#i’m double boosted and had my flu shot

[regular-lord-reckoner]

i am so happy i will be in colorado tomorrow instead of putting up with this awful ass warm weather georgia has so hatefully given us this week

[thinkingoutlouddblog]

Only For You - h.s.

Summary: H is usually pretty in tune with his body, but he’s apparently not very good at picking up when he’s getting sick. 

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: mentions of covid, plus me taking a guess at how covid testing in the US and at events works so sorry for any potential inaccuracies, I mostly used my knowledge of Aus but honestly its described all very generally

A/N: this took longer than I thought it was going to because I started and then got sick a couple days in :/ I’m still sick but she is done! If you have any requests pls send them my way!

Masterlist  ///  Send me an ask!

Harry is never sick.

He was so strict in his fitness and health, his immune system was better than almost anyone’s you knew. You were pretty sure someone could cough directly into his mouth and it would somehow boost his immune system by giving it a chance to exercise. There had to be fifty times over the course of your relationship so far you were sure you were going to pass on whatever illness you had acquired at the time. You always waited patiently for the other shoe to drop, for him to exhibit your exact symptoms and to be awash with guilt at his sickly state, but it never did.

It is such a rare occurrence, in fact, that he can tell you exactly the last time he came down with something. It was August 2019, he was in LA, and he had ended up missing two Fine Line album release related meetings. He remembered it because you had been in New York, tied up in projects of your own. You had pushed your flight up as a surprise to get home and take care of him, but by the time you touched down he had already been on the mend, and was sat in a rescheduled meeting when you opened the door to your shared home.

He could not recall, however, the earliest warning signs of a flu coming on, having experienced them so infrequently.

He dismissed the heavy tired feeling that had settled upon him, certain it was simply the aftereffects of intensive Grammy rehearsals. True to his perfectionist tendencies, he had been tireless in his efforts to make this one of his best performances and had been spending hours practicing a song you were pretty sure he could nail in his sleep. You said nothing of the fact that you thought he perhaps was spending more time than strictly necessary on this, of course, never wanting to undermine his process or invalidate his feelings of being under intense pressure. You just assured him you thought he was amazing and provided opinions and input whenever he asked it of you. He was overworking himself, but he was not deterred until the lights went down after his extremely successful (and extremely sexy, if you did say so yourself) performance.

Two days later, he was sure his hangover had extended over into a second day as he become aware of a dull ache in his head while awaking from his slumber. He groaned, rubbing his face as he rolled towards you, pulling you against his chest. He breathed deeply, cursing himself for drinking so much and sleeping so little only momentarily before thinking, hey, how many times do you win a Grammy? You stirred at his movement, eyes fluttering open only slightly before you shut them again and snuggled deeper into his chest. You sighed in contentment, loving nothing more than the comfortable feeling you can only get waking up in the morning, still on the edge of sleep. It had always been one of your favourite things, and it was only ever made better by waking up in Harry’s arms.

“I hate getting old,” he mutters into your hair, pressing a kiss where his lips had tickled your forehead.

“What?” You laughed at his unsolicited statement.

“Two-day hangovers are supposed to be reserved for after you hit thirty. But clearly, I’m older than I think I am because they have come for me and I am not enjoying it.”

You wriggled up in his embrace, so that you were face to face, giggling at him as you did say. “Oh god, do you think we should start thinking about retiring?”

“You’re supposed to tell me I’m not old!” He tightened his grip on you as he exclaimed in indignation.

“I mean what can I possibly say, H? Two-day hangover? You’ve basically got a foot in the grave,” you jested, but leaned in to peck his cheek at his faux sour expression.

In response, he released his grip on you and rolled away until he was at the very opposite edge of the bed in a big huff. You only laughed harder at his antics. You followed him to his side of the bed, wrapping your arms around him from behind and placing gentle kisses to the side of his neck.

“Darling, have you considered, maybe, just maybe, this two day hangover has nothing to do with the fact that you are getting older and more to do with the fact that you were working yourself to the bone for a month and then partied like the world was ending?” You pressed another lingering kiss to his neck. “Or perhaps like someone who had just won a Grammy?” A smile broke over your face at the memory, a fresh wave of pride washing through you, somehow still managing to leave you buzzing.

“Nope, I refuse to hear that. My youthful body is supposed to be stronger than any party, even an I-just-won-a-Grammy party.” You snorted in his ear, completely unsurprised by his steadfast stubbornness.

“Alright then old man,” you rolled away from him and hopped out of bed.

“Hey,” he called out, both at the jab and your exit from bed.

“Since my big shot Grammy winning, senior citizen boyfriend is still feeling a bit dusty I suppose I’ll bring him a coffee in bed,” you sing out over your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen, craving the caffeine yourself.

He knew you were making fun of him to highlight how melodramatic you thought he was being. Each comment about him being old was really made to tell him just how young he was and how little you thought he had to worry about.

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to remain motionless in the warm comfy bed but having no choice to get up and make his way to the bathroom before he could enjoy his coffee in bed. (And maybe some lazy morning sex, he was sure that would help relieve some symptoms). His whole body felt heavy as he rolled out of bed, his limbs and shoulders feeling almost as though they were made of lead.

