#ive been in constant pain for almost four years and its not going to stop and theyre worried abou tme graduating | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

smalltragedy · 3 years

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* herman tommeraas, cis man + he/him | you know donovan mercer, right? they’re twenty one, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, four months? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to ice boy by corbin like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole fear hidden behind a stoic stare, bleeding from your nose and from your gums, and the night sky with all its stars, with all its mystery and unknown thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 15th, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( james, 21, est, they/them )

looks away as i finally post his intro after being kinda awol fr however long. i love him a lot n hes also bri’s character mercy’s younger brother so u hv to be nice to him. think abt mercy’s life. then think abt ducky. im sry in advance tht his intro’s a little longer ive hd ducky fr like. a year or two n i’ve been playing him a While <3 as always like this if u’d like 2 plot n i’ll try 2 msg u bck bt otherwise im gna just hop right into threads bc obv i need to. change my methods.

ABUSE, VIOLENCE, DRUG ABUSE, EYE INJURY, GANG MENTIONS TW.

mini playlist.

father ;; the front bottoms / ice boy ;; corbin / lose yourself ;; eminem / my own worst enemy ;; lit / say it ain’t so ;; weezer / maps ;; yeah yeah yeahs / star stopping ;; lil peep / benz truck ;; lil peep / trauma ;; nf / northern downpour ;; panic! at the disco / your graduation ;; modern baseball.

statistics.

full name: donovan mercer.

nickname(s): ducky.

birthday: march 15th, 1999.

zodiac: pisces sun, aquarius moon, aquarius ascending.

mbti & temperament: intp & theorist / phlegmatic.

label: the despondent.

hometown: hell’s kitchen, new york.

sexuality: bisexual (bt not out).

pinterest.

biography.

born in hell’s kitchen to vinny mercer and a mother who ran out of the hospital as fast as she could, as soon as she was able. she’d gone so quick that she’d never given ducky a middle name - just donovan. the younger brother of mercy (shoutout 2 bri)

his father’s the right-hand man of a well known mob boss named lars amaretto, and so, you can imagine the kind of environment ducky (& mercy) grew up in. weapon & drug dealings, interrogations, violence around every corner. a brutal way of living, no place to raise two children.

implied abuse tw // their father was not kind, or merciful - and ducky was a runt compared to mercy, small and sensitive and kinder than his brother. weak, and filled with softness, with big brown eyes and a smile that should’ve been able to melt ice - but it didn’t. and it never did.

he cried often, and was punished often for it until he learned to stop crying - at least in front of their father, and mercy too, at some point. only in the comfort of his room, with doors locked and blinds drawn closed. implied abuse end of tw

he dreamed, too, dreamt often. he’d been obsessed with outer space since childhood, as long as he could remember. school had once shown man landing on the moon, and ducky wanted that. wanted to be that, wanted to be there, up with the stars, discovering the unthinkable.

abuse mention // but it was discouraged, heavily so - projects destroyed by an angry fist only to be reconstructed to the best of ducky’s ability, with mercy’s help, all throughout the night. he’d saved up for a telescope when he was thirteen, but it’d been destroyed almost immediately when discovered. not a day went by that their father didn’t tell ducky that he was, first and foremost, stupid - and would always be. end of abuse mention

to the point where he stopped trying, simply. he never graduated high school.

abuse mention // anxiety mention // anyways … at the age of fifteen, he’d have enough. he was sick of the abuse, the pain - the crying behind closed doors, the sneaking around, the constant feeling of needing to escape, impending doom, anxiety attacks in the shower and in school bathrooms and at the back of the bus where nobody sat besides him because he was - that boy, the son of that man, the brother of that brute. he’d been a teenager and he’d already been an outcast by all means - an outcast in his family, no matter how hard he tried to appease vinny, and an outsider everywhere else.

the plan took months of preparation, paper ripped out from the back of his school notebook and stuffed beneath his mattress, details of his escape from a checklist of essential items to makeshift maps of bus routes to different cities.

all for nothing, the moment vinny discovered it, the edge of a map sticking out after a rushed morning.

heavy abuse tw // violence tw // it’d been the same day he’d gotten the nickname - ducky - the way the wound wrapped below his mouth, and the way it’d begun to heal - puckered, at first, like a duck’s bill. a better name than eyepatch, at the very least. the scar’d run from the arch of his left brow, across his eye, down his cheek, and below his lip. his eye sustained injury, and not allowed to see a doctor about it, it never healed properly.

eye injury // corneal scarring, impairing his left eye. astronaut dreams destroyed, but not in a matter of seconds. in the matter of an hour, maybe more - and that’d been much, much worse.

he stopped trying to run away after that. tried to be more like their father, more like mercy - more brutish, less feeling. spoke less, and less. spoke hardly at all, unless spoken to first.

still didn’t matter. still lived his days in fear, still knew it’d never change. nothing would ever change.

the mercer brothers have been floating around the north carolina scene for ~5ish years now, trailing after their father who is consistently chasing after their mother with no luck. they’re currently residing in palm motel. can we get a hell yeah?

personality & facts.

he’s actually very? intimidating? when you first meet him. mercy’s younger brother, with a criminal’s record almost as long as his - a scarred face and a mean resting face. it takes at least five minutes of conversation beyond small talk before it starts to weigh on your mind that maybe, he’s not as bad as he seems.

and - well, he isn’t. but he’s guarded - so guarded. more-so than mercy, because mercy’s quicker to anger, quicker to react, and ducky tries so hard to drown out the noise. but he’s not a robot, and his facial expressions can give him away in a second.

he’s seen what happened when mercy had a glimpse of something good in his life (though, it wasn’t actually good at all - mercy had someone, at least. at the very least) - and how quickly it’d all fallen, and so ducky puts a barrier between him and others. distant, as much as he can be.

it hurts, because ducky isn’t by any means antisocial. he doesn’t hate people - he wants to be normal, wants to have friends and a girlfriend - or maybe even a boyfriend, god - but he’s so afraid. ducky is, by nature, a very scared person. terrified to his very core. he knows there is always eyes on him, and mercy too, and he knows that nothing is worth getting someone else hurt.

you know him as mercy’s little brother, and he’s quiet you know that - but his name is ducky, and you think - he’s not too bad. and he knows this, knows the doubts. knows that it’ll get back to mercy, eventually, that his brother is nothing more but a pussy. so he fights more than he’d like to, against the guilt that buries itself deep within his chest with every thrown fist. he throws up, afterwards, in the garbage can outside. too much to drink, he says, rare grin - because grins are convincing, and grins with bleeding gums are intimidating. he learned that from his brother.

violence makes him sick to his very stomach. he can’t watch horror films, or even action films, without feeling queasy. there’s been more times than he can count where he’d thrown up after a fight, or after an interrogation, usually in private but in the occasional presence of mercy.

they fight, a lot, sometimes - ducky’s too soft, too weak, and it’s bad and it’s terrible and ducky knows that mercy’s afraid. for him, of their father, and his wraith. ducky knows that if mercy isn’t hard on him now, their father will be on him harder. still. there’s resentment, small but there, like the flame of a match. he doesn’t know what’ll happen when there’s nothing more to burn, but he doesn’t want to find out. he’s afraid to find out.

he’s still in love with the moon and the stars, and the planet’s - and their moons, too. its subdued, now, though. a silent passion - one that is often not watered, left for rot. he sneaks into engineering lectures at the community college, occasionally, or physics, or whatever peeks the small curiosity inside of him.

commits small acts of kindness when nobody looks. doors held open, the meals of elderly folk eating alone suddenly paid. picks up litter besides trash bins, and always cooks extra than what he needs and leaves the rest for mercy. it’s these small things that make him feel, just the slightest, better about himself.

because god - there are layers and layers of self-loathing. it’s a labyrinth, and he’d never speak of it - but he can’t stand his own reflection. doesn’t keep photos of his family, only a few sparingly of mercy.

a liar, sad to say. has little experience with. ehem. intimacy, and the bodies of others, but lies often and says that he does. mostly to his brother, but word travels quick - and he’s not nearly as much as a fuckboy as is rumored, having only been with a handful of girls, if even that. it’s better this way - if people know that he throws others away like they’re nothing.

he ghosts often, too, if he does get to talking with anybody. the moment ducky feels a spark, something pulling at his poor heart, he ghosts. he develops feelings too easily, too often than he’d like. has left many friendships without explanation, because of this. you know the priest in fleabag season 2? the scene where he comes to fleabag’s house? yeah. tht’s ducky!

has maybe half the amount of clients that mercy does, but he’s working on it.

pretends he doesn’t care as much as he does. pretends a lot, like there’s nothing soft to him. but a trained eye can see clearly through this. even so - even if you can see that there’s more to ducky than violence and drug deals - you’d still have to break through a dozen walls.

in the rare occasion you get him talking - i mean, talking a lot - he’ll talk about space. ramble off a dozen useless facts about dwarf stars and black holes and all of jupiter’s moons. about a video game he likes, about nothing and everything at all. but as soon as he begins, he stops - embarrassed. apologizes, shuts his mouth, disappears to wherever. anywhere but there.

drug abuse // has a. complicated relationship with benzos n xanax n a various assortment of painkillers. ironic bc he hates drugs due to. his chosen career n wldnt do most of what they sell, bt yknow. this ws inevitable. hates beer bt forces himself 2 drink it bc toxic masculinity probably man idk.

overall just … he’s a soft boy, with a big heart - bigger than anybody else in his family, that’s for sure, but his exterior is far different than that, and it’s hard to tell.

violence mention // purposely loses fights so that he doesn’t have to severely hurt someone. because sometimes he just - he was raised in a violent environment, and sometimes he snaps. sometimes ducky just fucking snaps. and his vision goes red, and he can’t control himself - because need to survive kicks in, and violence is all he knows. if someone pushes ducky - pushes him enough, he breaks. he fights back. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows, and that’s not an excuse - and he knows this, and god, he’s so tired. he is so. tired.

wanted plots.

u look good tonight ... ;; wld love a connection in which he is feeling emotionally compromised n maybe kinda hs a thing w someone bt hes like. very unreliable n kinda ghosting bc he is very afraid n it wld b maybe bad fr them to b anything other than hook ups. cld apply to smth very intensive or smth very surface lvl i’ll take thousands.

palms sweaty ... moms spaghetti ... ;; ppl tht ducky just hs fkn brawled. cld b anybody fr any reason. ducky prob lost n he prob lost on purpose bt also ur muse cld maybe kick ducky’s ass? cld b a fake fight cld b a real fight. cld b a npc fight n then ur muse cn patch up ducky? possibilities endless. maybe they hv a nice spaghetti dinner n both of them r both bruised up frm their fight. sometimes fights end in spaghetti dinners. thanks eminnem or whatever.

own worse enemy... ;; ducky needs friends bt hes bad at making friends n sometimes he fks shit up by pushing ppl away n self sabotaging n being a major cunt n sometimes he just ghosts bt hes always very remorseful abt it? this cld b a very like. up n down friendship of any type its just. where do they stand. r they friends. r they enemies. r they lovers? probably not lovers. prob just platonic. but still its the thought tht counts.

and also ;; literally just like. anything. clients who buy off of him n like. casual friends n casual enemies n casual hookups. ppl hes ghosted. ppl hes embarrassed himself in front of. maybe ur muse tries to get ducky to socialize or maybe ducky is like. u are too much fr me. n ur muse runs off crying. endless possibilities all u hv to do is call this number now.

#abuse tw #violence tw #drug abuse tw #gangs mention #eye injury tw #irvingintro #( ducky mercer. ) about. / ice boy.#sighs sm #also sry fr hw embarrasingly late this is #did i even spell tht rigth? no #did i spell tht one right? bno.#fuck.

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astromechs · 4 years

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slipped away into a moment in time ('cause it was never mine)

taylor swift made me do it. expect more, because the entire folklore album was basically angst fodder.

also on ao3!

All things considered, Gamora has been through worse. Fought through worse.

There’s a lot of blood, but the gash across her thigh, courtesy of one of Annihilus’s minions, isn’t terribly deep — no exposed bone, nothing that would suggest any long-term damage. Still, though, when the Front has made its retreat to the makeshift camp and the wounded are being ushered into a medical shelter, when the skies clear over this rocky planet she’s already forgotten the name of, when the surroundings are quiet and there’s no longer a fight to focus on, a spasm of pain seizes her entire leg when it bears weight, and for a second, just one split-second, she winces.

You know what happens when you show weakness, Gamora. The voice of Thanos in her head, right on cue. That voice is right, of course; she knows what happens next, knows that it’s a mistake that’ll cost her.

Instantly, her hand reaches for the hilt of her sword, hanging on her hip; if someone’s coming to take advantage of that weakness, she’ll be ready for them. She’ll be ready for anything.

“Hey. You okay?”

Except, maybe, for this.

It’s not that she hadn’t heard Richard Rider, Nova Prime, Commander of the United Front, coming; that man doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, and his steps would’ve likely been noticeable from several clicks away. He could never sneak up on her, but — something about him always seems to throw her off balance. Something about the perpetual kindness in his eyes, even through the worst of this war. Something about the gentle tone of his voice, a stark contrast to the power he holds in his hands.

No one like him has ever existed in her reality, and even now, months after joining a war effort that seems more destined to lose by the day, she still doesn’t know what to make of… any of it.

Her hand drops back down by her side, and she’s the picture of perfectly cool, even, with the requisite: “It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t quite see it under his helmet, but it’s obvious from the expression on his face that he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow. He’s a lot smarter than she’d initially given him credit for; maybe strategy isn’t his strength, no, but he knows those working under him, every single one — by name, by capability, by his own keen intuition that alerts him to anything that might be amiss.

There’s no getting past him. She knows in the instant before he says, “Doesn’t seem like nothing. You should go to medical.”

His voice isn’t chiding — just genuinely concerned. Again, she feels the ground shift under her feet; again, she feels so unsteady she could topple over. Instead, though, she swallows down a strange lump forming in her throat, hating the way her own voice sounds more strained than it should when she insists, “I’ll be fine.”

The conversation should end there; she owes him nothing more. But something tugs in her, prompts her to offer one useful piece of wisdom, perhaps in some attempt at equivalent exchange:

“Kindness will get you killed one day, Richard Rider.”

