Patient - Part 1

The locker banged closed and she winced, taking a shallow breath.  Her head hurt worse today, a dull throbbing that reverberated in her skull like the ring of a pick striking stone in a vast cave.  The roar of conversation in the hall around her didn't help matters either.

She turned and made her way toward her next class as fast as she could to escape the deafening noise, holding her notebooks and textbooks clutched to her chest.  Breathing a sigh of relief once the door closed behind her, she chose a seat in the far back, where she could listen but not be distracted and – more importantly – not have to speak.

Not that speaking wasn't a good thing in terms of grades… it was just that speaking meant eyes on her – it meant more stress and more effort.  And she just didn't have the energy for it today.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the uncharacteristic thoughts plaguing her mind, and realized she had made a mistake.  With a soft, involuntary moan, she caught her head in her hands, elbows on the desk, as a strong wave of dizziness made her head spin even faster.

The dizziness was finally beginning to pass when the teacher called the class to order.  She looked up with tired eyes and read the words on the whiteboard: "test Friday on chapters 5 through 10."  The rest of the class was groaning in dismay, but the girl didn't react.  She knew she was ready.  After all, she was known for having good grades, often getting asked for lessons or tutoring in various subjects.  Surprisingly (at least, to anyone who didn't know her), her favorite class was choir.  People always assume that just because you're skilled at something – like school work – it means that you must love it or at least really like it; otherwise, what motivation is there to get better at it?

Very few understood her.  Very few cared enough to try.  And only one had tried and succeeded: her best friend.

"Hey are you ok?" She looked up at the speaker and forced a tight smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks."  The boy that had plopped down in the seat next to her was skinny and short – almost as short she.  As far as she knew, she was the shortest girl in the whole tenth grade, and maybe in the whole high school.  She was only five feet, one inch tall, and he only passed her up by two inches.

Still, what he might have lacked in size, he made up in character.  She didn't know anyone who could make her laugh more than he did.  He was interesting and funny and kind and gentlemanly.

"Yeah, I can tell," he whispered sarcastically, his voice low so as not to attract the lecturing teacher's attention.  "You have a headache, don't you?"

"Yeah," she admitted reluctantly.  "It's ok though, I'll be fine."

He rolled his eyes.  "You know, that's what you said last time.  And then you had to leave school early and were home sick for the next two days.  Have you taken anything for it yet?"

She shook her head.  "I haven't had the chance."  Even before she had finished speaking, he had begun rummaging through his electric-blue backpack and pulled out a mini bottle of Advil.  He shook out two pills and placed them in her clammy hand, searching her face as he did so.

"Thanks," she mumbled, dropping the pretense that she wasn't in a lot of pain.  She pulled out her water bottle and downed the pills in a few gulps.  She was feeling better by the end of the class period, the throbbing having lessened from a pounding roar to an annoying buzz.

Migraines had plagued her for her entire life, ever since the first one she'd had when she was six years old.  She'd never been a strong child, and was rarely able to participate in the play and sports of the other children in elementary school.  When she had gotten to middle and high school, she hadn't been strong or well enough to do any of the team sports.

Despite lacking the same levels of energy as the other kids, though, she was actually a fun-loving girl, not just the genius she was reputed to be at school and in her classes.  Everyone liked her.

And though the headaches had lessened over the years, both in intensity as well as frequency, they had plagued her four times in the last two weeks.  It was annoying, to say the least.  She felt handicapped and way under her normal performance level when she had one.  She was thoroughly sick of them.  Ironic, she thought, darkly amused.  Sick of being sick.

The bus ride home made the pain worse.  Noise, apparently, was an unavoidable trigger.  She sighed and put in her ear buds, not turning on the music, just letting them plug her ears and drown out some of the volume.

The routine was always the same when she got home: free time to do what she wanted, dinner, homework, bed.  She always went to bed at 10:30 on the days she had a headache.  It was rare that she could recover in only one night though; her next day at school would be hard.

There was a pattern starting.  She could feel when a migraine was coming on, and knew it was building to something, as surely as a covering of clouds makes you feel the heaviness in the air before a storm.  She didn't know how she knew; in fact, the "knowing" wasn't even really conscious.  But the thought was just conscious enough that it affected her mood – it had become a bit more subdued, quieter, a little more withdrawn than in the time before those few recent weeks.

As the weeks in the semester progressed, the headaches got worse: worse and more frequent.  She began to fear the day, lying in bed every morning as her alarm rang and rang and rang, having to talk herself into sitting up.  It took her longer and longer to get up the courage and actually commit to go to school.  Every new day brought the possibility of another migraine – more pain, more suffering, more hardship.