His brow scrunched as he slowly made his way to the toilet to relieve himself. This really was some day two hangover, he thought. I don’t care what y/n thinks, I’m pretty sure this is one of those moments where you realise your prime is coming to an end.

He flinched as the sunlight pouring in through the frosted glass of the bathroom window hit his face, instantly doubling the force of his headache. He grumbled and scrunched his eyes until they were nearly shut, attempting to minimise the light infiltrating his vision. He did his business as quickly as his protesting body would allow.

By the time he had returned to bed and bundled himself back under the covers the kettle had boiled and you were on your way back to your room. You shuffled along slowly, pausing every two steps to stop your nearly full mugs from spilling over the edge. Harry loved to point out the coffee drips that you left along the floor in your shared home so frequently. They were spread far and wide, and in fairness to you, most of the time you didn’t realise you had done it, else you would have wiped it up immediately.

“H?” you called softly, as you looked up from the mugs to see only a Harry sized lump under the doona as evidence that he was even there.

When you received only an, “Mmm?” in response you continued your slow spillage-avoiding pace up to his bed side table, placing the cup down gently.

“Are you feeling okay baby?” you kneeled down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face.

“Jus’ tired,” he muttered, not opening his eyes.

This shocked you somewhat. He’s always been a morning person, and never tended to sleep in two days in a row. The two of you had spent the morning in bed yesterday, having only crawled in in the (not even that) early hours of the morning and spent the rest of the day lazing about the apartment, nursing respective hangovers. Even with complaints of his hangover extending over into a second day, you had expected him to be itching to throw himself back into his routine, not curled up in bed still feeling shitty.

“You can back to sleep,” you assured, even though he seemed to already be halfway there. “Your coffee’s there if you want some.”

You pressed a kiss to his forehead before leaving him to it, closing the door softly on your way out.

Two hours later, Harry stirs once more from his sleep. His throat is dry as a bone, and his once dull headache is now pounding. He lifts his heavy head off the pillow and his eyes fall to his now cold coffee. He reaches over and takes a gulp, hoping to ease the feeling in his throat. Is not uncommon for him to awaken with a dryness to his throat, he often finds a hot coffee is enough to solve the problem, but alas, he is desperate enough to settle for the cold one before him for now. Instead of the relief he is craving, a burst of pain shoots through his throat each time he swallows a mouthful. He coughs as he places the mug back down, unwilling to have another sip.

And oh Jesus, it finally hits him. He’s sick.

All the signs he had shrugged off now became blaringly obvious to him in retrospect. And oh fuck.

Alarm bells go off in his brain as he registers the risk of what exactly this could be. He scrambles for his phone on his bedside table.

Harry: Don’t come upstairs.

You glance down at your phone as you feel the buzz of the notification. You had spent the morning pottering around the house, catching up on little chores the two of you had neglected over the past few days in the Grammy busy-ness and subsequent hangover. Happy with your efforts, you had settled back into having a lazy morning and were watching television on the couch quietly.

“Harry?” you call out in confusion as you read his text, already pausing the TV and standing up, intending to do the exact opposite of following his advice.

You can’t have made it three steps before he’s calling you. The wave of confusion is soon followed by one of extreme worry as you pick up the phone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Don’t come up I’m sick,” he spoke hoarsely.

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, it could be covid you can’t come up here,” he was cursing himself on the other end of the line. He should have been paying more attention to what his body was trying to tell him. Shouldn’t have been risking you like this. If he had it, he was sure he had already infected you too and guilt gnawed away at him.

This stops you in your tracks. You hesitate, you do. But ultimately, you know if he has covid, you’re probably already infected. If he does have it, which you are praying he doesn’t because young as he is, healthy as he is, there is always a risk. The worst running through your mind. If the worst were to happen, you would curse yourself until the day you died for not going to him right now.

“It’s not covid,” you tell him firmly.

“Baby-“

“Your tests from before the Grammy’s were negative, and we should be getting more test results back any minute that will be clean too,” you’re on the move again, absolute in your resolution. The both of you, along with all the other attendees of the ceremony, had been tested both before and after. They were meant to text each of you with your results any minute (or call, if they were positive, but that was a possibility you were trying to put aside).

“Even so, we can’t risk it until we get the results.” At the sound of your footsteps on the stairs he spoke your name sternly, halting your steps again.

“Harry,” you countered, matching his tone.

“Please don’t fight me on this. If you’re so sure that the result is going to be negative, and that they’re going to come in any second,” he pauses to cough, lungs and throat protesting with each word he speaks, “then a little while in bed by myself won’t kill me.”

“But-“

“Darling, please. If it is covid, I’ll never forgive myself for not doing everything in my power to try and keep you from getting it too,” the quiet desperation in his voice is the only thing that could break your resolve.

With a long exhale, you turned back down the stairs but kept the phone to your ear.

“Fine,” you huffed, “but only because I was always taught to respect my elders.”

“See that’s the good news,” he half laughed, half coughed at the exhalation of breath, “I’m not an old man with a two-day hangover, just a young man with an unspecified illness.”