Then, she turns on her heel and leaves without another word, head held high, doing her best to ignore the limp in her steps.

ii.

He’s been staring aimlessly out the flagship’s viewport for hours.

She hasn’t been keeping track, not really; she’s purely exhausted her need for sleep on this particular night cycle, and in all the times she’s wandered by, he hasn’t moved, not even the arms folded across his chest. Nothing’s coming for them in this stretch of space, so any effort to keep vigil is pointless at best.

But she knows this isn’t that. Even if in this war, they’ve been handed nothing but defeat, Richard takes every single one of them hard, personally shoulders the weight of every life lost under his command. It’s a risky quality to have in a leader, and she’s still certain in what she’d told him before. Still certain that, one day, kindness will kill him. Break him.

She doesn’t want to see it happen.

Instead of moving on, she stops. Watches him for a moment longer, eyes lingering, before crossing the floor to stand next to him. If he’s heard her approach, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and so, for a time, she lets the silence hang in the air between them. Until —

“People die. This is war.” Her voice isn’t cold when she says it, nor is it any semblance of gentle or comforting, because she’d never been built for that; it simply is, another piece of factual wisdom that she’s trying to impart.

He exhales a long breath, and when he turns to look at her finally, expression haggard, he looks much older than anyone as young as him has a right to. “I know.”

Perhaps it’s that, above all, that tugs at something deep in her core, past years of hard-learned truths and carefully constructed armor; it aches in her chest, this sudden thought that maybe, in some ways, they’re not so different.

A hand reaches for one of his, winding their fingers together.

After a beat, he squeezes back.

iii.

Gamora gives him whatever small pieces of inconsequentials that she’s capable of giving. She gives him her nights, saves a spot for him in her bed. Gives him release from the pressure he threatens to crack under some days, gives him just one place where he doesn’t have to make all the calls.

Sometimes, she gives him an extra hour of the sleep that’s so difficult for him to find.

Already, she’s declined four pings on his comm this morning, but sooner or later, someone will come looking for him. He’s important, after all. And he would be angry at himself over missed duties.

“Richard-Human.” Her hand reaches for his forehead, gently brushes the hair from his forehead.

At that, one bleary eye opens to peer at her, followed by another. His hair is sticking up in all directions on the pillow, and he looks completely ridiculous. “Hey,” he says, raspy but soft.

His smile, though, lopsided as it cracks his face — his smile is bright enough to light up a star.

She thinks she could burn under the force of it, because for someone who’s spent most of her life in the dark, it’s almost too much to bear. The eye contact certainly is in this moment; her gaze drops, fixating on the tangled sheets that still cover them both. Time’s ticking on these moments she’s stolen, she knows — this thing they have, whatever it is, can only live in a warzone, and if they both make it out of this alive, he’ll go on to a life that certainly doesn’t include her. That’s what he deserves. What….

Fingers brush the lines of her jaw, graze over the skin of her face, and pull her out of her thoughts. Bring her eyes back up to meet his. She drifts closer, ever closer, until their lips meet and everything else fades away.

She lets herself have this.

For now.

iv.

The Kree prisoners fall under her sword. Their deaths are quick under barely more than a single stroke; their blood rains down, soaks the ground below.

If you find nothing useful, her teachings would tell her, wipe them out.

By them, she had done well.

She wipes the blade and sheaths it, steps delicately over a body that’s still warm. And —

Meets a pair of eyes that she’d never wanted to disappoint, their cold stare cutting through her like daggers.

It’d only been a matter of time. She’s so skilled in exploiting limits that it’s practically reflex to her; sooner or later, she’d have found the limits of his affection, his naive faith in her, too.

She’ll never see those eyes again. She’s sure of it.

The first thing she thinks is that she feels — empty. Cold.

It’s a feeling she’s far from a stranger to. For years, it’s been her constant companion as she’s drifted, from one planet to the next, one galaxy to the next, between wars fought for causes and jobs taken for nothing at all, looking for something that’s long eluded her: purpose. Richard had been imbued with it every single day like it’d been effortless, conviction burning brighter than the force of a star that had propelled him — and she’d wanted that, more than anything, wanted to experience even just a fraction of what that could feel like.

Eventually, she had found it, buzzing through her veins with every directive from the Phalanx. Purpose. As part of a whole, part of something beyond herself, she could keep moving forward on a clear path with a set destination; weeds like guilt and regret had withered, making everything… blissfully uncomplicated.

And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and all she feels is cold.

They’re cured, Richard says, with his particular brand of bright-eyed earnestness, like all the universe’s problems are fixed, just like that, but it isn’t a solution at all. It puts her right back where she flarking started, and she’s — she’s tired, down to her cybernetic bones. Tomorrow, she’ll have to start drifting again.

But today, with his steady hands there to pick up the pieces, she allows herself to break.

It’s as ugly as she is inside, full of ragged breaths and stumbling words, full of the kind of weakness that would get someone killed. She hates it, she hates this entire situation — and she hates herself most of all.

But in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that not an hour ago, she’d been ready to kill him, blade pointed at his throat, he doesn’t waiver. She doesn’t deserve anything that this man doesn’t hesitate or question giving — not his comfort, not his acceptance. Doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near the presence of someone so unfailingly kind and good.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says into her hair, both arms wrapped tightly around her as he pulls her close to his chest.

Foolishly, she doesn’t fight it. But what’s most foolish of all is that in the warmth of his embrace, she almost lets herself believe him.

coda.

She hasn’t cried in decades; Thanos had firmly seen to that. Tears had been considered a weakness, and like every other she’d once carried, they’d been removed under the cut of a knife, her back strapped to a table, screams so long-buried that they hadn’t even attempted to rise to her throat. Several times since, in the private silence of cold nights, she’s waited, head bowed, for some kind of reminder that she can still feel, that she lives and breathes beyond being someone’s object.

But even if she could cry, could let tears cloud her vision and allow for some kind of release for the heaviness in her chest, she doesn’t think she would now.

There’s no point in crying over what she’s long known to be inevitable.

When her passport activates and the Cancerverse fades from view, when the familiar sights and sounds of Knowhere fill her senses once again, she doesn’t even get angry. There’s no point in that, either, she thinks.

Hope is fleeting, a flower that can sometimes manage to grow even in the hardest and driest of dirt — but it will always get crushed out of existence. Light can never overtake the dark; this is the way of things.

Richard Rider’s days have always been numbered; a light that brilliant could’ve never stayed.

The universe returns to balance.

#gamora #richard rider #richmora #* fic #my stuff #please go to the tags #IT WENT TO THE TAGS YAY

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keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: Bedside Stories ch.2 (baon)

Summary: Edge is tired of being in the hospital and that is a fact.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Hints of Kustard Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Hospitals

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

With the IVs and all the monitoring equipment removed, the hospital room could almost be mistaken for a hotel. The walls were painted in cozily muted shades and the landscaped paintings were generic enough to match any accommodations they’d been given on their travels, even the most prestigious. The bed was the only distinguishing feature and even it was less confronting with the railings lowered; there was less concern about him tumbling out since the decision had been made to lower Edge’s pain medication to what he still considered unreasonable levels, but far more acceptable than the quantities that left his head swimming.

Currently the bed was somewhat sloppily made and Edge was settled on top of the blankets, fully dressed with his casted foot resting atop some carefully arranged pillows. Not generally one for fidgeting, he couldn’t help drumming his fingers against the bed-covers agitatedly. Today was they day the doctors agreed for his release; all they needed now was an orderly with a wheelchair and he could be out, away from this room and the four walls he’d been staring at for days.

It was honestly starting to verge on intolerable; he had crutches, the walk down to the parking lot was a short one with elevators to ease the path. And having to be the one sitting and waiting impatiently while his spouse read the release papers was a new experience, one he would have been happy to live without.

Particularly since Stretch seemed to be taking some measure of fiendish delight in it, his eye lights bright as they skimmed over the paperwork. He held up the checklist and said cheerily, “okay, babe, let’s go over this one more time.”

Edge sighed inwardly and nodded. He supposed he deserved this, considering how many times their positions had been reversed. It didn’t mean he had to like it.

Stretch looked down the slight protuberance of his nasal aperture at the sheet, “first question; what are you supposed to do this week?”

“Keep my leg elevated,” Edge recited flatly.

“right you are!” Stretch agreed, chipper as an abnormally cruel chickadee. “and what are you supposed to do every three hours?”

“Ice my leg to keep the cartilage from swelling.”

“you’re on fire, which, coincidentally, is not what you should do with your leg. okay, last one, this is a toughie,” Stretch leaned forward and asked with great solemnness, “when are you supposed to take your pain meds?”

Edge glared at him and gritted out, “As directed.”

Stretch beamed at him, flumping back into his chair. “a+, baby, great job! aced the exam.” His humor faded, replaced by an uncommonly steely determination, “so, this is how the week is going to go, yeah? the docs are highly paid medical pros who know what’s what and we’re going to follow the directions they gave us, that they went to many, many years of school for, and everything will go according to plan.”

“I’d like to think I know my own body best,” Edge muttered under his breath. Not quietly enough, Stretch’s eye lights flickered orange and he scrambled to his feet, stalking over to the bed to poke Edge in the sternum with a blunt fingertip.

“highly. paid. pros.” Stretch said firmly. “look, either you do as the doc says, or you might get to change your power stride into a drunken sailor lurch. follow the directions or you’ll never get to face Kevin Bacon in the dance off, yeah?”

“Yes, dear,” Edge grumbled. The situation was irritating, but blaming Stretch for his worries would be more hypocritical than Edge could stomach. Before Stretch could flop back into his chair, Edge hooked an arm around him and pulled him in, ignoring his squirming protests to tug him onto the bed and into his arms, pressing a soft kiss on top of his skull. “Love, I’m all right.”

“uh huh, sure,” Stretch managed to wriggle free enough to glare at him. “if i tried any shit and my excuse was ‘i know better than people who’ve gone to medical school’, you’d have my ass.”

Which was true, but aside from the point. “I’d like to state for the record that since I was admitted, at no point have I disobeyed any of the doctor’s orders.”

“not yet, anyway, but you’re still in arms reach.” Stretch gave up on clever escape attempts and settled against Edge’s side. “keep behaving at home, yeah? anyway, they should be springing us soon.”

“They should.” But there was no telltale sign of footsteps, nor the sound of rubber wheels on a tile floor and the irritable tension in his soul was on the verge of snapping. “Could you help me to my feet, I’d like to go to the restroom.”

Stretch pulled back, blinking with what would be a frankly hurtful amount of suspicion if Edge wasn’t sure he would have done the same thing were their positions reversed, “seriously? for what, all that healing grow you the ability to take a leak?”

“Don’t be crude,” Edge chided, “I want to wash my hands.”

“geez, i can bring you a wet washcloth, we’ll be home in like, an hour, why do you-”

“Please.”

Perhaps it was the urgency in his voice, but Stretch faltered, his sockets narrowing to show only the rim of pale white lights. It was perfectly true, Edge did want to wash his hands; even knowing that the hospital rooms were as clean as possible, everything freshly washed and sterilized, it wasn’t enough. He’d been here for days in this bed made up with sheets that weren’t his own, dressed in borrowed hospital gowns and subjected to sponge baths from the hands of relative strangers. The urge to scrub himself clean was constant and he was very much looking forward to showering in his own bathroom, but for now even though his release was imminent, his agitation was starting to slip his hold. At the very least he wanted to wash his hands with hot running water and plenty of soap before he put on a fresh pair of gloves, he needed that.

That Stretch’s expression abruptly softened was a small measure of its own relief, as was his nod. “okay, baby, let’s get you up.”

With some effort, Edge swung his legs off the side of the bed, Stretch helping guide the way. The cast was unwieldy, but it was hardly the first he’d ever had. Not the first broken bone or even broken leg, though Edge could admit it was the worst. He took a moment for his equilibrium to adjust before easing his weight into standing, faint spots dancing in his vision; it was the first time he’d been truly upright in days, but it was fine, just fine.

“okay, here’s the crutches--”

Stretch reached for them at the same time he did, and that was enough to somehow tangle the ends with both their own feet. They worked exactly as a lever should, knocking them both off balance and Edge tried to catch himself but the damage was done. All he could do was aim them both for the safety of the bed rather than the hard floor and Stretch yelped as they tumbled down to the mattress, Edge’s not inconsiderable weight on top of him.

That yelped turned closer to a wheeze as Edge accidentally jammed an elbow into his rib cage as he attempted to untangle himself from the maze of their limbs. By the time he’d managed to somewhat free himself, Stretch was laughing helplessly between pants for breath, “sorry, babe, that didn’t go as planned.”

“Yes, I suspected as much,” Edge said dryly. He was gathering himself for a second attempt, this time without the ‘help’, when a voice came from behind them.

“huh. didn’t think they allowed that kind of action in these rooms, but you do you.”

They both looked up to see Sans standing in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets and his normal smile playing on his mouth. The dark stains beneath his sockets were a testament to his own days in the hospital, his normal hoodie and shorts rumpled as though they’d been slept in. Which was often the case hospital or not, but seeing it here seemed particularly poignant.

“heya, what’s up?” Stretch asked. He slithered out from under Edge in an eely little move that would’ve come in rather handy only five minutes earlier.

“only the sky and satellites,” Sans said easily. “heard they were springing you, thought I should stop by.” He stepped further into the room, but didn’t close the door, and his grin didn’t touch his eye lights. “hey, stretch, why don’t you go see how that wheelchair wrangling is going, yeah?”

Stretch gave Sans a brutally unimpressed look; he might cheerily claim the title of idiot, but he was nobody’s fool. Low and through his teeth, Stretch said, “i think the orderlies know what they’re doing, doubt they need an amateur to help ‘em.”

Implying that he wasn’t about to follow the unspoken order to leave. This new protectiveness was not entirely unwelcome; to be honest it was somewhat endearing, but Edge couldn’t allow it to take hold. He gave Stretch a gentle nudge, jarring him from his glaring with a quiet, “Go on, love, see what’s taking so long.”

