Fighting For Normal

The First Drip

I remained still in the recliner, the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights above me barely noticeable under the hissing sound of oxygen from a nearby tank. The navy flannel blanket that covered my lap had been neatly folded when I got here, but now it was slightly bunched where my hands held it. The soft cotton of my oversized, light blue hoodie felt nice against my skin, with the drawstring hanging loose. My faded high-waisted jeans were a bit scrunched at the ankles, where they met the tops of my well-loved canvas sneakers.

Desiray wrapped a tourniquet around my arm. The sharp snap of the latex band echoed in the still room. She gently tapped twice on my inner elbow. "You'll feel a cold flush first," she said softly. With practiced skill, she threaded the IV. The small silver hoop earrings in my ears sparkled as I slightly moved my head, and I could feel the gentle tug of the elastic hair tie that held my hair in a messy bun. "Then we'll start the pre-meds - something for nausea, and a steroid. Okay?"

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. My lips pressed into a tight line. I watched the drip begin, a slow and steady rhythm, the coolness creeping up my veins. The laces of my sneakers, untied and tucked in, seemed to blur a bit as my gaze stayed fixed on the IV.

Noelle sat next to me, cross-legged and curled up in the overstuffed chair. Her book was upside down in her lap, her thumb holding a place she hadn’t read yet. Every few seconds, she looked at me, her eyes darting as if she expected something to happen. Her bright yellow scrunchie was a vivid splash of color against her golden blonde hair, and I could just see the tiny, sparkling butterfly studs in her ears.

Across the room, a boy who looked about seventeen was bent over a spiral notebook, his pencil moving with great concentration as he shaded something. Beside him, an older woman was sleeping, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open, letting out a soft, rhythmic snore. A gentle, melodic laugh floated from behind a curtain a few chairs away. The faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, always present alongside the quiet whispers of conversations.

I shifted a bit, and Noelle's hand quickly reached out - it was like a reflex. She took my hand, our fingers intertwining in the small gap between the recliner and the armrest. Her touch felt warm, a comforting presence in the sterile stillness. My heart, which had been racing like a frantic bird in my chest, seemed to calm down, just a little.

The anti-nausea medication was done, and the IV pump made a gentle clicking sound as Desiray adjusted the tubing and connected the next syringe. "The steroid is going in now," she whispered. I barely nodded in response. This time, the cool feeling was more intense - it felt less like a flush and more like ice spreading under my skin. My hand, still held tightly by Noelle, experienced a slight shiver that traveled up my arm. The cuff of my oversized hoodie scratched against my wrist as the IV slowly dripped its contents.

Noelle kept holding my hand firmly. She was humming a random tune now, while her eyes flicked over the upside-down book resting in her lap, not really focusing on the words.

A soft shuffle of footsteps broke the quiet hum of the machines.

"Hey - um, is it okay if I sit here?" a voice asked from my left. It was light and curious, with a hint of confidence behind it.

I turned a bit, feeling my hoodie shift gently against the back of the recliner. The girl looked like she was no older than nineteen. Her lavender wig sparkled under the fluorescent lights, creating a bright splash of color. Her eyes - real amethyst, it seemed - held my gaze, as if they knew more than they should. A small silver stud shone in her nose.

"Sure!" Noelle exclaimed, already pushing her bag off the edge of the recliner. "I'm Noelle. And this is Sloane," she added, tilting her head in my direction.

I gave a slight nod, adjusting my posture just a bit, the worn denim of my jeans stretching a little with the movement.

The girl settled in with a sigh, placing a soft canvas tote at her feet. Her sneakers, a bright lime green, contrasted sharply with the dull hospital floor. "Lylah," she introduced herself, crossing one leg over the other. "With an 'h.' You'd be surprised how many people forget that."

"I could never forget a lavender wig and gemstone eyes," Noelle said with a grin. "You really sparkle."

Lylah smirked, clearly pleased. Then her gaze shifted back to me. "Is this your first time here?"

I blinked. When I finally spoke, my voice was soft. "Yeah." The word felt tiny, almost lost in the quiet buzz of the room.

Lylah’s fingers lightly touched the edge of her tote, tracing a small embroidered heart on the canvas. "I was meant to start at CU Boulder this fall," she said softly. "Pre-med, of all things. It’s kind of ironic now."

I turned my head a bit towards her, noticing how her eyes were fixed on a spot near her feet. "What happened?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. "Stage 4 Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. It’s a fancy way of saying the cancer came out swinging." Her smile was faint, slightly tilted at the edges. "They gave me a year, give or take. Mostly take, if you ask Dr. Christensen, but I like to think she’s just not great at math."

The words hung heavily between us, filling the sterile air. My fingers twitched under the blanket, instinctively tightening around the flannel fabric.

"I had a boyfriend," Lylah added, her voice sounding lighter now. "It didn’t last. He said he couldn’t handle it, but I think he really meant he couldn’t handle me - with the ports and the mouth sores and the whole ‘maybe dying’ thing."

Noelle looked up from her book, the smile fading from her face, replaced by a somber quiet.

"I have a brother named Troye. He’s a freshman at CSU Pueblo. He sends me photos of his dorm and those terrible cafeteria meals. I act like it’s all fine. He acts like I’m not disappearing."

A gentle clatter broke the moment - the nurse rolled a tray next to Lylah and smiled warmly. "Hello, sweetheart." Her voice was gentle. "Let’s get your port set up."