“Do you still have your smell and taste?” you asked worriedly.

“I could definitely taste the cold ass coffee I just drank,” he rasped. He paused for a beat, hearing only the rustling of sheets. “And our bed still smells like you,” you heard the smile behind the comment, appreciating his sweet reference to the love he often professes he has for the way you smell.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s nothing you’re putting on, and sometimes I think it’s everything you’re putting on plus just, you. There’s no other smell like it and I wish I could just bottle it up and have it forever. Bloody aphrodisiac,” he had once told you.

“And you’re not running a fever?” You chewed the inside of your lip as you fired questions at him, a bad habit that reared its head when you were worried, stressed or concentrating hard.

On his end of the line, he felt his forehead for warmth. “Umm,” he considered it, “I’m not sure. Probably not.” He was actually pretty sure he had the beginning of one, but he could tell you were freaking out and he didn’t want to worry you any further until he heard for sure.

“I’m going to grab you a thermometer and some cold and flu tablets,” Harry immediately started to protest but you didn’t let him start. “I’ll put a mask on and just leave them outside the door. I’ll grab you some water and something to eat too. I’m not just leaving you sick up there with nothing.”

He sighed into the phone. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

You scoffed. “Of course not, I let you win the last one not more than five minutes ago.”

He sighed once more, and you rolled your eyes at your overdramatic boyfriend. “Fine, but you have to be in and out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you leaned the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you grabbed what you needed for him.

“I’m not joking, y/n. You have to be quick.”

You bit your tongue, refraining from snapping back. Did he seriously think you were stupid? You knew he didn’t, he was just sick and stressed about the situation, but that didn’t stop the flare of annoyance that burst through your chest. You shook it off, knowing it was misplaced.

“Okay I’m going to put the phone down so I can pop a mask on and run up,” luckily, you had a million masks around the house ready to go.

“Kay,” he muttered, eyes feeling droopy all over again.

You pull your mask on, and with arms full of supplies dashed up the stairs. Once you arrived at the door, you placed down the cold medication, water and thermometer as well as the banana you had snatched off the kitchen counter before turning and running back down the stairs.

As soon as you’re back down the stairs, you’re pulling your mask off and putting the phone back to your ear. You faintly hear the close of your bedroom door, deducing Harry had grabbed everything.

“I’m back,” you acknowledged your presence on the phone.

“Thank you for that, my love.”

Your phone dinged in your ear, indicating a new text message. You pulled it away from your ear to examine the contents of the text.

You breathed a small sigh of relief.

“They just texted me my covid test results, they’re negative.” Everyone had been tested upon their exit of the Grammy afterparty.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You silently prayed that pause wasn’t caused by him examining another incoming call, suggesting his results were positive and required an actual conversation.

“Mine are negative too,” he exhaled, you could hear the relief in his voice.

“Oh, thank god,” you said, already turning to go back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I thought you were confident I didn’t have it,” he teased.

“Sorry somebody had to put on a brave face for Mr Worry Wart,” you teased right back. You hung up the phone as you reached the top step. Turning to the left and opening the door to your room.

You stride over to the bed wordlessly and climb in on your side, instantly wrapping both arms around him. He relished the embrace. You loved to poke fun at him, but sometimes the humour was just a way for you to mask how you were really feeling about things and deflect. Harry usually doesn’t point it out but he’s always aware of it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice still croaky.

“I love you, too,” you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You stayed like that for a moment longer before you swung into action, full nurturing mother bear mode activated.

“Now, have you taken your temperature? Taken some of the cold and flu tablets?”

At the shake of his head you frowned at him. “Come on then. You do that while I go make you a nice hot tea to soothe your throat. And a box of tissues,” you added at the sight of him sneezing practically hard enough to shake the room.

So back down to the kitchen you went for the third time that day, grabbing him both the tea, the tissues and a nice hearty bowl of porridge, figuring it would be gentle on his throat. “Temperature?” you asked as soon as you crossed the threshold of your doorway.

“No fever,” he punctuated with a cough.

You frowned as you watched it happen, his eyes were rimmed red, his nose beginning to run. He sat up in bed as you handed him the bowl of porridge. You placed the tea down so you could also hand him the box of tissues that had been tucked up under your arm.

“Thank you so much for all this, angel. But you don’t have to wait on me hand and foot, I’ve got a cold, I’m not bed bound,” he grabbed my hand and traced the outside of my hand as he spoke.

“I know I don’t have to do it, but I want to do it. My baby’s feeling crappy I just want to do whatever I can to make him feel less so.” Even after all this time of being together, your cheeks flushed slightly at your sappy words. You meant them, of course, but intimacy was still not one of your strong suits. The way you were raised lacked those kinds of affirmations and endearments, and was never modelled practically in your parent’s relationship. It left you both craving it, and feeling uncomfortable when it actually occurred. With both experience and Harry’s help you had gotten better at it, but you still weren’t 100% there yet. He knew one day you would be, though, and he was so proud to see how much progress you had made. Even if you couldn’t always see it.