If Sans needed to speak to him alone, then it was likely Embassy business and from the way Stretch looked between them with an expression of distinct unhappiness, he knew it. He started to reach for Edge, his fingers curling abortively into a fist before they touched what Edge knew was a lingering bruise down the side of his face.

“fine. wheelchair wrangling, sure, yippee-ki-yay,” Stretch said flatly. “yeah, okay, but if you upset him, remember that i’m the one stuck riding shotgun with him all the way home.”

Sans only gave him a wink and a finger twirl, “don’t even worry about it, i won’t give the edgelord a reason to whip out the big guns.”

The sound Stretch made was a step past rude and when he stomped out, he yanked the door closed with a near slam, echoing in the small room. Edge spoke before Sans could, asking quietly, “How is your brother?”

Sans seemed unperturbed by the change of subject, “doing all right. about like you, itchin’ to go home. he’ll be here a few days longer yet, they’d like to keep a closer eye on the noggin, but the docs say everything’s going as expected.”

That, at least, was a comfort. “I’m sorry.”

“ooookay?” Sans said slowly, bemused. He rocked on his slippered feet and something about that was upsetting; he’d given up slippers for sneakers some time ago. To see them making an appearance outside of his own home was disheartening, a step backwards. “mind telling me what for?”

The words came with some difficulty, clogging in his throat, but Edge forced them out, “Papyrus shouldn’t have been hurt. He was my responsibility.”

Sans was shaking his head before Edge even finished. “yeah, let’s back up a few steps here. look, you were leading the security team, but you ain’t the only one on it, and if i can forgive myself for not protecting him, i’m sure as fuck not gonna blame you.” Edge said nothing and Sans’s easy smile thinned, “but hey, since you’re going with unnecessary guilt, guess we can hop into why i’m here. after you get settled in at home and you get a mo’, might wanna check out the paperwork for your psych assessment. once you’re back on your feet, you need to schedule an evaluation with the department head shrinker before you can get back to work.”

Edge frowned, already shaking his head, “That won’t be necessary.”

Sans shrugged carelessly. “maybe, maybe not, but what it ain’t is optional. i had to do it myself. it’s only an hour or so, just a chat to make sure your head is on straight.”

“I don’t need a chat,” Edge said tersely. In fact, he was fairly sure it was the last thing he needed, and it was definitely not something he wanted. “I survived Underfell, this incident is hardly comparable.”

Never had Sans’s grin seemed so like his brother’s, sharp and darkly amused despite his blunted teeth. “welp, have i got great news for you, pal. you’re not in Underfell anymore, you’re here and either you play by the rules or you don’t play, you get me, little brother?” For all his vow not to stir Edge up, those two words made him startle, unexpected emotion heavy in his chest, “and you can keep your bitching about it, this ain’t my idea, it’s from higher up. but i agree with it. get it done, you hear me?”

“Fine,” Edge gritted out. It was a terrible idea and unnecessary, but arguing with Sans was less useful than shouting into the wind and expecting it to obey, “Is that all?”

“it was everything on my shortlist,” Sans said, all languid ease once again, “stretch should be back soon. go home, get some rest, watch some shitty tv, smooch your honey on his face as many times as you can. i’ll try to stop by once paps is back home, maybe we can schedule a playdate for you two martyrs, and you can chat about tossing yourselves on grenades or whatever else you have planned. maybe if you two idiots can stop taking on the blame for any shit that rolls downhill, you’ll have a good time.”

He started turning to door and Edge blurted, “Sans.”

Sans stopped, head tilting curiously.

It was difficult to ask, given the state of whatever the relationship between Sans and Red was, and yet, Edge’s normal sources were failing him; the Embassy servers were still closed to him and normally his brother would be the one he’d go to first. Therein lay the problem. “I haven’t seen my brother since the day they brought me in.”

“no?” Sans said lightly, but before Edge could do more than keep the tight hurt from showing on his face, Sans sighed tiredly, his head drooping, “yeah, i know.”

“Do you know where he is?” It burst loose and to ask this way, so straightforward and desperate, felt wrong, almost felt like a betrayal, but it was his brother and his bottled up concern was starting to leak around the edges.

Sans sucked on his teeth loudly, but the sudden sincerity in his voice weakened Edge with uncertain relief, “working on it. i’ll let you know if i get any bites.”

“Thank you.” It was all he could hope for.

Sans gave him a nod and then he was gone, sidestepping into a shortcut. Edge sagged back on the mattress, exhausted despite having done nothing today but a foiled attempt at standing.

If he couldn’t investigate his brother’s absence on his own, then Sans was as good as he could hope for as an alternate. He might be somewhat kinder than Red, but Edge recognized a commonality between them, especially when it came to seeking information with less than traditional methods.

Sans was wrong about one thing, though; it had been Edge’s responsibility to watch over all the diplomats, and he’d allowed his personal distractions to interfere with his duty. If his mind had been properly on the task at hand, the damages would have been so much less, and he could only imagine the fallout that the Embassy was currently dealing with because of it since his access had been taken away. It was strikingly similar to the events at the Golden City restaurant with Jeff, his distraction keeping him from protecting those he was supposed to keep safe.

Liabilities, Red called them. Called Stretch. His pretty little liability.

Even worse was a truth he hardly wanted to acknowledge. If he’d given in or ignored Asgore’s instruction and brought Stretch with him, Edge had little doubt his instinct would have been to protect him to the exclusion of all others. Protocol dictated that his concern should have been for the diplomats, but he couldn't pretend that would be true if his husband was there.

Edge shifted higher on the mattress, wincing as he struggled to arrange his cast back on the pile of pillows. The room seemed too quiet without Stretch, echoing emptily, and Edge let his head drop back on the pillows, staring up at the plain white of the ceiling as he waited for the wheelchair and the much-needed freedom to go home.

But the word ‘liability’ was heavy on his mind, and the voice was his brother’s.

~~*~~

As it turned out, the coveted wheelchair was so close to their room, Stretch came damn close to tripping over it when he sulked his way out. And yeah, it satisfied a certain vindictiveness in him to sweetly ask the guy if he couldn’t come back in a half hour or so, since there was important Embassy shit going on behind that closed door.

The orderly didn’t even grumble, probably too awed imagining what the top secret shenanigans might be to think about the fact that Edge was supposed to be off-duty, like, really off, not supposed to be doing any work at all and if almost getting blown up didn’t qualify a person for some paid time off, then that contract needed some review.

But even if it was satisfying to send the transport guy off while Stretch indulged himself in a little justified annoyance, it didn’t exactly keep the guilt from skittering on up his back. Stretch ignored it and wandered down to the nurse’s station where there were a few chairs and a table lined up in a sort of ‘waiting hallway’.

The chairs were even shittier than the ones in the rooms, thin-cushioned and cramped, and way too short besides. Stretch slumped down into one anyway, letting his legs sprawl out in front of him instead of trying to sit properly with his knees up by his ears. It was awkward as hell, but even that was almost welcome. Better to get all his sulks out before he got back into the room, because he honestly didn’t want to fight with Edge today, not when he was about to get him back home. Once they were there it’d be easier, he was gonna make sure of that; one week of rest wasn’t too fucking much to ask.

He was playing a very morose round of ‘Words With Friends’ on his phone, trying to figure out what he could make out of FIX with the letters he had, when the tippy tap of shoes on the tile made him glance up.

To his surprise, it was Toriel and Frisk, and they seemed equally surprised to see him. That at least made sense, he didn’t have many good reasons to be sitting in the damn hallway like an uncommon sort of houseplant.

“Why, hello, Papyrus,” Toriel exclaimed. Sweet lady that she was, she didn’t ask about his current location, even if her shrewd gaze said she certainly noticed it. Technically, she wasn’t a diplomat herself, she only came along as Frisk’s guardian, but try to explain that to anyone who met her, staring at the way she towered over most Humans as they looked up into her regal face.

Yeah, there was a reason that most Monsters still called her the Queen even if she and Asgore were divorced.

Hearing his name from her made Stretch smile reluctantly. Tori was about the only person who called him Papyrus these days aside from his therapist. It was per his own request, way back when she’d come to him and asked for his help with the lab work. She wasn’t his friend behind the door any more than Asgore was, but somehow, it was soothing to have at least one Monster call him by his real name. Plus, she had jokes; it was something, anyway.

Frisk offered a cheerful grin of their own. They were currently making the teenager years their own, all gangly limbs and flared rashes of pimples, but their smile was always warming. Good kid, worked tirelessly to get Monsters the equality that they damn well deserved. They’d gone a long way in showing Stretch that most Humans were all right.

Not that the little fucker from Underswap really deserved the title of Human, but yeah, anyway, that was trauma for another time.

Stretch forced a little leftover cheer into his voice, “hey, guys, what’re you up to?”

Toriel smiled, dimpling prettily through her short fur. “Visiting the other Papyrus.” Her laughter was bright and sincere. “He’s a dear, truly, but it is rather like eating a clock. Time consuming.”

“especially if you go for seconds,” Stretch added gleefully, and Tori let out another peal of laughter, shaking with it as she leaned against her child. Who only shook their head and took her weight stoically, their smile sincere.

“That was a good one,” Toriel sighed finally, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “But if you’d something a little tastier than an hour, we’re heading down to the cafeteria for lunch. Would you like to join us?”

“can’t,” Stretch said, with true regret. Wasn’t often he got to spend time with a pure spirit of the punny kind. Stretch jerked his head towards the hospital room door. “edge is about to get sprung.”

Toriel only smiled, unoffended, “That is wonderful news, dear, won’t you give him my love?” And as Frisk bounced impatiently, she chuckled again. “Apologies, our love. Yes, yes, dear, I’m coming.”

The kid gave Stretch a cheekily salute and darted down the hallway towards the elevators, but before Tori could follow, Stretch caught her arm.

"tori?” Stretch asked, low, “can i ask a favor?"

"Of course,” Toriel glanced at Frisk, who’d paused, looking back quizzically, and called, “Go on ahead, dear, I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.” She returned her attention to Stretch, her expression curious, “What is it?”

"you got enough juice for a little healing yet?" It’d been a few days, she should be replenished, but Stretch didn’t want to assume, not when he was already begging favors.

Immediately, suspicion filled her soft face, "Yes, why?"

He glanced distrustfully around the empty hallway as if someone might spring out of the walls before he tugged up his sleeve, showed her his wrist. The bruises swelling there were stark against the bone, slender, dark smudges only slightly wider than skeletal fingers. Toriel’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed, studying them, but when she looked back up at him, Stretch met her gaze steadily. There were any number of Monsters here in the hospital with healing capabilities but none of them were ones he trusted enough to show. Not even Blue, but that wasn’t exactly about trust, now was it.

Very carefully, Toriel took his wrist in hand, the fur on her fingers ticklishly soft. Her thumb skirted over the mottled bruises as she murmured, "He wasn't quite awake, was he?"

Stretch said nothing, only nodded shortly, and her expression softened. "I spent a great many years married to a former soldier myself. Promise me this isn't an ongoing issue and I'll heal it."

"i promise,” Stretch said immediately, all stark honesty and he didn’t think he imagined a certain tension leaving Tori’s shoulders. “it's only the second time he's done anything like that in all the time we've been together.” Well, not including fun-time bruises, but that was probably some tmi. “and he was drugged to the gills, too. it was an accident, but my bro might not see it that way."

"You may be right,” Toriel said, with the tone of one who worked often with his bro and had a fair idea of his inner workings. “I have a slightly different understanding of these matters than he might. Hold still, now."

Warmth glossed out from her touch, the soft green of healing and instantly the bruises faded along with the lingering discomfort. A couple seconds of effort to keep back a possible defcon situation with his bro. Not quite a lie, not in his opinion, but even if it was, it was one Stretch could live with.

“thanks,” Stretch said gratefully, tugging his sleeve back down.

“Of course, dear. You take care now, won’t you?” To his bemusement, she leaned down and planted a kiss on top of his skull, the same way she might’ve to Frisk on any given day. “Take care of that husband of yours as well.” Her smiled turned tremulous. “I owe him a debt that I can never repay.”

“every day i can,” Stretch assured her, watching as she walked after Frisk. Come to think of it, might not just be a favor for him that she’d healed those bruises. Hiding them from Edge had been a hell of a chore, too, trying to keep him from feeling even more like shit about it, and not for the first time Stretch wished he was better at healing himself. It would be a nice trick for special occasions, for sure.

The sound of the wheelchair returning caught his attention and Stretch hopped to his feet, wandering back towards the hospital room. Looked like it was finally time to head home, and that, friends and neighbors, was probably gonna take all the patience he could get.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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hazinhoodies · 6 years

Text

Dead Heat (H.O)

FireFighter!Harrison x Paramedic!Reader

A/N: so i saw someone ask for this pairing in @h-osterfield s asks so i wrote it.

Warnings: descriptions of injuries

Word Count: 3.4k (longest thing ive written as of now)

Late shifts weren’t too bad. The only calls were normally mundane things, well, mundane for a paramedic at least. The odd heart attack, seizure maybe, things that usually have an underlying medical cause already. Maybe it was anaphylactic shock or a paranoid couple whose newborn wouldn’t calm down. Of course, you can’t blame them for that, anyone would be scared if they didn’t know what was wrong with their two-month-old. For the most part, they were calls that didn’t even need an ambulance. Then there were the more exciting things, they weren’t necessarily good, it was never good when an ambulance gets called. Sometimes they have stories though, like the kid who snuck out to go see a cat, lost said cat, and then broke their arm when they fell off a fence while looking for the cat.

It’s the reason you became a paramedic, to help. Everyone has a story. a when you can’t save someone, their book is closed, no matter how many blank pages had yet to be filled. It hurt knowing that they never would. Some of them stick with you, no matter how much you didn’t want them too.

There was always the odd night shift where everything goes to shit. When the calls won’t stop. The sirens echo in your ears all night.

You sat at a table with the other paramedics, on your third round of poker for the night. Your cards are long forgotten, already folded. Luck wasn’t on your side, your two and seven mocking you of your third bad break of the night.

The alarm went off in the room, everyone immediately kicking into action, pulling their jackets off chairs and over their arms as they rush to the ambulances. You hop into the passenger side of your ambulance, Dylan Arnott already in the drivers' side as Rachel Wolff climbed into the back, slamming the car doors behind her. Arnott sped off, sirens blaring with the other ambulances following behind him. Your radio was going insane with information already.