Amazingly though, as fast as her condition had deteriorated, she had yet to tell her parents of the growing problem.  Both her mother and father worked long hours, leaving in the morning at the same time she caught her bus, and coming home just in time for dinner.  She only saw them at breakfast and dinner, her time after the evening meal occupied by diligently doing her homework until bed, and theirs spent hypnotized behind their state-of-the-art laptop screens.

She hadn't found "the right moment" to tell them.  It wasn't as if they ignored her all the time… nor did she feel like they did.  Their busy lives simply didn't cross much, so when they finally did spend time together every day, she couldn't bring herself to spoil the cheer.

It got to the point where she was having migraines every two or three days.  The near constant onslaught of pain made her face grow steadily paler, her eyes weary, her step slower, her smile weaker.  Eventually she couldn't maintain her grades, and they began to fall: slowly, very slowly, but falling nevertheless.

By the time Christmas break came around, the chance to rest came not a moment too soon.  When she got home from the last day of school in December, she fainted in the hallway just outside her room.  Lights flashed before her eyes as vertigo gripped her, and she lost her balance, falling to the floor.  She was out before her head hit the floor.  It was hours before her parents came home, but by that time she had woken up and crawled to her bed.

She didn't come to dinner, and finally the secret-that-was-not-a-secret came out.  It was a mystery to anyone how her parents hadn't noticed her deterioration in health before she finally collapsed.

***
Logan's running footsteps sounded loud in the empty hallway.  He passed several nurses, each of them frowning and shouting "slow down and walk!" after him, but he ignored them.  Room 317, room 317, room 317, he chanted to himself as his eyes flicked from room number to room number as he flashed past them.  He was going so fast that he went right past the right room before his brain could register the fact.  Skidding to a halt and dashing back, he stood before the closed door and tried to catch his breath before entering.

He was unable to contain himself though, and knocked on the door, still panting.  He barely heard the invitation to come in.  The knot of worry in his stomach tightened.  She sounds weak.  Still panting a little, he went in and rushed to the foot of the hospital bed in three huge steps, his eyes on her pale face from the moment he could see it.

Her eyes softened, seeing him, and the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.  He looks so worried, she thought as she took in his wide eyes and still-heaving chest.  He must have been running down the hall.

"How are you, Elisa?" he asked in a rush, his worried eyes still searching her face.  He had spoken in a low, troubled tone, but her reply was even quieter.

"Not as bad as you think," she said, though a faint smile was all she could manage in her weakened state.

"Are you sure?"  He wasn't convinced.

"Yes, she'll be ok.  You'll be okay, honey."  For the first time, Logan noticed Elisa's mother was sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding her daughter's hand.  She sounded like she wasn't far from tears, and to Logan, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself with the words she had just spoken to him and Elisa; her voice had been louder than either of the two teens' too.  Now he noticed the smudged mascara below her eyes and knew she had indeed been crying.

"Oh hello ma'am, sorry I didn't see you there."  She only nodded in reply, obviously trying to choke back more tears.

Seeing this, Elisa sighed inwardly and spoke to her mother in a calm, quiet voice.  "Mom, would you mind if Logan and I had a minute alone?"  The older woman let out a huge, shuddering sigh and nodded, glancing between Logan and her daughter's face a couple of times.  Then, with a parting kiss on the girl's forehead, she left, sniffling as she closed the door.

In an instant, Logan was in the empty chair and holding Elisa's hand, just as her mother had been doing only moments before.  "Tell me everything," he said, his gaze intensifying.

She closed her eyes for a short moment, but knew he'd believe nothing but the truth – the whole truth.  "It's bad," she said, opening her eyes.  She saw the sharp intake of breath and felt his hand tighten on hers.  "There's a cure," she continued, "but it's…expensive.  And very risky, with a low chance of success."  He met her gaze unflinchingly, although she noticed his eyes tightened slightly.

"How low?"  His voice was very controlled.

"The doctor said there was about a 23% chance the treatment would succeed."

He didn't flinch, but the color began to drain from his face.  "'Would'?"

She looked away now, unable to keep her gaze neutral.  "Like I said, it's expensive."  Her voice had sunk until it was so low that he could barely hear her.

"So?" he asked, his hand tightening on hers.  He leaned closer and asked, "what does that have to do with it?"

"Too expensive, Logan."  Her voice broke when she got to his name.  "My parents simply can't afford it, not by a long shot."