Lylah nodded slightly and moved her hand to tuck some wig strands behind her ear, showing the neckline of her blouse and the slight bump of a port under her skin. The nurse put on gloves, the sound crisp and efficient, and cleaned the area with an alcohol swab. The smell of antiseptic grew stronger.

Lylah then looked back at me. "You know what really helps?" she asked, her amethyst eyes fixed on mine.

I blinked, waiting for more.

"Stop pretending you’re fine just to make everyone else comfortable," she said, her voice steady even though she looked so delicate. "Allow yourself to break down, even just a bit. Cry if you need to. Say the things that scare you, the things you think will make people leave. If they do? Let them go. The ones who stick around won’t expect you to hide your pain to make them feel okay."

I nodded, unable to find my voice again. The lump in my throat felt as heavy and unmovable as a rock.

Desiray came back at that moment, balancing three IV bags in one hand and another one in the other. "Alright, Sloane," she said, hanging them up with smooth movements. "This is Vincristine - it’s a small-volume infusion that takes about ten minutes. Then we have Doxorubicin, the red one - that one takes about an hour, and we’re using dexrazoxane today to protect your heart. After that, there’s Cyclophosphamide - also an hour. And this one," she lifted the last bag, labeled Mesna, "this will protect your bladder from irritation after the Cytoxan."]

I could feel the weight of it all, pressing softly but steadily against my chest. I gave a slight nod, my eyes following the clear tubes as Desiray smiled reassuringly and started connecting the lines to my IV. The cool feeling of the steroid was still there, like a ghostly chill.

The boy with the sketchpad turned to a new page, his pencil smoothly gliding into a fresh drawing, the faint scratching sound a quiet background to Desiray's actions. The older woman shifted in her sleep, letting out a soft sigh, a gentle, almost peaceful sound.

Lylah leaned back, wiggling her lime sneakers, a small, tired smile on her face.

"Your hoodie’s cute," she said, her eyes already starting to flutter shut. Her voice was softer, sleep tugging at the edges of her words. "If you ever need someone to talk to… I’m usually around. Unless I’m busy pretending I’m not radioactive."

The last bit of medication finished dripping, with the IV pump standing quietly in the still room.

I stirred, my eyelids feeling heavy from the medication, the fluorescent lights creating long shadows now that the sun outside had faded. The chill in my veins was finally starting to go away. I blinked slowly, realizing I had dozed off somewhere in the middle of the Doxorubicin - right after Lylah’s words had settled in my mind.

Lylah's chair was empty.

Her lime sneakers were missing, but there was a small, square piece of notebook paper neatly folded on the edge of the recliner. I reached for it slowly, my fingers grazing the rough surface.

In her loopy handwriting, it read: You didn’t break while you slept. That’s proof enough you’ll make it through awake. - L

There was a sticker taped to the corner: a glittery lavender star. Her number was also written on it.

I let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh. My throat felt sore, dry, and scratchy. My hand, still loosely holding Noelle's, squeezed gently. The soft fabric of the blanket, now less bunched up, felt comforting against my fingers.

Noelle stirred next to me, her eyes slowly opening. "You’re awake," she said, her voice a bit raspy from sleep. "You were out cold. Like, mouth half-open snoozing. It was kind of cute." She attempted to wink, but it turned into more of a slow blink.

I chuckled. "Should’ve snapped a photo," I whispered. "Perfect blackmail material."

Noelle smiled widely. "Oh, I got a few," she joked, already getting up and stretching dramatically, her scrunchie tugging at her hair. "I’ll go let them know you’re awake."

A moment later, the curtain was pulled back. Dad walked in first, his face softening just a bit when he noticed I was awake. Pops came in right after, holding a cup of vending machine coffee in each hand, the familiar smell of lukewarm coffee filling the room

"You look like you could use three grilled cheeses and a blanket fort," Pops said with a grin, handing me one of the cups. It was still warm, a small comfort in my tired hand.

"She looks pale," Dad said softly, crouching next to the recliner to check my face, brushing his thumb across my forehead like he used to when I had fevers as a child. His touch was gentle and familiar. "But she’s alert. Good vitals?"

I nodded, managing a small, weak smile. "I made it through."

Pops placed his hand on Dad's shoulder, sharing a quiet understanding. "Let's take her home. We can have popsicles, watch a movie, and maybe - if she's really lucky - I’ll let her win at Uno."

"She never lets you win," Dad replied, shaking his head with a slight smile on his face.

"That's because I’m ruthless," I whispered, genuinely smiling this time.

Pops leaned closer and kissed my forehead, his lips warm and gentle against my skin. Dad gave my hand one last squeeze before he stood up, moving gracefully.

Noelle came back, throwing her bag over her shoulder, with Desiray right behind her. As Desiray skillfully took out the IV, the little sting barely bothering me, Noelle said, "I left your playlist in the Suburban. Because obviously, after today, you need some sad indie girl music with banjo parts."

Pops groaned in a dramatic way. "Oh, come on. Anything but the banjo."

"She’s earned the banjo," Dad said with conviction, a half-smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth, showing a rare moment of agreement with Noelle's music choices.

Once Desiray assured me I was ready to go, Dad and Pops helped me up. I leaned on them, my legs feeling shaky and a bit unsteady after sitting still for so long and the medication. We moved slowly towards the exit, leaving behind the buzzing of the machines and the quiet conversations.