You caught some of the information. The basic stuff at least. Skyscraper, fire, lot of damage. You took a deep breath to try and calm yourself down.

“Fire?” Rachel spoke from behind you, you nodded in response.

“Huge apparently. Had to evacuate the entire skyscraper” You chewed on the inside of your lip

“Well, in that case, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say its that huge tower of smoke that we’re headed towards” Rachel pointed out the windshield at the smoke that surrounded a tall mostly glass building. The black cloud swirled and billowed around it before thinning out past the roof only to be blown west by the wind. You could see the odd flame lick at the windows but for the most part, the rest of the fire was hidden by the city skyline.

You arrived on scene no more than a minute later, rushing out of the ambulance and pulling on a pair of gloves. You watch as Dylan and Rachal run over to the group of civilians standing off the property, checking if they're okay.

The commotion overwhelms you for a moment. The sirens fall silent in your ears but the lights still blare, blue and red and white flashing over and over and over again. You notice how the emergency service vehicles are gathered, PD and paramedics on one side of the main entrance and FD on the other. They blocked off the road for the most part, but two cop cars blocked it off further down the road. You’d done fire calls before but definitely nothing this big.

“Just gonna stand there or are you gonna help?” You hear over the sirens, your eyes meet familiar blue ones that start to approach you. “I know it’s a lot but you know what you're doing. It’s like every other call. Sure there's more going on but there's also more of us here too”

“Osterfield! What’s the holdup?” The fire chief yells from behind you.

“Nothing sir” Harrison pulls his respirator mask over his face and puts on his helmet as he starts to run into the building, you follow behind him momentarily.

“Thanks” You shout as you turn your attention to the person another firefighter had helped out of the building. You weren’t sure if he heard you but the nod you saw confirmed that he did. His partner ran up next to him before the two of them disappeared into the building

You were handing your fifth patient off to Dylan to handle when Harrison came out of the building, unconscious civilian in tow. You made eye contact with him again but this time you were the one that ran towards him.

“He was unconscious when I found him” Harrison spoke as you helped him lift the older man onto the gurney. “Twenty-ninth floor”

You nodded as you got to work, searching first on his wrists and neck for a medical tag, eventually finding one on his wrists for atrial fibrillation and a pacemaker.

“You doing alright?” You look up at Harrison for a moment as you attach oxygen to the man. You notice how he’d been gripping his left hand with his right and nod towards it. “Burn?”

“What? Oh yeah, it’s fine though. I should go back, Tom is still inside with some of the others” Harrison starts to turn away.

“Let me look at it” you say as you push the gurney away, handing him off to another paramedic. “Afib and a pacemaker, found unconscious”

“No Y/N I’m fine.” Harrison protests. You grab his right wrist, pulling him back.

“Harrison let me take a look. Please”

“Y/N there are still people inside. Firefighters and civilians. Tom is inside. And every second that I’m not in there is another second that I’m not helping put out the fire and doing my job” He was almost yelling. Your grip on his wrist loosens slightly as you sign.

“I’ll take a look after then. But don’t apply pressure. I know it hurts and you want to but if its second degree or worse then its probably leaking plasma, which will dry and act as a glue between your skin and the material of the glove. It probably isn’t third degree though if you can still feel your hand” You catch yourself rambling. “What I’m saying is be careful. Go save some lives” You let go of his wrist and he nods, immediately running off into the building again.

You became distracted again by the numerous people that various firefighters pulled out of the building. Some conscious and some not but the further it got into the night, the more of them were unconscious. Ambulances came and went, bringing people to the hospital with their families. As the group of civilians who had evacuated in the beginning got smaller, they started to worry more, when their respective family members were brought out, you couldn’t tell if they were relieved or more panicked. They aren’t dead at least.

It’d been at least two hours since you’d seen Harrison. Maybe three? You didn’t know. There was too much going on for you to bother checking. It wasn’t until Tom came out with one last civilian, letting the fire chief know that the building was entirely evacuated of civilians, that you even remembered that he was in the building.

Tom ran back in once again. Almost surely to help put out the fire. You looked up, there was less smoke than before, that was good. You would’ve thought that things were nearly finished up if it weren’t for the flames that suddenly burst out the windows on the thirty-third floor and the loud bang that ensued. The fire chief immediately radioed for another fire department. Your hand went to cover your mouth, hiding your gasp. Luckily, no one came down with the shattered glass.

You sat in the back of the ambulance, there wasn’t much you could do from the ground until one of the firefighters brought someone out for you. And in the twenty minutes, it’d been since the explosion, no one had. You weren't sure if the constant radio chatter was a comfort or if it worsened your fears

You’d known Harrison for a while now. You met during FD/EMS training, when you were partnered up, god, he sucked at keeping chest compressions in time. It was an attempt for the separate departments to get to know each other better so when a call actually came, you would know who you were working with and so that you’d learn to trust them and their decisions. As well as so the EMS wouldn’t resent the fire department as much when they took medical calls and solved the issue before medical even got there, but the higher-ups wouldn’t tell you that.

You’d been warned by girls from his station about his flirting. Told that he could be relentless sometimes. And sure it was annoying at first, but you started flirting back eventually. At first, it was just to gauge his reaction but turned to something more lighthearted. It’s been three years since then, and you two only continued to grow closer. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel something for the blond.

A hand on your back pulls you from your thoughts as Rachel hops up onto the ambulance as well.

“What’s on your mind?” She rubs your back soothingly. “Hero-boy?” Racheal uses her nickname for Harrison, one that she created three years ago, at the same training weekend, eliciting a laugh from you in return.

“You know he's not the only firefighter right? And people consider us heroes too” You turn your head to face her.

“No I know, but he sure as hell made you a lot more fun to be around on calls. So he’s my hero“ Rachal paused. “Even if he sucks at CPR. That boy couldn’t keep 100 beats per minute if life depended on it, and it does”

You can’t help but laugh and look up at the thirty-third floor again. The smoke had cleared away for the most part, no longer as thick, dense and dark as it had been before. It’d been another hour since the explosion, you hadn’t seen anyone come down, but there’d been radio communication pretty much non-stop. You heard the muffled voices over the chiefs radio for the billionth time that night.

“Fire’s out” The chief repeated, everyone on the ground erupted in either a cheer or a sigh of relief. It was nearly four in the morning now, your own pain and worry had finally caught up with you as the adrenaline had faded hours ago. You could see silhouettes approach the entrance of the building as a few of the firefighters came out and headed to the nearest ambulances. No Harrison.

Three more small waves of firefighters came, all varying in degrees of injury, and there was still no Harrison. Normally you would’ve waited for him before taking anyone else but with no sign of him, you signalled for one of the other firefighters to take a seat in your ambulance as you hopped down from it, ignoring the brief pain that shot up through your legs. You mindlessly ran through the procedure of giving her oxygen and checking for other injuries as you racked your brain, searching through your memory for any mention of Harrison's name over the radio in the past four hours. You thought you remembered something but you couldn’t be sure. Maybe you were imagining it, trying to justify it somehow.

You sent the firefighter away once she was all cleared. You couldn’t imagine how exhausted she was, running up and down stairs, taking people out of a burning building, in all that heavy gear-

A shout from the entrance grabs your attention, you and Rachel, who had also recently finished up with someone, ran towards the entrance where the shout had come from.

You spot a tired looking, beat up Harrison. Though he wasn’t nearly as bad as Tom, who Harrison supported, his arm wrapped around his back while Toms was thrown over Harrison's shoulder, gripping his shoulder so tight that his knuckles turned white.

The two stop in front of the few steps while you and Rachel sprinted up them. Rachel wrapped Toms empty arm around her shoulder while hers went around his back. You replaced Harrison, letting Tom rely on your shoulder for support.

“Are you alright? Can you walk?” You said, looking over at Harrison.

“Yeah, yeah should be fine to walk” Harrison spoke as he removed his helmet.

“You know the drill. Oxygen and I’ll be over in a sec” You and Rachel slowly started to descend the steps, taking your time so that Tom could keep up. Rachel removed his helmet with her free hand and let it hang around her arm by the chin strap while she started to undo the respirator as you approached a free ambulance. You still kept some of your attention on Harrison though as he walked over to your ambulance, taking a seat and putting the mask over his nose and mouth.

“You good now?” You ask Rachel once the two of you had gotten Tom situated and given him oxygen.

“Yeah, I should be okay here. Go take care of him” Rachel nodded towards your ambulance.

You started to walk over to Harrison. You hadn’t noticed the dwindling number of paramedics until now. There were only three ambulances left and a fourth that was packing up, cleared to leave by the fire chief.

“Any other injuries I should know about?” You spoke once you had reached Harrison and started to pull on new latex gloves. He pulled the mask off his face for a moment to speak.

“Just my hand really” He put the mask back on and lifted up his left hand.

“You know I have to check anyways right?” He nodded “Are you going to take off your jacket or do you want me to” He took the mask off again.

“I’ve got to keep this mask on. Cause you know oxygen and stuff. Besides, have a pretty girl strip me? As if I’d say no” He put the mask back on and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

You rolled your eyes and started to undo the zipper.

Harrison pulled off the mask again. “You know-”

“Keep the mask on or take off your own damn jacket Osterfield” You cut him off with a laugh while gently pressing the mask back against his face.

“Sheesh” Harrison let out a laugh, muffled by the oxygen mask.

You finished unzipping the jacket and pushed it over his shoulders, he pulled out his left arm, then his right, holding the mask to his face with his left hand while his right was preoccupied. He was left in the dark blue Station 38 shirt while you looked over him for other injuries, none to be found much to your delight.

You check his breathing, slipping the stethoscope under the collar of his shirt. He pulled it down, allowing you better access to his chest as he winced at the sudden cold. A small smile flickered across your face in thanks before you looked away to the ground, listening closely as he breathed. You moved to the other side before he finished exhaling.

“Why do you guys always switch sides so fast?” He spoke. You pulled the stethoscope from your ears abruptly

“Harrison, do you know how loud that is to me? Put the mask back on” Harrison laughed and gave you an apologetic smile as he put the mask back on. You finished checking his breathing as well as his blood pressure, all of which were in pretty good condition considering he’d spent the last five hours in a burning building.

“Hand” You placed your hand palm up in front of him and waited for him to place his hand in yours. You started to pull the glove off slowly. “Tell me if it hurts okay?” He only nodded. You got off about an inch and a half before he winced, immediately halting your actions.

“No no. Keep going. It just scraped a sensitive part is all” He had barely removed the mask to speak so his voice came out muffled.

“Okay. If it starts to pull you have to tell me” He nodded. Luckily it didn't. You placed the glove next to his helmet and respirator. You inspected his hand, the back of it was covered in one large deep red mark that had smaller white patches inside of it, some of which had started to blister.

“I’m surprised they didn’t burst honestly. Also, it's going to hurt when I touch it. Letting you know right now.” You kept his hand in yours while you reached into your med bag and pulled out some supplies. You started to clean the burn carefully, getting rid of any plasma that was on the surface before applying the burn cream and wrapping it up. You tried to ignore his winces and grunts as you worked, it was difficult to see him in pain, his adrenaline clearly wearing off by now, but you continued to work anyways. You paused for a moment, still holding his now wrapped hand in your own.

“What’s on your mind darling?” Harrison spoke, switching his left hand with his right, and squeezing your hand gently while his left now held the mask to his face.

You looked up at him. For the first time that night, you truly took in his appearance. His blonde hair was dishevelled, certainly from the respirator and helmet, and it was coloured slightly grey from the smoke. He had ash on his face, you could see the ring around his nose and mouth from where he held the mask, and he just looked exhausted, bags under his eyes, slouched slightly.

“You’re good with that now by the way” You removed it from his face, gently pulling it away from him until he let go and you could hang it up.“It’s just” you sigh and shrug, squeezing his hand in return. “You run into fires for a living. You put yourself in danger to save others. Like that explosion up there? That’s terrifying to me”

“Yeah, it um” Harrison chuckled “it’s scary sometimes. But we aren’t the only ones who save lives. We just get them out and know the basics of first aid. But you know so much stuff Y/N. It blows my mind.” you can’t help but smile. “We're all a team though. I think we are a bloody good team at that” he accents the we, pulling on your hand gently. He was talking about the two of you specifically, not emergency services.

“What happened with the explosion? Like what caused it?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“I’m not entirely sure. Probably some compressed gas is all. I got lucky though. I was behind a wall and barely got hit, gear protected me. Tom was right at the front of the blast though” Harrison trailed off

“Hey. He’ll be alright” You squeezed his hand again, his attention remained on where Tom’s ambulance sat a few minutes ago, it had already rushed off to the hospital. There was another moment of silence between the two of you, both of you just taking in the other's presence.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” You spoke up suddenly.

“Not really”

“I’m going to write you a prescription then” You releases his hand and hopped up into the back of the ambulance searching for the pad of paper in the ambulance.

“Wait you guys can do that?” Harrisons brow furrowed.

“Mhm. As of April” You hopped back down from the ambulance and wrote across the pad, signing it and handing it to him. “Fill it as soon as you can”

“What's it for? And why’d you ask if I wanted to go to the hospital?” He took the paper from you, looking at it.

“One is an antibiotic and the other is an ointment. That burn should take a week or two to heal up but then you should be okay. And because i could either prescribe you that or a doctor at the hospital could.” You had packed up the back of the ambulance and were ready to go now, Dylan had been sat in the drivers side for a while now, he’d helped the fire department with their cleanup which had finished about ten minutes ago, the rest of the damage to be cleaned up at another time, certainly not four in the morning.

“You know I didn’t want to go to the hospital but-” Harrison started.

“Oh please do not tell me that you want to go now”

“No. I don’t” Harrison let out a small laugh Not unless it includes going on a date with you and I don’t think it does so its not worth it” he looked down at his feet

You hopped down from your spot in the back of the ambulance, closing the doors behind you. You walked up to him, stopping about a foot away from him

“I’m off this weekend” And with that you kissed his cheek, and hopped into the passenger side of the ambulance, another page written in your story with hopes of more to be added still. Dylan drove off leaving Harrison to go with the only other firefighter who was left on the scene. Poor guy just wanted to go home.

