman breezes past without so much as glance at me. Not that I can stand the thought of eating but it would have been nice to be offered. People eat to live and it is mostly likely that don’t wish to waste the food on someone who won’t. I know I am being morbid but until anyone has lain on a hospital bed, knowing it will in all likelihood be the last bed they ever sleep in, they cannot understand.
Being as objective as I am able to under these circumstances, I realise I am coming to terms with this. It does not mean I am accepting it or even that I have stopped fearing the outcome, far from it. I’m terrified because it’s a normal human reaction to fear the unknown and of what lies at the end of life’s journey, no one knows. There is no answer for life’s eternal mystery. Glancing to my left, the IV stand has two bags, I can read the label on the nearer one, it’s a saline solution but it obscures the descriptor on the bag behind it. Following the tubes with my eyes, the saline leads to a catheter in my left arm and the other one feeds into a junction in the tubes a few inches from my arm. Behind that, a machine is maintaining a vigil on my vital signs and next to that is one that looks like an IV stand but with a green box on the top but the display shows it’s not in operation at present. Behind that, a large display screen occupies a space on the wall surrounded by electrical sockets, various taps for oxygen and the other gasses used, data-sockets, USB ports and switches for the room lights as well as the examination lights. For people with hope, this would be very reassuring but in my case, it’s depressing. Vincent’s eyes slowly open and he looks straight at me.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” The dark circles under his eyes almost making him look sinister.
“My handsome man, how wonderful you are.” I reply, playing along with the false bon-homme.
“They are kicking me out soon, Dayna. You are off to get a guided tour of the hospital and get a few tests done along the way.” He takes my hand reassuringly and kisses it. “I will be back though. You will have to get used to me being here I’m afraid.”
“I love you, Vincent Thorn” I begin then after a few moments of trying to think what I want to say, I try to get the words out. “I want - I want you to know that. I’ve always loved you - I always will.”
It happens simultaneously, his eyes water-up and he speaks. “You beat me to saying exactly the same thing, Dayna Milton. I better get out and let these people do what these people have to do.” He stands up, leans over and kisses me and the kiss is a replica of our first kiss, so, so long ago but I remember. A girl never forgets things like that.
End:
On silent feet it comes, reaching to take, grasping, relentless and the sole thought possessed, I am coming for you.
The old imagination is getting a work-out today. This is damn hard to write.
Ls x
Two hours later, I’m in a recovery ward sporting an incision near my left armpit and starting to feel the discomfort as the anesthetic wears off. Vincent is at my side, holding my hand and smiling softly every time I make eye-contact with him. Every ten or so minutes, a nurse comes in to check on me, pulse and blood pressure and then taking my temperature before updating my chart and breezing out as quickly as she arrived. I begin wondering how this will proceed from here. Doctor Cartwright said, once the biopsy was done and the surgeons were happy I had recovered sufficiently, I was to be allowed to go home. They also mentioned planning a treatment program and does this program mean I will have to come here on a regular basis? How often is regular? I start to wonder. The strain and the stress must have tired me out because when I am next aware, I have been moved to a regular ward. Looking around as much as I can, the first thing I see is Vincent asleep in a chair beside my bed, chin resting on his chest, arms folded and looking quite at peace in his slumber. It’s not until he opens his eyes sometime later, I see they are blood-shot and puffy. Has he been crying? Why would he cry? I know why and my tears start as soon as I realise he is the bearer of bad news.
“Hello gorgeous,” he greets me but I can sense the strain in his voice. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel terrible,” I reply but it takes me a minute to force myself to ask my question. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“We have to stay positive, Dayna.” The smile is forced and the courage in his tone shaky.
That’s the answer I didn’t want to hear. “I’m trying, darling.” He takes my hand and offers a reassuring squeeze and his silence gives me time to compose my thoughts. “I don’t want to ask because I don’t think I have the fortitude to face the answer.” He can’t help what happens next and he starts crying. I can see his struggle and his pain and that answers my unspoken question. “Oh Vincent,” I begin but then I’m crying too, a sorrow so deep and soul-destroying that it crushes every hope and dream I have ever held. How long this lasts, I have no idea but it does eventually stop and clarity of thought begins to return. “You’ll have to tell my parents, Vincent. They have to know.”
“I will, Dayna. I promise, I’ll go see them after I leave here.”
Long into the night, he just sits there, un-moving, not speaking, just holding my hand and squeezing a little every time I look at him. He’s feeling like me. There are no words yet. I hate being the reason for his pain. I love him and never want to hurt him but I am hurting him and there is nothing I can do to take away his anguish. Empty inside is the best way I can describe what I feel. Thinking has always been a pleasure but that ended when I realised thinking just makes me want to cry even more. Sleep offers some relief and I drift in and out of sleep until I realise, it’s now dawn. Wards-people come and go, cleaners emptying bins and collecting linen and gowns to be washed and reused, another pushing a trolley bearing trays to serve patients their breakfast but apparently, I am not included and the woman breezes past without so much as glance at me. Not that I can stand the thought of eating but it would have been nice to be offered. People eat to live and it is mostly likely that don’t wish to waste the food on someone who won’t. I know I am being morbid but until anyone has lain on a hospital bed, knowing it will in all likelihood be the last bed they ever sleep in, they cannot understand.
Being as objective as I am able to under these circumstances, I realise I am coming to terms with this. It does not mean I am accepting it or even that I have stopped fearing the outcome, far from it. I’m terrified because it’s a normal human reaction to fear the unknown and of what lies at the end of life’s journey, no one knows. There is no answer for life’s eternal mystery. Glancing to my left, the IV stand has two bags, I can read the label on the nearer one, it’s a saline solution but it obscures the descriptor on the bag behind it. Following the tubes with my eyes, the saline leads to a catheter in my left arm and the other one feeds into a junction in the tubes a few inches from my arm. Behind that, a machine is maintaining a vigil on my vital signs and next to that is one that looks like an IV stand but with a green box on the top but the display shows it’s not in operation at present. Behind that, a large display screen occupies a space on the wall surrounded by electrical sockets, various taps for oxygen and the other gasses used, data-sockets, USB ports and switches for the room lights as well as the examination lights. For people with hope, this would be very reassuring but in my case, it’s depressing. Vincent’s eyes slowly open and he looks straight at me.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” The dark circles under his eyes almost making him look sinister.
“My handsome man, how wonderful you are.” I reply, playing along with the false bon-homme.
“They are kicking me out soon, Dayna. You are off to get a guided tour of the hospital and get a few tests done along the way.” He takes my hand reassuringly and kisses it. “I will be back though. You will have to get used to me being here I’m afraid.”
“I love you, Vincent Thorn” I begin then after a few moments of trying to think what I want to say, I try to get the words out. “I want - I want you to know that. I’ve always loved you - I always will.”
It happens simultaneously, his eyes water-up and he speaks. “You beat me to saying exactly the same thing, Dayna Milton. I better get out and let these people do what these people have to do.” He stands up, leans over and kisses me and the kiss is a replica of our first kiss, so, so long ago but I remember. A girl never forgets things like that.
End:
On silent feet it comes, reaching to take, grasping, relentless and the sole thought possessed, I am coming for you.
The old imagination is getting a work-out today. This is damn hard to write.
Ls x
L
LillyK
Guest
L
LilithX
Guest
Bubble bath and a glass of red
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