Hearing those words from you, was just one more indication at how far you’ve come, and it warmed not only his heart, but his whole chest. With his grip on your hand, he gave you a slight tug, encouraging you to lean forward. Just as you had five minutes earlier, he presses a kiss to your cheek, craving your lips but knowing he can’t have them right now.

“You’re too good to me,” he praised as you pulled away reluctantly, giving him space to enjoy his breakfast while it was still warm.

He expected a joking, I know, in response but instead he receives a serious, “There is no such thing as good too to you. You deserve the world.” You don’t break eye contact with him, even as he is too shocked at your response to form one of his own. “But all I got you was this bowl of porridge sorry babe,” you broke the tension, pulling your hand from his.

“Where are you going now?” He pouts at you as you grab the half empty coffee mug and make your way out of the room.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” you assure him, already planning how else you are going to fuss over him. He has to be well to go to London to start filming his new movie soon, you reason with yourself. But really, you know he could have nothing coming up and you could be the busiest you’ve ever been, and you would still play nurse for him.

By ‘right back’ he assumed you meant in half an hour, because his mug and bowl are both empty by the time you return, and he is nearly drifting back off to sleep. He is still somewhat upright, but slumped back into his pillow, head lolling to the side slightly, directed towards the door almost as though is watching and waiting for you. While still conscious, his blinks are becoming slower and slower, reminiscent of a baby. You coo at his adorable sleepy state, the moment tugs at your chest so strongly it is almost physically painful. Sometimes, the magnitude of your love for him nearly sweeps you off your feet. You just feel so damn lucky to have these wonderfully domestic moments with him. To see him like this, to be his person that gets to take care of him. While he is a rockstar and you get to do all sorts of crazy things with him that most people dream of (like for instance, watching him perform at and accept a Grammy), you love doing everyday life with him.

“It’s not quite sleep time yet, baby,” you spoke gently, hoping not to startle him too much.

He peeled his eyes open and pouted at you once more. “Why not?”

“Because it’s nice, long, hot, steaming shower time,” his frown deepened, clearly not wanting to move. “I promise you, you’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

“You promise?” He refused to wipe the pout from his face, really stepping into being babied.

“I promise, now up you get,” you offered him both hands to help him up.

“Fine,” he groaned as he took your hands, and you pulled him up.

As soon as he was upright, he wrapped both arms around you and held you tight. He allowed himself a few short seconds before pulling away, not wanting to get you sick too. Even if it wasn’t covid, he still wanted his love well.

You shepherded him into the bathroom, where he winced once more at the brighter lighting. His eyes were always more sensitive to light when he had the flu. You turned the shower on for him while he got undressed, before turning to pull the blinds closed without him breathing a single word of complaint. His heart swelled with love for you for the hundredth time that day. To be loved by you was to be seen. He didn’t need to use his voice to be understood (though that communication obviously had its place).

“Take your time baby, let the steam help get all the bad stuff out,” you gave him a little smile before leaving, closing the door behind you to allow the steam to build up within the space.

Harry let out a sigh as he stepped into the stream of hot steaming water. You were right as ever, the steam helped clear him out somewhat, and even just feeling clean helped him to feel better already. He relished the heat and the soothing feeling of the water, massaging his scalp with shampoo as he began to wash up from head to toe.

He had no idea how much time had passed by the time he reluctantly turned the shower off and stepped into a big fluffy towel. He was much quicker in drying himself than he had been in the rest of his shower routine, eager to rug up in a jumper and some sweats (and some of those thick soft socks you bought him for winter).

He swung the en suite door open, contemplating where he left his comfy winter clothes last when he stops at the sight before him.

You’re putting the last pillowcase on, having changed the sheets completely. His breakfast dishes are cleared, replaced with a hot steaming bowl of vegetable soup and his bottle of water. You’ve dug the humidifier out of the cupboard as well and you’ve got it all set up and running for him. The book he was currently reading was picked up from its previous place on the living room coffee table and waiting for him on your pillow. The exact clothes he was about to grab were sitting at the edge of the bed, laid out ready for him.

“You’re an actual angel, ya know that?” He shakes his head in disbelief. He has no idea what he did in a past life to get so lucky. The success of the music, he can go to bed each night feeling like he has done a lot to earn. He’s worked hard for a long time, and while he accredited a good portion of it all to luck, he knew he wasn’t talentless or undeserving. With you, however, he had simply won the lottery. You weren’t a perfect person, but you were his perfect person. He would spend the rest of his life doing everything in his power to feel deserving of you.

“Only for you,” you say softly.

He strides over to you, holding his towel to keep it from falling as he went. He presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters an, “I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” you peer up at him. “Now get those on,” you gesture towards his clothes, “before your soup gets cold.”

“Where did the soup come from?” He asks as starts to shrug his towel off and pull his clothes on.

“Where did you think I went earlier?” you referenced your half hour long disappearance, having been downstairs chopping up and preparing vegetables to go into the homemade soup.

“Oh, angel,” he breathed, “you really are the best.”

“Oh stop. Don’t act like all of this is not exactly what you do every time I’m sick. Which is far more often than you are, I might add.” You weren’t wrong, he did baby you just as much if not more.

“You’re still the best,” he refused to relent.