Taglist: @notimeforthemessenger @starkravingparker

#harrison osterfield fluff #harrison osterfield fic #harrison osterfield angst #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x you #harrison osterfield #haz osterfield imagine #haz osterfield fluff #haz osterfield x reader #haz osterfield fic #haz osterfield

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stretchjournalemerson · 3 years

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Pain Management

By Maura Grace Cowan

For decades, I have been told, Mema’s fingers smelled of nicotine, trailing the scent of a pack a day and a love that ate away at my grandfather until it swallowed him whole just five months after I was born. After that, an already vicious candy habit became a lifelong method of staying cigarette-free. She said that it kept her mouth busy and her head on straight.

We were alike in that way– her weakness was See’s Candies butterscotch lollipops, and I favored peppermints to focus. It was not uncommon, during the five years that she lived in our home, to find us next to each other in the living room, teeth clacking on our respective hard candies until I finished my work or she tired of the barrage of bad news.

Her other method of oral fixation was toothpicks, little orange slivers that she dropped as she hobbled from room to room. Truthfully, that was about all she left behind– plastic wrappers and wood chips, breadcrumbs that led me back through the years after she was gone.

I was home for Christmas during my freshman year of college when she passed, as suddenly as one can pass after almost a century of life. It was California dreary out, with a blank sky and a bad attitude. She was three thousand miles away by then, but the West Coast was mourning. That night, I popped a coffee-flavored See’s lollipop in my mouth. It was the last thing I would bite into for days.

My wisdom teeth were never wise enough to grow in the correct direction, and with my already small jaw, their removal was an inevitability. We had made the appointment the previous summer, hoping to control the problem before it started. The timing could not have been predicted. But I would have signed away a world of hurt down the line if I could have absolved myself of surgery on the morning after my grandmother’s death.

My orthodontist was a genial Scottish man in his fifties. I had met him just once before, for our consultation. He charmed me immediately by recognizing my name and its correct pronunciation– “Gaelic, o’course,” he had said cheerfully. Mema would have been smitten. She always loved accents– anything about people, really, cultures and language and history. She told me once that she had lived so many stories that she couldn’t help wanting to hear everyone else’s. This was what I was thinking about when he began to rattle off the medications he would prescribe me for the weeks after the operation.

“Oh, I don’t need the strong stuff,” I interjected. “I’ll be just fine with the Ibuprofen, I’ve got a lot of grit.”

He chuckled, handing me a stack of forms.

“I don’t doubt it, Maura. Let’s just see how you’re feeling afterwards, eh?”

I was the last of my friends from high school to get their wisdom teeth out. I had stayed the night with Amelia right after the surgery, brought ice cream for Tyler every day for a week. I knew that there would be no conversation or ‘seeing how I felt.’

I am not taking those pills.

I have never lived at extremes. Modesty and moderation were ingrained in me before I could pronounce either word, by my mother and Mema and their working-class sensibilities. And if nothing else, I have held myself to those principles. In high school, even on the rare occasions that I allowed myself to go out on weekends, it was a point of pride that I knew my limits. I was never the least sober in the room– often, I was the most by far. I never, ever, lost control.

The assistant was a young, lanky man– almost a boy, really, I noticed as he plunged the IV drip into my arm. I imagined babbling to him when I woke up, making a fool of myself, having to be carried out like I once carried my high school friend when she mixed Vicodin and vodka.

“Don’t give me too much,” I remember pleading. “Look at me. Promise me that I will walk out of here on my own.”

He must have listened, because when I came to, it was with a surprisingly clear head. At least, the part of my head that I could feel was clear. I spent the car ride home in silence, poking at the numbness, pushing down the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

Healing happened, slowly and awkwardly. A prescription of Hydrocodone sat on my dresser unopened; I refused everything but aspirin and a steady supply of vanilla pudding. Instead, I spent my days drifting between sleep and discomfort, but I suffered in silence. The whole house, after all, was suffering too.

Mema was not an affectionate woman– in the years that I knew her, she was not even particularly kind. She was stubborn and abrasive, with a Southern drawl turned scratchy with years of smoking and sighing and complaining.

She was also the strongest woman I have ever known.

After she quit smoking, she kept as far as possible from any sort of vices that would shorten her lifespan, replacing them instead with virtues… temperance, fortitude, and CNN. Even in her last years, when my parents begged her to have a glass of wine each night just to help her get to sleep, she refused. Her pain management was a strict combination of stubbornness and grit, and her health remained remarkable for her age.

But when you are close to one hundred years old, regardless of how healthy you are, on some level, every part of your body is begging you to just stop. To rest. Sometimes, it’s even in your own mind.

Once, I heard her ask my mother, “Why am I still here?”

“You know that we can’t get you back on a plane safely with all this oxygen, Mom.”

“No,” she sighed. “Why am I still here?”

But she accepted it. She held firm, and she stayed. Even when we ran out of money and resources and patience, when we had to fly her those three thousand miles to move back in with my auntie Beth, she stayed until she could not stay one second longer.

When I was seventeen, I once stood staring into her medicine cabinet on the precipice of explosion. I had my father’s gin and my mother’s anger in my stomach, and I knew what matches it would take to light that fuse. But I stayed, strong and composed, just as she did every day. I couldn’t do it for myself. So I did it for her.

I am not taking those pills.

I was, at the outset, correct about my ability to push through the discomfort. My constant fear of losing control had given me an acute awareness of how much I could handle, and I walked that line confidently. I did everything right, took the antibiotics and cleaned the surgical sites with a ritualistic reverence. All of my focus went towards the pain in my mouth. And the other pain, the ache that had settled into the bones of our house and deep into my chest, went untreated.

Until it couldn’t anymore.

I pushed myself too hard, I understand that now. I had convinced myself that I was out of the woods entirely, that I hadn’t felt any real soreness for days, that I was ready to shut the door behind a miserable week. That afternoon, I went hiking with my best friend, and we caught up over coffee and pre-Christmas peppermint bark. She tried to mention Mema, and I pointed out a hawk in the trees ahead.

By the evening, I was curled up in excruciating pain, convinced that the left side of my jaw was cracking and splintering as I laid with a bag of ice that did no real good. Taking Ibuprofen was like trying to stamp out a forest fire.

With gritted teeth and an apology, I cracked open the bottle of Hydrocodone.

That night was one of the worst of my life. I dreamed apocalyptic wastelands, bodies fetid and festering after the pestilence of the pandemic that had already defined that year. I saw my grandmother, sweating in and out of sleep– alive for a moment, but dying again and again. In the confusion and haze, for just a moment, I thought she might have been a god.

My fever dream ended as a weak winter sun began to stream through the window. I was drained, more exhausted than I had been the night before, but the ache had disappeared and my head was clear. I stripped the sheets and washed off the night, plugged in my headphones, hit shuffle perched on her old bare mattress.

And I was catching my breath/

Staring out an open window, catching my death/

And I couldn’t be sure/

I had a feeling so peculiar, that this pain would be for/

Evermore

I didn’t even notice I was crying until the drops hit my legs. I do not think I could have stopped myself if I tried. But I had run out of the desire to control.

Hey December, guess I’m feeling unmoored/

Can’t remember what I used to fight for

Everything, my grandmother and mother have insisted, exists in moderation. But what is moderation when we feel in extremes?

I rewind the tape, but all it does it pause/

On the very moment all was lost/

Sending signals to be double-crossed

We are made for vices, for cigarettes and coffee and chocolate cake. We are made to cling to any semblance of control, and then to watch again and again as it slips away, and then we are made to try again.

When the tears ran out and the last notes played, I pulled myself up and grabbed my keys. On my way out of the door, I caught a glimpse of something on the kitchen counter– a small glass bowl filled with See’s lollies. We had bought a box to send her for Christmas the day before she died.

This is what she left behind. Plastic wrappers, wood chips. A gap in the family and four gaps in my jaws. Ninety-nine years of stories and stubbornness and Southern sensibility. I carry the weight of her within me, her love and her loss. I manage our pain the way that she taught me, with control and composure. But I’m learning my own ways too.

And I couldn’t be sure/

I had a feeling so peculiar, this pain wouldn’t be for/

Evermore

My fist closed around a butterscotch.

#stretch2021 #memoir

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vaughnye-west · 6 years

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today’s brain narrative

June 11 2018 - well here I am in Lola trying to apply to some jobs and find some work. Garrett just called inviting me to postinos to celebrate scottie becoming official at her new job, with sokme wine and cheese and brushcetta however the fuck you spell that. Asked me if I wanted to bring a friend and I don’t really have anyone to bring, and I think they were kind of insinuating a lady friend, which that is just as far as a regular fucking friend, as I have neither. But so it goes. Need to strive to make friends and meet people and meet new people as painful and scary as that may be to actually talk to some one and be whoever the fuck I am and bear myself. But it cant be worse than I am right now, a lonely fucking mess confined to a fucking apartment. Holy fiuckinng shit vaughn cmon. pursue your dreams-what fucking dreams are those? hell if i know. idk what im supposed to be doing at all on a given day, so unsure am I of the fucking being and living situation I am in I barely remember to feed and bathe myself let alone see people meet people and be interesting to other peoples lives. Really am going to try to not be a downer hanging out with them this evening though I am feeling pretty fucking sad today, especially since I haven’t had my daily escape, my daily toke. Not to mention they are playing bon iver or some other emotional mellow shit in here to make it seem even more gloomy than it fucking is. How weird is it to be sitting in this coffee shop with not that many people, all sitting at different tables and not talking to each other, cause god forbid you fucking talked to someone you didn’t know. Shiiit. What I journaled about earlier today is important though, taking a break from pot smoking so I can address the awful things in my life that are making me so upset and unhappy. When I hang out with garrett and scottie I am never coming up with the plan or taking the initiative. It is always them. But why is it that way? I am just as capable of inviting them over to my place for some catan or some shit as going over there, or inviting them out to a bar or to coffee or whatever. Its this weird thing in my head that I don’t want to impose or something, im lonely as fuck but have difficulty reaching out to people that I even fucking love. Like whats up twith that? Why do I feel that way? It has been a while since I have had a caffeine induced writing frenzy in here, but high time. First sober day as in not smoking in a fucking while. Seriously though this music is too goddamn emotionall practically making me want to cry right now. What you like and dislike, what you think is cool is determined by your immediate social structure, and it is really hard to figure out what is cool and interesting if you are by yourself all the titme, its difficult without that social structure to determine my wants and desires, to strive for more experiences. I need to be more confident in myself and my perceived passions though, pursuing them even if there are no fucking friends to share the cool shit im doing with. Do cool shit alone, its not that crazy. Im so young. Im so fucking young and could do so many things and yet I feel almost disabled…no not the right word, like paralyzed or petrified at the sheer possibility of it all. Really need to begin networking and message people that I want to create with. To even have the ability to possibly create with. God I feel like im in this constant state of stress of not living up to something I guess, like a job or my parents expectations or my personal expectations. I mean maybe you do a job you don’t like for a little while, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world you’ve done it before in zion working the goddamn cashier like a fucking monkey, you could do more shit you don’t like to do. Or you could just do shit you do like to do. What is the worst that could happen, really? What if you pursued it full force. Maybe part of the pressure or despair I feel is that I ma not doing that, pursuin it full force. Think about rory standing outside rob dyrdeks fantasy factory…are you ready to be that level of crazy? Don’t think so. You gotta be willing to put yourself out there and take some big risks, that’s fucking life! Your 22 fucking years old grow the fuck up aready and start doing shit you want to do, life is to short to do shit you don’t fucking want to do so you need to get off your ass and pursue it for sucks sake stop playing fuckinng videogames you piece of shit. It is no good to demean yourself and I know that but fucking come the fuck on goddamnit. You’ve been living the same fucking hellish day over and over again for no reason, you have the power to change it yet you just don’t. it is perplexing like why don’t I do that? How do I do that? I need some people to bounce ideas off of and go out with and meet people and not be alone. Feel like im going fucking crazy im so goddamn lonely right now. I need some sense of purpose in life some fucking drive cause right now I don’t really have any. Im not sure what to do. Ive never been more unsure in my life. Yet I have to do something to provide for myself. But what is that? What will make me fulfilled and less fucking lonely? That is the biggest problem right now-----oh just had a realization, I feel so lonely and that is because I play videogames watch youtube and Instagram and jack off. Stop. Those three things well four if you count weed im giving up for a bit to focus on real life. Ill use ig to post and that’s it. Need to buckle down and be judicious of how I spend my time. What are things I don’t like about myself that I keep doing? Well, jacking off playing video games and browsing through youtube and Instagram are paramount to all of those. So I have a stop doing list. Whats next…going to look up the start doing list now from tim ferris or whoever the fuck wrote it. What I was saying back there a little bit though is that when I am in social situations part of me wants to have accomplished some awesome creative work to share with them and for them to be like wow vaughn so cool youre so cool. Its like you can be a work in progress with people you can be yourself this is a self imposed idea of perfection or something to yourself. Like let yourself be social and be in the moment. Be in the fucking drivers seat-go meet people and talk to them and see what theyre like, see if they like to take photos and videos and don’t be so fucking sheepish about it, just get into your soul and realize this is what you want to do and want to be, and don’t second guess yourself in that moment. Have that microsecond of courage to do it. Like when you ask a girl out and the words are caught in your throat and then they tumble out somehow through you, they just happen through that microsecond of courage that you had. Why am I too goddamn shy. Its kind of like I have some turmoil in my belly or something that I need to be doing something but am not sure what im supposed to be doing. Fuck I hate that feeling.

