If I Had One More Day

A strong, firm voice drifts through the air. He tells me how I should move forward, what I should do, or whatever he is saying right now. His words don't process when all I can focus on is the binder in front of me; Its thick, obnoxious red plastic sinks into my thighs.

“Miss Belle,” I hear, but I can't tear my eyes away from this agonizing red. The letters printed at the front of the binder scramble together, forming an almost unreadable blob of ink. That is until I close my eyes, letting the tears trickle onto my cheeks.  How to deal with stage IV brain cancer, the binder reads. “Miss, Belle?” the voice now harsh, impatient. 

“Yes, sorry,” I mumble.

“I understand that you may have a hard time processing,” his articulation of words, monotone, as if he is reading a book that he has no interest in out loud, “but we do need to set up appointments for your future visits. It is imperative that you schedule them as fast as you can because these are chemotherapy visits. If you choose not to take chemo, please know that there is a strong chance you will have less than two days to live. The nurse will come in shortly.”

He leaves the room, and immediately I am left in solitude. The thick dome, in which I have encompassed my emotions, breaks. My chest implodes, heaving up and down, gasping for air. I almost can't breathe; this room is enveloped in the aroma of rubbing alcohol, and it clogs my airways. Flimsy strands of hair stick to my tear-stricken face.

I can’t face a nurse right now. 

Grabbing my keys, purse, and binder, I am guided by my legs to the exit of the hospital. They drag me to my car and leave me stranded at the wheel. 

I recollect myself, taking a deep breath and looking around. Down the street is a group of girls, laughing and dancing. In front of me- on the steps of the hospital- is a child crying in his mother's arms. To the left is an old couple sitting together, and to the right is a young couple sitting together. Everyone around me is enjoying the company of someone else. Whether they're receiving the best news of their life or the worst, they have someone by their side. I sit in my car, isolated from my friends and family, wasting my final days away. I can feel my own extinction creeping up on me, and for the first time in my life, I am left completely and utterly alone. 

I drive home, knowing there will be no one waiting for me there. As I reach my apartment, I realize that I don’t know what I am going to do next. My legs have abandoned me, and my body has left me to decay. I’ve wasted what little time I’ve had on this Earth; once I let go, no one will remember who I am. 

The side of my apartment building is cluttered with windows; each of the same size and a suitable balcony. The balconies have small bits of life on them, wet clothes drying on a clothesline, tables, chairs, and easels, but looking at mine, there's nothing. My balcony sits empty in a vast sea of cluttered islands. It's abandoned, scarce of human life, and maybe I am, too. 

I find myself unable to leave my car, so I keep driving. I drive somewhere that truly encompasses my character, somewhere where I am not confined into rooms that have poor air conditioning and noisy neighbors. Somewhere that I can truly feel welcome.

It looks overwhelming at first. It seems boundless, immeasurable, but when I let the sights soak in, every overpowering thought in my head turns into a feeling that can best be described as tranquil. It's secluded, away from the happy families who barbeque or have gatherings with their children. Hidden within a thorny path lies my own special spot. The gentle wind caresses my back, asking me to drift off with it. The large rock I am sitting on is rough, but inviting. Its familiar ridges and cracks is what makes me call it home. When I notice the blurry boundary between the immense body of water and the land, which is splattered in trees, it's almost like I let go of everything I've been holding onto. 

Although, I seem to suck it back in when I look down at what rests on the top of my thighs. The flaming red plastic cover is revolting, and I almost throw it into the lake, but I don't want to infect the pristine water. I know that if I throw the binder in there, the red would bleed, turning the calming reservoir into a bloody scene.

“It's a steep drop,” a voice calls out behind me. 

“Oh, sorry,” I croak, wiping the tears that form on my face, “that isn't what I was trying to do.” I see why he thinks that. Here I am, dangling my feet off of the edge of a rock. Looking down, I realize that this rock is more of a cliff. I am almost 50 feet above the water, and my drop would conclude small rocks to land on. He sits next to me, and notices the binder. The tabs of each section stick out, terminal effects of chemo, how to have a healthy diet, dealing with mental health, the list goes on. 

“I survived my treatment,” he remarks, not looking at me. He keeps his eyes on the peak of the horizon, and I keep mine glued onto the binder. “ How long have you done chemo?” he asks me. I turn to look at him, not uttering a single word. His blue eyes are still stuck on what's in front of him. The slight bump on his nose distracts from the wild, untamed hair that curls at the nape of his neck, and I find myself wondering how long it took him to grow it out. He seems to be waiting for what I have to say. My lack of an answer gives him one.

He turns to look at me.

“Milo,” he says, taking the binder off of my lap. A cool wind blows over my thighs and a wave of relief splashes through me. 

“Delilah,” my voice is barely above a whisper. 

“It's worth it,” he tries to assure me, “chemo, I mean.”

I nod, knowing that even with chemotherapy, I will most likely meet my demise within a week. I can't sit in a hospital, sick and unable to function, until I die. I just can't. I promised myself I would live my life, and so far, I've lived like someone who has already died.

I’ve said nothing to Milo since he's talked. I don't want to. He won't understand. He won't understand that he got lucky, that he probably had a family to support him through therapy. I didn't get that lucky; I’m stuck with myself, and this is the least I could do for her, so I will stay quiet until he leaves. 

“This binder helps with nothing,” he confesses, “Talking with others helps so much more, especially when they have already gone through it." He waits for my answer, but I have none. He survived cancer, and I won't. There is nothing I can say to him. 

Standing up, Milo walks back to where he previously planned on going, taking the binder with him. Suddenly I am alone again, and the excruciating feeling of solitude comes back. I thought I wanted to be alone, but I can't. I can't face this by myself. 

“I have one week,” I say. He turns around, “that is if I take chemo.”

“And if you don't…” he is almost afraid to ask the question.

“I have less than two days,” I reply. He sits back down next to me.

“How are you spending it?” he inquires. This is the first time I look directly at him. His sunken eyes and frown lines show years of his battle with cancer.

“Like this,” I confirm. 

“This is how you want to spend your possible last day?” he coaxes me.

“I've never been the adventurous type,” I continue.

“But if you had one more day,” he questions me

“If I had one more day to do anything?” I start

“Anything,” he shakes his head.

“I would spend it with my mom,” I confess. 

His eyebrows draw together, “why aren't you with her right now?”

“I guess I am” I say, and he is even more confused. “She passed away about seven years ago.” He doesn't say anything, so I keep talking. “She died of leukemia when I was 16. I miss her every day” I haven't talked about my mother since she died, and I don't think I can stop. “She wanted to be buried here, at that spot,” I point outwards near a group of trees that are already starting to turn a crimson-orange, even though summer doesn't seem over yet. Her favorite color was always orange. 

Milo nods, accepting that I want to be alone, but he doesn't walk away. He stays here, in silence, keeping me company. 

“Thank you,” I say, “really, I couldn’t have done this alone.”

I sit in this spot, letting the wind move through my body, and I realize that I left a mark. A small one at that, but one that will be remembered.