“Yeah, yeah,” you end the conversation, not being able to handle too many compliments.

He lets it slide, knowing he could compliment you further and ask you to really hear what he was saying, because he meant it with his entire being. But you were doing so much for him, and he really was tired so he didn’t bombard you with more praise than you desired.

Once he was dressed, he hopped back under the covers and sat up with his soup. He didn’t have the appetite to finish it, but he knew as much of it as he could handle would do him some good.

You jumped into the shower yourself, wanting to feel as clean as the sheets did when you got into bed with him. By the time you were out of the shower and into your own pair of fresh comfy clothes, Harry had finished most of the bowl of soup and had set the remainder aside.

“Thank you so much, angel,” your cheeks tinted pink at the purposeful repetition of that particular pet name.

“Don’t mention it,” you crawled under the covers with him, picking up his book from your pillow. “Now, where were you up to?”

“Hmm?” he questioned.

“In your book, where were you up to?”

“Why?”

“So, I can read it to you, obviously.”

“Is that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think I’m suddenly incapable of reading it myself?” He questioned, even though he was practically preening internally at the thought of your sweet voice reading his novel aloud to him. It was a beautiful novel, filled with rich descriptions and he just knew it would sound lovely rolling off your tongue, but you had already done so much for him today it was hardly for of him to let you offer this without giving you an out.

“I don’t think you’re incapable, I just know your eyes hurt when you’re sick and I can imagine it makes it hard to focus on the words. Plus, I always fancied a career in audiobooks,” you actually really wanted to do this for him, not viewing it as an inconvenience at all. In fact, you would probably find yourself disappointed if he told you he would rather read it himself.

“Are you sure? You really don’t have to,” he looked you in the eyes, gauging your expression.

“I want to,” you promised.

“About page 150, you might have to read the first sentence to check.”

So, you began reading, until his eyes grew heavier and his eyes drooped. Slowly but surely, he drifted off into the realm of peaceful deep sleep.

Not before, of course, he muttered, more than half asleep, “I can’t wait to marry the shit out of you.”

[whereisvanderwood]

Zenzai Soup

Yona of the Dawn | Akatsuki no Yona

Sick!Abi x Reader - Fluff

My Yona of the Dawn x Reader List for more one-shots-- Check it out! 

Request Box

“You lied to me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then why is your forehead so hot and covered in sweat?”

“It’s the heat.”

“It’s winter. And snowing.”

“I’m cold, then.”

“No, you have a cold, probably even the flu!” (Y/N) plonked herself on the blue dragon’s bed, her star-striking eyes feathered with elegant lashes showing sympathy, plus a pinch of pique. “Why didn’t you tell anyone, Abi? You’re the only one who constantly over-exerts yourself in every battle.

“I don’t…”

“You fight with a sword without giving yourself so much as a breather, and then use your dragon power that gives you paralysis in return. That’s what you call ‘over-exertion’.” She placed her hand on his forehead as she compared her own temperature. “And now you’re bedridden.”

“Don’t tell the others. It’s humiliating.”

“They already know. It’s pretty obvious.”

Abi grumbled. “Then don’t let them come in-- their voices are ear-wretching enough from here as is.”

(Y/N) sighed. “Well, at least you’re still you.” She picked up the metallic tray of empty bowls and teacups and headed for the room’s entrance. “I’ll come back with a wet cloth for your forehead. So in the meantime, stay.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Oh, and also,” she called out as she popped her head through the door again, “do you have a soup preference?”

His eyes opened just that little bit more, and his cat-like eyes seemed to turn into a puppy’s. He pulled the blanket up to his nose, and his words were muffled as he replied with some embarrassment.

“Huh? What was that?”

“...Zenzai…”

“The one with the mochi?”

Frowning like a child, too prideful to admit his guilty pleasure, he stiffly nodded.

(Y/N) giggled to herself, giving him a thumbs up, before closing the door behind her. Abi, meanwhile, sank further into his bed, his deep ocean-blue hair splayed across the pillows of cottony comfort. Why me, his thoughts chanted. What good am I to my king like this?

Knowing the dragon warriors, he was surely making a fuss already, Abi predicted. And he wasn’t wrong; as soon as (Y/N) had set foot out of the blue dragon’s quarters, she was swarmed by three other dragons.

“How is he? Is he okay, (Y/N)?” Zeno fretted.

“How weak is he to let himself catch some cold? What an idiot.”

“It’s my fault as his brother for not having noticed the signs sooner...”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “It’s just a bug, guys. It’s been going around the castle-- I’m surprised none of you are sick, either.”

“We’re tough, unlike that half-assed kid in there,” Shuten pointed to his room, followed by a bonk on the head by Guen.

“Can’t you have a heart for once? He’s our brother. We should be helping him recover quickly.”

“Uhm, he actually told me he doesn’t want to see any of you… It’s probably better he rests for now, anyway.”

“What!? And you call me heartless, Guen! That bastard.”

(Y/N) shushed the dragons, desperate for hers to get the rest he deserved. “Just keep yourselves busy. Surely that can’t be too hard.”

“And do what?”