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krystalia-productions · 7 years

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Update (again)

Gasp, Jazz has another Update?! yeah i do. haha. its not really bad dont worry

i was pretty busy the last time i updated so i didnt have time to put this out. pretty soon (June 1st to be exact) My Step dad is heading out of state for work. which means he will not be home for maybe 3-4 weeks at a time or something it kinda depends on what his boss says and all. due to this, its more likely that i might be busier. Without my Step Dad here, im gonna have to help my mom out with some things and especially the house more. (i already do help out with the house a lot of the time, but now My mom and i will have to take over the stuff my Step father helps out with. even though we have my sister, and she will have to help out with things as well, shes very stubborn and actually very much a pain.) Also, the fact that i will be driving a lot more now since my mom cannot drive at night and she does quite a few things at night even if she tries not to whenever he isnt home. so with all this, art will be slower. (as if my art is really slow at all, im constantly drawing and doodling over stress and stuff as it is. im already stressed about june first with him leaving and i have my senior pictures that day already. though, im trying to get actual detailed art out rn haha.)

i will still be here, i usually am. July is definitely going to get crazy after the 13th (i think??) with all this though and art (even doodles more than likely) will be even slower because it will be hard to find the time until band goes back to its normal two days a week schedule (which is after the two weeks of constant practice and hard work to get the rookies started and for us vets to get used to it all once more. its not really hard, just tiring.)

so yeah! big update there. but this new job is very good for the family. i myself was planning to get a job this summer, but with only about a month of actual time for that, and my step dad leaving the state for his job, i dont want to stress my mom out with the house almost to herself, so i will probably not be getting a job until maybe after my senior year. it just depends on how things really go.

as for Art, well, i have some art pieces planned. if you have noticed, ive made big art pieces of the four skeletons, Sloth, Techno, Gear, and Snazz. i have two more of those planned that include a seperate of Peppermint, and one of Dice to complete the collection. so those will hopefully be done soon. i do plan (and i have a sketch actually, a few of you have seen it) to make another good picture of Dice because i havent exactly made any Detailed art of him yet. this will make two detailed pieces of him, and will satisfy me because ive been meaning to do that since i made him. and considering i made him in December of Last year, its been too long. im also hoping to get back into Lyric’s blog. so hopefully an update there will come soon. Asks are to been done soon (except for a couple DiceMint ones as im still planning those out. dont worry, i remember what they are for i promise. im still talking it over with Mango) im also VERY MUCH hoping to get the Draining Sanity comic running once more. i was so stressed and doing others things that i had only made one page and stopped. i have the next two pages sketched out on paper and ill be putting them on computer to draw out and all soon (hopefully haha, you guys have been waiting for the story.) so more of the Insane Trio, Lukas, Kari, a few others, and even Asher will be coming back soon (gasp, Asher?! whats he got to do with Draining Sanity?? XD) also, i may or may not be making a drawing of Krystalia and Scratch. i havent drawn a really good picture of them together in a long time. and being the original (meaning used to be the only siblings) Agons, it needs to be done.

...i think thats it. but hey, if you guys have suggestions of other things i shou;d draw, let me know in my ask box! ill put it on my list!

Kip~

#yyaaaay updates #this is so long im so sorry kejfbaCAEf #update #art stuff #art update

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captainnextweek · 7 years

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An Angst Drabble that's like a million years late and from a meme from Mal's old blog that I never did for @irascibledoctor where I'm supposed to kill Bones and w/e cause angst

The morning was the same as they always started, sleepy and warm, curled up against McCoy's chest and soft kisses until they were both awake enough to shower and head to mess. Breakfast was usually whatever Chef had whipped up and a cup of hot coffee for each of them. They didn't need to exchange many words in the morning for knowing what was going on with the other. Sometimes, though, they joined Archer in his private dining room for breakfast, another normal occurrence. Then Malcolm would walk Leonard to sickbay on his way to the armory or the Georgian would just follow him to the bridge, a habit Leonard had picked up during his time on the NCC-1701 because Jim Kirk apparently needed constant supervision by someone, or to the armoury, where Malcolm worked day in and day out when not on the bridge.

Today had just so happened to have been an armoury day, but Malcolm hadn't been surprised by that, the captain had told him that the bridge would be covered by a tactical officer in training, one Ensign Rubin, for the NX-03 Challenger. So he and Leonard had wandered down to his domain hand in hand, chatting about things like the events of the times, something Malcolm was trying to catch him up on so he wouldn't feel as lost, and the crew, any ship named Enterprise was a key source of gossip from what Malcolm had established. The Georgian had sat down on one of the ledges of the upper deck, looking down on Malcolm as he ran about the lower deck checking inventory while they continued to chat.

"Archer to Reed." The captain's voice crackled through the comm unit, so McCoy stood up from his spot and answered it seeing as Malcolm was busy as a bee in the spring.

"McCoy here Admi- sir." He still wasn't used to referring to Archer as Captain after knowing him his whole life as President of the Federation or Admiral of Starfleet. "Mal's got his hands full at the moment." He chuckled a bit as he saw Reed with phase pistols in his arms almost about to tip over. "What can we do you for?"

"Phlox gave you another shift off, I see." Archer always tried to be friendly with Leonard, he knew how dizzying time travel could be so he was always doing his best to make casual conversation with the other man and giving him down time to adjust. "Well, that's beside the point. We have an away mission on a new Minshara class planet coming up and I figure you two wanted to stretch your legs."

"Yes, sir!" Malcolm called up from the lower deck of the armoury, he couldn't wait to get out of the ship after a few months of chaos. It was helpful that they were on the way back to Earth as well, but he needed to breathe some non-recycled oxygen.

“You sure? space is danger-”

“Yes, Len, we’re explorers, or did you forget?”

“Yeah, okay.” He grumbled, grouching as he always did. “But I’m staying with you, you get scratched up more than a blind berry picker.”

Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows, unsure of what the metaphor met, but he had guessed it was something along the lines of getting hurt so often. “Alright.”

They had made their way to the shuttlepod bay after a quick stop to medbay to pick up some of McCoy’s supplies, anything that could be necessary for an away mission. Malcolm had been glad to see that Archer was in the bay, along with Virts, McFarlane, and O’Malley all gathered up chatting amongst themselves.

“Ready to go?” Jon’s voice was excited and cheery as always, but Malcolm could bet that Trip was grumbling in engineering about how he couldn’t go.

“Shuttlepod’s all prepped, sir!” Travis beamed, head sticking out of the flying death box, at least, that’s what McCoy had always called it. The pilot was far too excited, at least in the opinion of the good doctor.

“Do I have to go? Can’t I just stay here and help Phlox?” There was a slight hesitation because the doctor hated space and new planets were no exception to that rule. Phlox had been a helpful presence, especially since Leonard had to learn some of the old medical techniques from before his time now.

Jon rolled his eyes and looked at Malcolm. “Yes, doctor.”

“C’mon, Len.” Reed reached for the 23rd-century man’s hand and beamed. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“You’d better.” He reluctantly followed along into the shuttlepod, sitting down inside and next to Malcolm, staying close as he hated shuttlepods with a burning passion.

When they got down to the planet after a fairly smooth ride, Malcolm stretched his legs as they got out, excited to see somewhere new. “Welcome to Tarsus IV, gentlemen,” Archer exclaimed, taking in a deep breath of the oxygen.

McCoy’s face went pale. “T-Tarsus IV?” He swallowed a lump in his throat, taking a deep breath. “I-I need a second.” He leant against the shuttlepod and shook his head. This was where so many had died, including Hoshi Sato, and where Jim had nearly died. If that wasn't a sign they shouldn't be on the planet, he didn’t know what was.

Travis hopped out of the shuttlepod last and looked at McCoy, catching Malcolm’s attention as the doctor looked like he was about to start to throw up. Malcolm rushed over and placed his hand on his boyfriend’s back. “You okay, love?”

“Fine, fine. It’s just---”

“I know.” The Brit mumbled softly, kneeling down next to the Georgian. “But that’s the future, it’s not important now.” He blinked softly, reaching for the other man’s hand, a soft smile on his face. “Let’s go, we have work to do.” The Georgian stood up and looked at Malcolm with slight concern and a still pale face, but he seemed calmer than before.

“Alright, fine.”

Archer noticed them being unusually quiet and spoke up. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes, sir!” Malcolm responded to the two of them, a smile on his face. “Doc is just spacesick!”

Archer nodded and started to split up the group to go separate ways to start charting the planet. The tactical officer and doctor started off to the North, away from the other groups of two heading toward a canyon. They started off, climbing over rocks and crossing small creeks to get to their destination, despite Malcolm's dislike of the creeks. By the time they had gotten to the canyon, the sun was high in the sky and they sat on the ledge of the canyon where the rock was thick and strong enough to support them.

Reed leant against the other man, head resting on his shoulder. "It's beautiful." He mumbled softly, staring at the deep orange rock colour. "Like the Grand Canyon at home." He had always had a fondness for rock climbing, but he knew it would be unsafe to go now.

"Mm, I miss it." He hadn't been back to Earth since he was in the future, but now he missed it more than ever. They were closer, they couldn't go as far in an NX-class, but he still missed it. "How long until we get back to Earth?"

"I don't know... I'm a bit nervous for when we get back, though." Malcolm looked up at the other. "We'll be poked and prodded and---"

"Mal, calm down."

"I can't, not when---"

"OW!" Leonard’s loud screech and leap sent Malcolm scrambling back, pulling out his phaser and pointing it at the small creature that had bitten McCoy. “Son of a bitch! That little shit bit me!” He was shaking his hand in pain and watching as it started to bleed. He looked down to see a mouse-like creature, but it had four long fangs when its mouth opened.

Malcolm stood up from his spot and looked at the other man’s hand. “Mm, looks like it’s a shallow bite, but we should get you back to the shuttlepod. Where’s the medkit? I’ll patch it up.” After quickly cleaning and bandaging his hand, they started back to the shuttlepod.

They had started walking through the green valley they had landed in when Leonard could swear his vision was starting to get woozy. He had tripped over his own feet and landed face down in the grass. He looked up to see Reed helping him up, leaning against him so he could walk easier.

“I thought you weren’t clumsy?”

“ ‘M not...” The Georgian slurred, eyelids feeling heavy. He slumped forward and pulled Malcolm down with him as he did, landing just a few yards away from the shuttlepod.

“Len!” Malcolm called out, shaking the man before pulling out his communicator. “Shit. Emergency medical beam up! Now!” He snapped at the device before feeling a warmth of the beam surround him. “Phlox! It’s Len!” He yelled as the Denobulan started to get some help taking him to the sickbay. “He got bit by something.”

“Stay here, Commander. I have to treat him.” Phlox said to Malcolm as he rushed into the sickbay, pushing the Brit away from the room. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

Malcolm stood there in awe, unable to process what was going on. How could he be so stupid as to let his boyfriend get hurt on an uncharted planet, one that he knew from future logs was dangerous. He had ended up pacing for hours, unable to sit and eat, even though Archer and Trip had urged him too. Treating a bite shouldn’t take this long, right? It was just a mouse bite, a saber-toothed mouse, but a mouse none the less. He couldn’t let another person he cared for die, not after last time. Not after Hayes. It would be his fault all over again if someone died because he couldn’t do his job. He would never be able to forgive himself.

“Commander?” Phlox’s voice rung through his quarters as he paced. He pressed the comm button and nervously replied in barely more than a jumble of sounds. “There isn’t much else I can do for him. There was too much toxin from the bite in his body. I don’t know how long he had left but, I think you’d want to spend what he has left with him.”

Grey eyes started to well with tears as he started toward the sickbay, hoping, just praying to a God he didn’t believe in to keep his marshmallow safe and to miraculously heal him. “Len.” He sobbed as he sat down next to the other man’s biobed, watching as Phlox drew the privacy curtain so they could be alone. “Len, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can... you idiot.” Came the thick accented and raspy reply.

Malcolm held his hand tight, body shaking. “Don’t you die on me.”

“Stubbornness only goes so far.”

“You’re the most stubborn person I know.” The usually strong voice came out weak and broken, cracking as he spoke. “Just stay awake, okay?”

“Phlox said I should rest. Sleep is rest.”

“Len...” Malcolm reached up and brushed a gentle hand through the doctor’s hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Hazel eyes slipped shut and Bones looked just like his nickname in that moment, pale and easily breakable. His breathing became longer and slower, hand going slack in the other’s hand.

Beep. Beep.

All Malcolm could hear was the long monotonous sound as there was chaos around him, but he wouldn’t let go.

He was alone again.

#verse: home is where they say the heart is (ENT era & AOS Bones)#irascibledoctor #queue your shirt on lieutenant #{ im sorry this is so late *nervous lion noises* i nearly forgot about it }#{ ow im dying }

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mel-loves-all · 7 years

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A Olicity Historical Romance AU inspired by the movie, The Scarlet Pimpernel.

A/N: I was so excited to see so many of you were TSP fans! It’s a wonderful Romantic Adventure. After being asked by a few readers why this will only be a few chapters I wanted to explain that this story was only inspired by the movie and really started out as a one-shot, but became too long, so it will be posted as a few chapters. My story will not do the full adventure of the original story/movie justice, so I totally recommend you read the book and/or watch the movie. You will not be disappointed.

Previous chapter can be found HERE or AO3

~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

The male voices grew indistinct and then completely disappeared as the men left the conservatory and Oliver Queen, the Duke of Starling…and the elusive Scarlet Pimpernel, took one last moment to savor the delicious feel of the female he held in his arms and the only woman he had ever loved, Lady Felicity Smoak. Love, it was a word that could never fully encompass what it was to admire, and to appreciate and care for a woman who made him want to be a better man.

Oliver had been shocked to find her in the solarium as he led the spies into a trap he had laid out, with the help of the King’s guards, to arrest and take them into custody as they exited the private wing of the Duke of Starling’s manor. After all, everyone knew the Duke of Starling was oblivious to what was happening around him half of the time.

Oliver had been forced to hide Felicity in one of his many secret passageways that were built throughout his home so as not to bungle the mission.

Her ripe, feminine curves seared themselves against his body. Her tantalizing costume afforded him a closeness that would otherwise only be allowed a husband or a lover. He was neither, but he wanted to be.

She was more exquisite then he could have ever imagined. They stood as they were, locked in his embrace, both reluctant to break the connection. The air around them growing heavy with awareness and attraction. It was tangible and heady to Oliver’s senses. He could taste it in the air as he licked his suddenly dry lips. Every movement and sound she made was an amplified detail that made his body stir. He could not hide his reaction to her and his color heightened in the dark as his member grew hard against the small of her back.

Her breasts brushed against his arm with her ever quickening breaths. He dropped his hand from her mouth as his other crushed the layered silk of her gown that gathered at her waist. He pushed her closer to the hidden panel in front of them as he placed his free palm against it. Her profile was all refined beauty and lines and he could no longer resist.

She sighed with pleasure as his nose gently nudged her glass frames before sensually trailing down the delicate skin of her cheek and the side of her neck as he searched for more of the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle that seemed an innate part of her.

Her body sang to him of its trust. Would her heart?

He had had a constant internal battle with himself for the last three years and in the dark confined space of his secret passage and after being able to touch her for the first time…he finally lost the fight. He lost the fight against showing her who he really was and what he had always wanted. He was exhausted, he was lonely for her and he was hurt. A shallow cut and bruises received during a sword fight earlier in the night were smarting. He knew the wound would not kill him, but the danger he constantly walked amidst only highlighted the importance of living life to the fullest and to its happiest. Vivez. Live.

Every cell of his being called out for her. Countless nights where he woke with his body wanting and needing only hers and every horribly embarrassing and idiotic conversation he had to “perform” in front of her had hurtled him towards this inescapable moment. He had been so close to telling her his secrets when she contacted one of his network of English spies to join them, but he had been afraid. Afraid she would reject him or even worse, not believe him.

From that fateful day at her debut ball when he first laid eyes on her, across a room full of fools who only saw what he wanted them to see, he had wanted to cast aside his disguise as an imbecile and vain popinjay to claim her.

For years he had worked for his Majesty’s service and suffered in private as he had to watch the woman he wanted, look at him with confusion and too many times to count, disappointment. And he had to watch her marry another man. That…had almost killed him.

Only the genuine affection and security she had found with the Earl of Smoak had kept Oliver from splintering into a thousand pieces. Only the lives he saved and the good works he did as the Scarlet Pimpernel had saved his dying heart from that same fate. And only they, had kept it whole enough, so that he could offer it to her when the time was right. For right now.

He moved his lips back to the shell of her ear and finally told her.

“Sink me,” he whispered.

He felt her stiffen against his body and heard the harsh intake of breath at the recognition. And when she twisted in his arms, he let her go, to face…his future. One he hoped would have her in it.

“How? I don’t understand. You have lied all this time?” she said in shocked disbelief, after she turned and faced him. He could see the confusion on her face as she looked up at him. The passageway was full of shadows and they both needed light to have this conversation.

“Come with me,” he asked as he found her hand and once he felt her take hold of his; he pulled her through the darkness towards his master suites.

She didn’t say anything as they walked through the maze of hidden hallways. They rounded one last corner and he pulled on a latch on the wall and a door opened revealing a large bedroom that was lit with a soft glow from its fireplace. Overflowing bookshelves lined all three walls and splashes of warm red accent colors were found throughout the room; threaded in the luxurious rugs on the floor, the counterpane of the large four poster bed, and cushions and pillows on his dark wood furniture.

Felicity did not follow him into the room and he slowly let go of her hand. He walked through the door then turned to her. They both stood looking at each other and as she continued to stand in the shadowed doorway…as she continued to harden herself against him… Oliver had to accept her distrust. He couldn’t read her. Her face was devoid of any emotion. Had her disbelief and confusion turned to apathy? Anger? Did she hate him? The decision to become a spy for his country was one made before he had ever met her and it would seem one that would continue to keep them apart.

To tell her…It had been a risk he had been willing to make and one he had lost. Pain stabbed at his heart and all he could do was bundle it away and draw from the strength of being a good and decent man. He would not force his love on her. She didn’t need to know.

He was very, very good at performing and he would continue to do so till he could see her home safely. But first, he needed to tend to his wounds.

With a sigh of resignation he pulled loose the cloth mask that hid his face and smiled gently at her. “It’s safe, Lady Smoak. Enter, I won’t hurt you.”

It was liberating to be able to talk to her in his normal voice and his, normal self. At her silence he turned to walk over to the table by the fire, that his trusty valet, Thomas, always had prepared to treat any wounds he would come back from his missions with.

Oliver unstrapped his sword belt from around his waist and laid it on the table. As he slowly pulled the blood smeared shirt from his breeches and gingerly begun to lift it over his head he heard her shocked exclamation.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt? You, fool,”

At the feel of her fingers on the exposed skin of his back Oliver shuddered. He shook from her concern.

“I’m quite all right my lady. It is but just another scratch. And yes, I am the fool. The biggest fool in society,” he stepped away from her touch, refusing to meet her eyes and set his shirt by his sword. He glanced down at his right side and saw the long angry line of the scratch and the newly blossoming purples and blues of his bruises.

“That wasn’t what I meant. Look at me, please,” she softly said, from behind him.

He steeled himself for more rejection to come then did as she asked. He turned to her and when their eyes connected, only tenderness met his.

“I…you, amaze me,” she said, with wondrous wonderment, as she raised her shaking fingers and began to delicately trace across the angles of his face. First a gentle touch across his eyebrow, taking in the blues of his eyes, then down the curve of his cheek and along the sexy scruff of his jawline. “Oliver, who are you?”

He shut his eyes against the waves of beautiful heart wrenching agony her touch and his name on her lips wrought. He couldn’t believe she was touching him. That she was talking to him and seeing, him. Him. Oliver Queen. Not the dandy and the fool. Not the Scarlet Pimpernel. Oliver.