Shoving the tray of dishes into Shuten’s hands, she shooed them away from the room’s vicinity, complying with Abi’s wishes for peace and quiet.

The bug has been pretty bad lately, she pondered, hoping no-one else would get sick. One ill warrior was enough for her to handle. Swiftly, she scurried to the kitchen to make a start on his favourite soup.

…

The sweet scent of the sticky delicacy mixed with a red bean fragrance wafted to his nose the moment she re-entered his room, stirring him enough from his drowsiness to feel the butterflies in his tummy flutter with her return. Her company was a kind that he welcomed gladly, which was saying something, considering his lack of welcoming nature at all. She made him feel like a normal person again, as opposed to some monster the public makes him out to be.

“I made it to your liking as best as I could. I’m not a chef, so don’t hate me if your health worsens.”

“It smells good…”

“I made you some more green tea, too. I heard it’s good for your immune system.”

“But… we don’t even have camellias in the kingdom…”

“I went for a walk,” she smiled. “I hope I didn’t take too long.”

“In the snow? You’ll get sick, too…”

“Stop talking. Eat your soup,” she ordered as she shifted his pillows so he would sit upright. She made herself comfortable by his side as she sat cross-legged on his large double-bed next to his lying figure.

He let her spoon-feed him as he couldn’t even feel his limbs anymore. The warm liquid travelled down his throat and he was instantly overcome with a melting sensation of pure bliss and satiate. It was exactly what he needed.

“...Good?”

“Good.”

“You should stay sick all the time. I don’t think I’ve heard you compliment my cooking before, let alone me.”

“You’re just too forgetful to remember…”

“Care to refresh the memory of a forgetful nurse?” she smirked as she fed him another spoonful, feeling great relief every time he greedily gulped the soup.

“You’re my forgetful nurse…”

(Y/N)’s face was instantly painted a bright red. “Y-You’re not supposed to say that out-loud! No-one knows about us, yet!” she whisper-yelled. To her surprise, he giggled.

“You’re the least annoying out of everyone, you know...”

“And you’re delirious.” Putting down the bowl of soup, she wrung a piece of cloth from a bowl of icy water and placed it on his sweating brow. “I didn’t even put alcohol in the soup, and now you’re acting all funny on me.”

“You’re funny.”

“...Finally someone who agrees with me.”

“And beautiful…”

Her heart skipped a beat, and it was enough to make her feel like she was on cloud nine. She had to stop what she was doing and cover her face from his heart-stealing gaze, convinced he could see her heart parading about inside her chest.

“That must be some fever you’ve got.”

“I mean it.”

“...Really?”

He nodded. His eyes suddenly began to grow weary and she could see the struggle to stay awake. After recomposing herself, she fixed his pillows again and pulled the blanket up to his chin while gently wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Can you… stay…?” he panted. His hand search blindly for hers as his eyes remained closed to combat the onset vertigo.

She caught his hand in hers, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Of course.”

“Can you sing… for me?”

“Sorry, that’s way too much to ask.”

“Please? I… like your voice...”

She sighed, hating the feeling of obligation to abide his request. Nonetheless, she pushed through her embarrassment and softly sang her go-to melody, slowly lulling the not-so scary dragon man into a child-like slumber of needed peace. She watched his lips curve upwards the more she sang, and her confidence was boosted.

When Abi wouldn’t let go of her hand, despite her being convinced he was in a deep sleep, she let herself lay down next to him, her other hand gently caressing his hot cheeks of rosy red. Slowly, she succumbed to the lulling of his soft breathing and drifted to sleep with him.

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[milkmanslady]

April 24, 2015: First Round of Chemotherapy

The (scary) day was here. I woke up that morning not knowing how I would feel by the end of the day. Not knowing if I was going to begin to throw up for days on end as the poison (yes, I said poison; that’s what it is) worked it’s way through my body. I really didn’t know how to throw up. I was 40 years old and the last time I vomited… I was 12. I have never had the stomach flu, that I remember, never vomited from food poisoning with the exception of when I was about 4, never had so much to drink that my stomach rejected it. The only reason I was sick at 12 was encephalitis; before that, it was one time when I was 6 and I got the chicken pox. I was terrified that I was going to throw up. Would I know it was going to happen before I did it, or was I just going to be sitting in the chair and throw up on myself? (Weird, right?) Well, as someone who hadn’t thrown up in 28 years, these were valid concerns. Anyway, it was time to go.

We took the boy to his grandparent’s house about 15 miles from the oncology clinic. When we told them about the diagnosis, they told us that they would watch him for every appointment that we had. Thank goodness for that, especially this first day. I couldn’t have done it alone. So, first we have to do a little blood work before seeing the doctor. She needed to check the levels of all the important stuff. 

When we arrived at the hospital, I went to meet with my oncologist. She really is a fabulous human being; not because she is a doctor and works on healing patients with life-threatening illness, I mean in general. At first, after my diagnosis, we thought about going to the oncology center closer to home; my doctor was pregnant and I would have to switch to see someone else in the office half way through my chemo rotation. In hindsight, I am glad that we stuck with the clinic that my best friend recommended. I am sure that any other clinic would have been just as good, but I have a personal relationship with with my oncologist. I am pretty sure that we spend at least 20 minutes of my office visits catching up on kids and parents and what-not.

So, after we met with the doctor she sent us out of the office into the hospital, up to the fifth floor at John Stoddard Cancer Center. We checked in at the desk, and went to sit down in the lobby until my name was called. There was a fish tank to look at, the TV was on, I’m pretty sure that it was playing “The Price Is Right”, and we waited. My nerves tensed up a little bit every time the door opened and I would hold my breath until someone was called. Finally, they called my name; I had to force myself to exhale and put on my award winning smile. Batter, UP!

I can’t imagine being a nurse, let alone one who induces poison into people on a daily basis. They are so used to what they do, that they don’t even really think about it. She was chatty, talking about how long she’d been doing this and what I was to expect. She explained that before any medicine, she was going to give me a combination of anti-nausea and steroids to boost the anti-nausea meds. She hooked me up to the drip, placed the settings, and left the room; like this was no big deal. As she started to leave, I had a sudden realization that this was my life, I was hooked up to a pole that was going to administer something into my body to kill what was potentially killing me. I turned my head away from the door, covered my eyes, and cried a silent cry as the tears streamed down my face onto the pillow. I heard my hubby begin to cry because I was. I can't imagine how scared he was.

As soon as the anti nausea meds were completed, here came the nurse again holding three vials of bright red liquid, dressed in full protective gear, with a plastic glass of ice chips. She asked me if I was ready. Well… No? Can anyone really ever be ready for something like this? All I had heard for the last few months was about how horribly sick this was going to make me, how I would lose my hair, lose a bunch of weight, (ok, I WAS ready for that. LOL), and what a terrible thing it was going to be. Sure. Sign me up. Duh. (Not my picture below.)

So, she explains that the reason she is dressed like this was because Cytoxan is a harsh medicine and if it is accidentally ingested, it could ruin her ovaries and she wasn’t done having children. Oh. Good. I’d like a double dose. That makes it sound really scary. Good thing I was done having children.  The ice chips were because this medicine has the potential (and the probability) to cause terrible blisters in my mouth. Again… sign me up for a double because that sounds fun! This medicine cannot be in an IV bag because it would break down the materials of the bag, so it came in syringes; hard, plastic syringes. Once she was done with that she left to get the bag of Adriamycin. Two medicines for four weeks - I wondered what that cost. (Found that out, holy crap!) Anyway, since the nurses just pushed copious amounts of liquid into my system, I know had to use the restroom. I had forgotten that she told me that my urine would be a different color so it was kind of shocking to see dark orange when I flushed. Anyway, back to the bed for more poison I went. 

When it was all said and done, the nurse came by with a “to-go shot” of Neulasta®.  This was to boost my body to make more white blood cells. Good, those are pretty necessary if I am going to stay “healthy”. So, my diabetic husband, who doesn’t like needles, was supposed to give me a shot? Pshhhh, yeah right. Good thing a lot of my friends are nurses! I called E and she was more than happy to come do it the next day. We also had two different kinds of anti-nausea medication. One was a four hour, the other an eight hour. I was instructed to take them continuously for the next few days. So I did. More on that later.

Peace

[winterskies]

Well it is Wednesday, and time to start preparing for my second chemo infusion. That, to me, means some basic germ eradication in obvious places, washing and changing my bedding, and the dogs’ bedding, which lives on my bed, and doing some grocery shopping before my white blood cell count is up for eradication again.

It turns out none of these precautions were not necessary for my first chemo cycle. I amazed my doctor with how well I did. I am not sure if it is because I did so well, or because he expected me to do badly because of the trouble I had getting rid of my drain. When I went in to see him on Day 7, he looked at my blood work and said, “This is from today? You had chemo?” My white blood cell count was 4.9 at that time, normal being 3.5 to 10, and chemo patients getting as low as 0. I was told that I would probably know if my count started getting low, because it makes you very tired, sometimes achey, kind of feeling like you have the flu. That is a very smart design feature, I think, that when you are most vulnerable to illness, you will not feel like doing things that will expose you to it.

Above is a Neulasta On Pro. This is attached to your abdomen or upper arm the day of chemo, and is programmed to inject medication 27 hours later to help boost your white blood cell production. It has flashing lights and beeps and clicks when it injects, and is very entertaining for grandchildren. :)

The nausea that everyone dreads when they are told they will have chemo is pretty well controlled these days with medication. You get two anti-nausea meds by IV before they even start the chemo, and there are three additional take at home meds, one for every day in the cycle, one for daily use in the first few days after chemo, and one for as needed. I never did use the third one. My nausea  was mild and seemed to be directly related to food. The thought of eating most things made me nauseous. I kind of lived on toast and cereal for a few days. The vegan options I had made me nauseous to consider, by the way. I have to admit that by the fifth day my little vegan heart was craving chicken. I thought I would die if I didn’t have chicken and rice. So I did.

I also left my self imposed exile. As the days went on, I got to feeling better and better. In the first few days, I was a bit tired and needed to nap frequently, although on Day 4, I babysat my 15-month old grandson all day, and not only did I not get tired, it made me feel terrific. I’d stuck my head out into the world at the grocery store and it appeared that the recent late flu epidemic was subsiding, so on Sunday I actually gathered my courage together and went to church.

I was told by the nurse that administered my chemo that the first treatment is usually not so bad, that it is usually around the third treatment that you start to feel it, just because the assault on your system has worn you down. That’s also when you usually lose your hair. So we will see as we go on, but for the time being, it’s okay.

I am also ten weeks post mastectomy at this point, and honestly, that wasn’t all that bad either. The post-op pain I would classify more as discomfort than actual pain. The drains were an ordeal, and I kept mine for a record amount of time, but they were not painful. They were just annoying. The incisions have healed, although the scars are still pink, but I can look at the surgery site without it bothering me at all. In fact, if I’d had a double mastectomy, I probably could have lived without reconstructive surgery. Since it was unilateral, I will choose to go through that, although it sounds like the worst and most complicated part of the whole treatment.

I wanted to pass this message along for anyone else who might be newly diagnosed with breast cancer and facing any or all of these treatments. I subscribe to a couple of other breast cancer survivor blogs, and one is just full of woe. Absolutely everything she has been through has been intolerably painful, from the mastectomy to the chemo to the expanders in preparation for reconstructive surgery. She even said that the drains were so painful that every movement hurt. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t read that blog before my own mastectomy experience. It might make a difference that my plastic surgeon is excellent when it comes to pain mitigation. He is David Chang in San Francisco if ever you want any plastic surgery done. When he places an expander, he puts a shot of botulism into the muscle so it won’t spasm and cause pain. When I had my surgery, he administered a three-day local anesthetic. Now I took pain pills after my mastectomy, but you have to understand I do not have a high pain tolerance. In fact I have zero tolerance for discomfort. If I get a teeny tiny pain somewhere, I get out the motrin. So I medicated my post-op discomfort, but I don’t recall ever at any time being laid out by pain.

But here is another odd thing about me. This cancer this is not bothering me. I am not scared. I am not sad. I can’t really tell you why. I do have the most amazing skills in denial of pain, honed over 28 years of living as the parent of a kidnapped child. Perhaps it is nothing more than that. Pain? Block it out. But I don’t think it is. Is it my faith? Mmm, in a very general way that is a huge part of it I think. It’s almost as though I recognized cancer when it came along. “Oh hello. I was expecting you without even being aware of it. You and I have something to do together, don’t we?” It is also true that I am confident of my recovery, at least at this point in time. I have been told that my cancer is “very bad.” It is Stage 3C, the worst you can get before it is deemed uncurable. But at this point, it has all been removed. There were good margins in the surgery, and the PET scan was clear, so any cancer that is lurking in my body is small, cellular. I am confident that the chemo and radiation will eradicate it and I will go on to live another day, to walk down new roads and pass through secret gates I have previously passed by. I also kind of suspect that this cancer might one day kill me, either the breast cancer itself or a secondary cancer as a result of the treatment for the breast cancer. But I don’t expect that will be for awhile yet, and I’m not all that young, so I am not worried about it. I just want to make sure that I do not waste the time I am given.

The other thing is that I honestly don’t think that I am afraid of dying. I think part of that is denial as well. What can’t be cured must be endured, and you might as well do it with a good attitude. That’s how I have lived my life, and it will probably be how I end it as well. Plus I tend to think of death as a great adventure! I have my faith, my beliefs, but even if I am wrong I am not afraid of it. Even if the atheists and humanists turn out to be right and my heart and soul are nothing but biology that cease to exist at death, I won’t know. I won’t care. The only thing that has bothered me is worrying about my family. I don’t want anybody to hurt. I want to make sure everyone has what they need to get through, and to live a happy life. But I have learned that all of that is not really up to me. It’s been part of my life task in recent years to let go of my desire to advise and control circumstances in order to protect my children. I have learned to say, “They will be okay.” And they will be, no matter what. Even if they have some mountains to climb and rivers to swim, they will do it, and they will be okay, and they will be all the stronger for it.

I don’t want to make light of things. I know cancer can be a horrendous disease. I have been reading a book about man with cancer that metastasized, who underwent treatments that were so painful that he could not complete them. His cancer spread to his bones, which as a result broke when he sat on them. And my thought was, if you have to have cancer, breast cancer is much easier. They can just cut the things off. Unless you are planning on having babies, their only function is decorative, and current health law mandates that their decorative function be restored. But even breast cancer and breast cancer treatments can lay people low, I know. I may be one of them yet. I am in week two of twenty weeks of chemo. I should keep quiet until week ten, and then tell you how easy it is or isn’t. But meanwhile, I just wanted to encourage those who are starting out on this journey. Don’t be afraid. You can do it.

                        Breast Cancer Journey: Don’t be afraid. You can do it. Well it is Wednesday, and time to start preparing for my second chemo infusion. That, to me, means some basic germ eradication in obvious places, washing and changing my bedding, and the dogs' bedding, which lives on my bed, and doing some grocery shopping before my white blood cell count is up for eradication again.