He gently gripped her wrist, effectively stopping her exploring and seductive fingers. He wouldn’t be able to take much more. She overwhelmed him. He opened his eyes and said, “Just a man.”

~~~~~~

My lovelies: If you wish to be tagged or untagged please let me know.

@diggo26 @kawusia25 @whoeveryoulovethemost @letsnevergrowupfan @priya108 @ohliverfelicity @andjustforthismoment @relativelyobsessedfangirl @felicityssoliver @readerkas @murderingminutesforhours @sinceriouslysarah @smurfica @jedichick04 @bluemorgana @arrow-through-my-writers-block @florence-bubbles @secretglimpses @arrowolicity88 @travelingwinchester @scu11y22 @lerayon @multi-fandom-crazy-fangirl @pharmalen @mrsd923 @iv-on-ka @miriam1779 @beautiful-dreamer-sara @thebeckyford @aussieforgood @allyouneedisolicity @iloveyouallthemore @lesanchea @crazypants5 @geniewithwifi @pleasedontletmedownx @quiveringbunny @cityofolicity @the-girl-wednesday @flailykermit @moomoosstudio @yellowflicker09011996 @dopecycleblaze @malafle @u-r-notdonefighting @bytemegeekette @lindsey8907 @onlyhere4olicity @niki-is-amazing @olicityhappyeverafter @niki-is-amazing @dalisia3 @danski15 @felicityqueenforever @amac313 @kajunblueyes @music-and-motorcycles @mrsbubblelee @itsthatwallflower @tinaday3w @memcjo @octoberwren @pamanaus @mymusiclove101 @ellefraser17 @sinceriously-melodiful @yespleasehawkeye @olicityforeverqueen @redpensandgreenarrows @thesunshine-in @quiquikalikala @charlinert @thedreamersmovement @leaugueofolicity17 @georgiakblog @myuntetheredsoul @mochababychristy @arrows-4ever @jaspertown @lgtwinkie99 @convictionwithpurpose @pjcmfalcon @lexi9515 @redpenbluebox @pleasantfanandstudent @oliverfel4 @almondblossomme @marniforolicity @somewhatinvisible @vaelisamaza @velvetsteel @angelalafan @photogeniques @cinfos @tdgal1 @djenisscorner @olicityandsteroline @imthedoctordonna @lynaye1993 @f0xyr0xy @sammieathome @arrowgirl20 @coal000 @stygian-omada-fan @amytosh @acequillerqueen @pepperlevine @so-caffeinated @tjmartinez98

#olicity #olicity fanfic #olicity fanfiction #olicity fic #oliver x felicity #melfic1

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bunnyblitzspookybitch · 7 years

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Circles

I feel like I've hit a wall. I am not moving forward, just running around and everytime i think I've made progress I'm right back where I started. I have broken it down into three areas that need improvement: Work, drinking and relationships. I need a new job but mostly i need a new career. Hairdressing isnt doing it for me. I know I enjoy it sometimes but I feel like after almost four I would have built up a better clientele. Maybe its Ms. Kim's words still haunting me. "Most people don't make it more than 3 years in this industry. If you havent figured yourself out by 5 years you never will." Those words stuck with me to the point of being terified. They used to fuel me, drive me to proove her wrong. Now its like a prediction about my future, or lack of one. Of the 23 students who took the program, I think 4 or 5 of us still work as hair stylists. I think im the only one who get left behind by Ms. Kim who is still doing hair. Everyone else she saw obvious potential in, where as I just got left struggling on my own. I was so determined to proove her wrong. Maybe if I had left Brava before now I wouldnt feel so run down. Now I'm so fucking burnt out from the abuse I get from Frank, that I can't get my shit together enough to find a new job. Stuck in a vortex of bullshit thats draining the life right out of me. This leads to the drinking, which has become a constant part of my life. I dont go more than a few days without a drink. I can come up with a thousand excuses but the only thing they all have in common is me. I am making the conscious choice to spend every dollar i spend at the bar. Its not healthy and I can't afford it. I dont want to stop though. I realized last night that I never really stopped my self destructive behavior, just switched it to something more socially acceptable. No longer using a razor blade to numb the pain and block out all the things in my head, now its just glass after glass of rum and cokes. I know its really bad when its gotten to the point where i can't stand being alone and sober because all the things Im not dealing with come flooding back to me like the gates of pain in my mind just broke. Once the storm rolls in I cant seem to get it back under controll. I end up silently convincing myself not to do something stupid like walk into traffic, everyday. I went out last night, telling only one person where I was going but knowing they wouldnt be there when I got there. I thought to myself, if I killed myself tonight nobody would know where I was untill it was too late. Its not even untill now that thoughts of Kira and the affect she had on our friends came back to me. Last night it didnt matter. Last night the one thing that has always stopped me from killing myself, my mum, didnt even cross my mind. I was in a dangerous place, i was dancing with the edge and I still havent quite backed off. I dont know what to do. This leaves us with the last of whats going on. With this sense of inability to move forward, relationships seem to lose hope. I feel there is no future for myself, giving me the feeling there is no hope of a future for me and the people I care about. It's as though ive just filled my life up with people, to treat as patches for the holes in myself. Yes friends are there to build each other up, but its not fair to have them around mostly to distract me from whats going on in my head, that I am choosing to ignore. They cant help me if they dont know whats going on. They also cant help if I dont want it. More than anything they cant help if I keep acting the way I have been, thibking that if I dont say it out load it wont be true. It is true. I am very depressed and I cant help myself anymore. I am at the end of my rope, but as far as anyone knows Ive got another fifty feet. I put on a face to hide from them whats hurting me. Now i just feel like a mask and an empty body. I will probably add to this later. But this is about as much as I can take without crying. Running around in circles beating my head against the walls. I feel like a lost cause.

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rjhamster · 4 years

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Overnight those tasks and routines can become the precious little places where joy is birthed. ~ Dawn Barton, Laughing Through the Ugly Cry

You Get ToDawn Barton, Laughing Through the Ugly-Cry and Finding Unstoppable Joy

Learning to Treasure What You Didn’t Want

Now eagerly desire the greater gifts. And yet I will show you the most excellent way. — 1 Corinthians 12:31

A deep breath and a huge, slow eye roll. That was my immediate reaction. A family member had just said to me, “You get to.” This was her attempt at reminding me of the holiest of postures — gratitude — so I’d do something I absolutely did not want to do: clean my child’s vomit off my dress and new suede shoes. I can assure you there was no feeling of gratitude in this moment as I stood covered in vomit at my cousin’s wedding. “Honey, you get to clean that vomit.” You get to. If you’re not familiar with this worldview, it’s an idea espoused by pretty much every pastor, women’s conference speaker, and all-knowing aunt I’ve ever encountered: to truly enjoy life the way God wants us to, we must be grateful 24-7. We should be grateful for the little things, the big things, the smelly things, the happy and the sad — in all things we should be grateful. The truth is this: that annoying family member was right. And I do believe it now. Finding joy in the messy, tedious tasks of our everyday lives is darn near impossible sometimes. Driving the kids to school, going to your job, helping with homework, keeping up with sports, meals, and exercise, feeling miserable about what you just ate, and wearing an underwire bra when all you want to do is let those puppies loose — every single day, life is hard, ladies. I know. The tasks seem never-ending, and it can be so difficult to find joy in the tedium. Until one day, when everything that makes your eyes roll is taken away. Overnight those tasks and routines can become the precious little places where joy is birthed. The struggle quickly becomes the gift. My youngest daughter, Ellason, was four years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and Makenzie, my oldest, was married and out of the house, tending to her own family about an hour away. My husband, Craig, was in a dusty tent in the Middle East. It was just Ellason and me at home, with a lot of love and support from family and friends. During the biopsy on my right breast, something went wrong, and they burned the skin, leaving a half-inch, black, circular burn at the incision point. Believe it or not, that burn turned out to be one of the best things to happen to me. That burn became something visible and tangible I could use to explain cancer to a four-year-old little girl. We called it the “booby bug,” and it made sense to her sweet four-year-old mind. The booby bug made mommy sick. Getting rid of the booby bug was a lot harder than I imagined it would be. Chemotherapy was a wild beast, and it kicked my butt. The plan was six rounds of a chemo combination called “red devil” (because one of the drugs was red in color), and I would receive those treatments every two weeks. The next phase was a different type of drug that I would receive weekly for twelve weeks, totaling six months of chemotherapy treatments. My chemo weeks looked a little like this: Day 1: Chemo infusion. A nurse covered in protective gear — large plastic mask and all — inserted IVs into the port in my chest and changed them every hour until my body was filled with what I like to call “the poison drugs.” (Side note: Someone should give you a heads-up that your nurse is going to look like the hazmat dudes in ET when she walks in to give you chemotherapy drugs. That image sort of shakes you up. I mean, if the nurse is covered three ways to Sunday so she won’t touch the drugs, why is it a good idea to put them inside of my body? Food for thought.) The entire process lasted about four hours, and then someone would drive me home. Off to bed I would go, feeling tired but otherwise alive. Day 2: The poison drugs hit. Nausea meds and painkillers were a must, but this wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that I had to go back to the cancer center for a bone marrow stimulant injection that increased my white blood cell count so my body could fight infection. I hated it. Imagine feeling so nauseated, with pain seething through every inch of your body, and knowing you have to go back to get a shot that’ll make you feel substantially worse. From a mental perspective, Day 2 was always the hardest for me. Days 3–4: The crescendo of suffering. The poison drugs battled with my body. They were pure misery. I prayed, cried, and begged for God’s mercy through them. Day 5: A hint of hope. A small flicker of light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and I began to feel a bit of relief from the process. The first five days are followed by nine days of recovery and desperately reaching for normalcy until the cycle ends and I am shoved back to the starting line all over again for the next Day 1. The more rounds of chemo I had, the longer the miserable part of the process would take. The effects of Day 2 would stretch over two or three days. And the effects of Days 3 and 4 — my rock-bottom days — would sometimes last almost a week. The overwhelming pain, nausea, and discomfort were constant, and so were my pleading prayers. But I can’t write honestly about my chemo days without adding this: it was in the agony and sickness that I found God on the most beautiful and intimate level. Nothing has pried open my raw, aching heart like having my body and soul assailed by that disease and its horrific treatment. In the depths of my pain, I came to know Him best. I believe it is often at our most helpless, our most vulnerable, that we are most primed to hear and see Him. Anyway, back to the vomit at my cousin’s wedding. Yes, it all comes full circle. I’m sharing the not-so-pleasant details of my chemo routine to paint a picture of what life was like in that season, but also to give you some background on how I learned to embrace the “you get to” philosophy. While I was undergoing treatment, there was no driving Ella to school, no making her lunches or picking out her clothes. There was no playtime, no homework together, no running and tickling. I wanted to play an active role in my own life, and I couldn’t. Chemo was a prize-fighting boxer, and I was on the ground slamming my hands against the floor to tap out. I wanted to be done; I begged for it to be over. I wanted to be a mom, and I didn’t want to be sick a moment longer. Despite how hard I was fighting, I was still riddled with guilt over the kind of mother I was to Ella. I think women are the only creatures who can be gripping the ring of a toilet in sickness and still feeling guilty that they can’t drive their babies to school. We are crazy, beautiful creatures, aren’t we? As I fought through weeks of chemo, I found moments of joy and laughter with Ella. Not on a playground or in a car drive, but in the sweet, quiet moments lying in my bed with her snuggled next to me, close to my belly and wrapped in my arms. I am not sure if I comforted her more or if she comforted me, but Ellason was my saving grace at the end of each day. When I felt well enough, I would make up stories, starring her as the princess, me as the queen, and daddy as the king. (The queen was always very beautiful, of course.) The stories would change daily, and she loved it. After months of treatment, I remember the day I was finally able to pick up Ellason from school. I was elated that I’d been given a two-week break from chemo, and I finally felt well enough to drive. It was something so small, but it meant so much. When the normal, everyday pieces of life get taken away, you realize they make up a beautiful and wonderful existence. Before cancer, I had taken so much of this for granted; I even thought of some of those activities as the burdens. (What do you mean, you need lunch again? Didn’t we just do that yesterday?) In reality, these mundane activities were the sweet blessings of life. When cancer took away the mundane, I finally understood driving my daughter to school was a gift. Chemo was teaching me how to fight for moments of joy and hope. I was learning to look for them, and I was realizing all those things I resented were actually things I got to do. In fact, I eventually reached a rather revolutionary level of “you get to” mastery. Remember what Days 1 through 5 looked like during my chemo treatments? The beast of chemo was destroying me and my life; I hated the treatments and all that came with them. I hated walking into that cancer center and being poisoned each time. Chemo was the enemy — that is, until I learned my hardest “you get to” lesson. Every time I arrived to get chemo, nurses took my vitals and drew my blood to make sure I was “healthy enough” to be poisoned. My body was weaker each round, and my white blood cell count needed to be more than one thousand. When I walked in for my fourth round of red devil, I was fighting with all that I had — but this time I was also battling a fever. After a few minutes, the nurse walked over and with pity in her eyes said, “I’m so sorry. We can’t give you chemo. Your white count is too low.” My body wouldn’t be able to fight the infection. I actually couldn’t get the thing I hated getting most. This was the beginning of a big mind-shift for me. At first I was a little relieved. They gave me a shot of white blood cell booster, hoping to increase my white count overnight, and sent me home. The next day I arrived, and I was ready. My vitals were taken, blood was drawn, and soon I would be heading back for the red devil. But wait. “Dawn,” the nurse said, “your counts are too low again. I am so sorry. We will try again tomorrow.” The tears fell so fast and so hard and wouldn’t stop for hours. I needed this chemo to fight cancer; I had to have it. How could I want something I so intensely loathed? That’s when I realized: I needed to change the story in my head. Chemo was a gift. I get to get chemo. Chemo gave me the ability to fight cancer and live. It was a gift that generations before me did not have. Three days later I was able to receive my gift again. I would love to tell you that my view on making lunches and driving to school has remained in a place of gratitude, that I do it daily with a skip in my step and joy in my heart, but I would be lying. I am human. I complain. I get overwhelmed and annoyed. I grow tired of driving back and forth to school. I roll my eyes at a busy schedule. I loathe going to the grocery store. But I do have a gift that many don’t. When it all seems like too much, I have the gift of remembering what it felt like to have it all taken away. I remember what it felt like to desperately want to drive a little girl to school and go to a playground with her. I know that feeling, and I am grateful for it. I get to make those lunches. I get to clean her vomit off my shoes. Never in a million years would I have dreamed the diagnosis of cancer was a gift. But I can tell you unequivocally it was. A crazy, wild, precious gift. I got to battle cancer. In that battle I learned to love my family more, and I met God on a whole new level. So whether it’s a life-changing battle or one of those mildly irritating or gross parts of life, they don’t look so bad when that story in your head changes. When you realize that the gifts you’re being given are right there in that unattractive packaging. You get to open them, and you might find out that God designed them just for you — for your good and His glory. Excerpted from Laughing Through the Ugly-Cry and Finding Unstoppable Joy by Dawn Barton, copyright Dawn Barton. * * * Your Turn What do you get to do today? Do you get to work from home? Supervise kids' distance learning? Clean the house? Do the laundry? Deal with frustrating co-workers? Shop for an elderly neighbor? How are the get to’s changing your perspective? Come share with us on our blog. We want to hear from you about what you’re grateful for! ~ Laurie McClure, Faith.Full

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growingupguidepup · 4 years

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Adventures in Puppy Raising - Part 2

We worked out a plan that the nights the doctor and I were both scheduled to work I would bring Penny with me. If we had time to fit her in we would, and if not she would get pushed back to the next possible evening. Well, we managed to get her done on the second night we tried. I worked my normal shift from 4:00 pm until midnight, and then we started prepping Penny for surgery. Lucky for Penny, my coworker Angela was also on. Penny absolutely loves her and is very comfortable with her. This made getting Penny prepped a lot easier on her.

When we realized that we would have time to do Penny’s surgery I slipped her an oral anti-anxiety medication to help her relax. It was enough to keep Penny relaxed enough for me to give her an injectable sedative and pain medication combo—we do this with all of our patients before surgery. It allows us to keep the level of the gas anesthesia lower during the surgery. It also made it a lot easier for us to draw a blood sample to run and place an IV line and in Penny.

Penny under the influence of a sedative before surgery.

That night I also weighed her, a needed step to be able to calculate appropriate drug doses for her. She was six pounds less than the last time I weighed her. The weight loss made sense, since she had missed a few meals or didn’t finish eating all her food offered in the last few weeks. But it was a little concerning that a still-growing puppy had lost that much weight. It was also another sign that Penny was dealing with more than just teenage rebellion and testing me.

Once her IV was going and we ran a quick blood panel on her we induced her with an injectable anesthetic, placed a breathing tube in her, and maintained her on gas anesthesia. We shaved her belly, scrubbed her, and moved her into our surgery suite.

Penny did really well in surgery and we were able to not only spay her but do a stomach pexy. This pexy is a procedure done to keep her stomach from flipping if she were ever to bloat in the future; if that happened she would need emergency lifesaving surgery. Being a very large breed dog increases the possibility of this condition happening to her. It is still a serious condition, but the treatment for it will not be as invasive, her recovery will be a lot faster, and a lot less expensive. She also had her rear dew claws removed. Not every dog is born with rear dew claws, and unlike front dew claws the rear ones are often not fully attached by bone, but by mostly cartilage. Because of this they tend to be “floppy” and can easily get caught on things and torn. It is a very easy procedure to remove them and many dogs get them removed when they are spayed or neutered. I also took the opportunity while Penny was under anesthesia to X-ray her hips and elbows, just to check for any signs of dysplasia. If Penny is going to be a working service dog, she needs to be clear of any dysplasia. Having German Shepherd in her genes it was a good idea to do a preliminary check, since that breed is prone to both hip and elbow dysplasia. So far Penny is looking clear of both. She will need X-rays again at around two years old to be positive.

Penny on the surgery table as Amie assists the doctor.

Upon removing her uterus, it was discovered that it was slightly enlarged, either still from the false pregnancy or possibly preparing for another heat cycle. Just another indicator of why her behavior was still off and possibly hormone related.

It took about two hours to complete all of Penny’s treatments. She woke up from everything really calmly and she soon went back to sleep comfortably. We kept her on some strong pain medication and I even placed a pain patch that would keep a constant level of pain medication to keep her comfortable for the first few days after surgery. I stayed right next to her, and even took a short nap with her until she was awake enough to realize where she was.

Amie resting next to Penny as she wakes up from her surgery.

A little after 7:00 am I left the clinic to go home and sleep for a few hours as I was scheduled to work again at 3:00 pm. At this point I had been up for almost 24 hours and was getting really tired. I left Penny at the clinic as she was not quite ready to go home with me. She was not really wanting to walk and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving her unsupervised while I slept.

When I arrived back for my shift Penny was very happy to see me. She had been a good girl for the day staff. I was very happy to hear that she wasn’t afraid of them and was very cooperative.

During her surgery recovery we did keep her on a mild anti-anxiety medication to help keep her calm. She needed to stay quiet: no running, jumping, or hard playing, just out to potty only for ten days. This was a little hard for her, but she managed okay. I didn’t trust her not to chew her skin staples out when not directly supervised. The first night home, I put a collar on her to prevent her from getting to her staples and the bandages that were on her back feet. She was terrified by the collar. She sat on her bed frozen and trembling for almost 30 minutes before she would lay down and go to sleep. She did adjust, but she hated the collar. I was able to find her a post-operative suit that would completely cover her spay incision so she couldn’t lick or chew at it. And as long as I kept her rear feet bandaged she left those alone as well. She was a very good patient and allowed me to change her bandages and check her belly daily. She even allowed me to remove all the skin staples by myself when it came time to do so.

When Penny was healed up enough to do short outings and exercise, she was very excited. She was so happy to be able to run and play again. She even seemed excited to go to the store with me again, but she was still constantly looking over her shoulder and uncomfortable with certain people passing us. She still wasn’t herself yet.

Now, it can take multiple weeks and up to multiple months for certain hormones to fully leave the body, so it wasn’t surprising that Penny didn’t go back to her normal self right away. She still seemed a little lost. She was still nervous out in public and refusing to take treats at times. She was still struggling to walk without pulling and being easily distracted.

It was time to see if we could help Penny return to herself again. I decided to try an alternative approach and set Penny up with an appointment with a holistic veterinarian. We met with the new vet and started some herbal supplements to help hormone imbalance and we gave acupuncture a try. But once again she was weighed and she had lost another two pounds in the two and a half weeks since her spay surgery. She had been eating well, but evidently not enough.

We started seeing positive results the day after her first treatment. She started to regain her focus on walks again. She was still easily distracted but able to refocus for the first time in weeks. Along with this treatment plan we did our best to decrease her stress level as well.

Penny relaxing during her acupuncture treatment.

We had plans to travel to the Vancouver Webfest, but Penny wasn’t ready to do a trip like that so we stayed home. I still had the time off work so I took this opportunity to spend it with Penny and see if we could make progress together. This time was well spent. We took short outings every day to different places like malls, different stores, and walks by herself. Each day I saw a little improvement. She was eager to go out, excited to earn food rewards, even looking to do short training sessions, eating all the food offered to her at meal times, refocused, and a lot calmer. I even stopped by my work and my coworkers noticed a difference in her.

We finished Penny’s second acupuncture treatment just before I started writing this blog. She has gained back four of the eight pounds she had lost and is eating great every day. She is still nervous and not trusting of certain people, but it is variable. Some people she will walk right up to and others she will back away from and look over her shoulder until she is sure that they are not following us. This is still a work in progress and we will continue to watch her on this. We have had several very successful outings with Penny so I feel like we are making progress in the right direction with her.

However her future as a service dog is still up in the air as some of her recent behavior has not exactly been service dog caliber. I have always said that puppy raising is a bit of a roller coaster ride with ups and downs. Penny has regressed a lot over the last few months, but sometimes you need to take a few steps backwards to move forward. Going through a heat cycle, false pregnancy, major surgery, and possibly getting ready to go back into a heat cycle has taken its toll on Penny. It’s a lot for any puppy to go through, especially a such a sensitive one like Penny. We are taking things slowly with Penny at the moment and doing everything we can think of to see if we can get her back to the puppy she was before all the changes in her life. Only time will tell if these behavioral changes were caused by the hormone change or if this is the dog she is maturing into or maybe a little of both. We are paying very close attention to what Penny is doing and saying to us and will be working with Brigadoon on making decisions on what is best for her.

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apsbicepstraining · 6 years

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The 24 -hour race: ‘It is a battle with your mind’

Ultra-running is one of the worlds fastest growing sports, generally taking place in remote, scenic landscapes. Not an athletics way in London. Will opponents contact nirvana?

I hallucinated, of course. I ever do, Pat Seabrook says. She is 76 and has expended the past 24 hours flowing round a 400 m athletics track in Tooting, south London. She sits in the front seat of her car, peeling plasters off her toes. At some degree I began to think the white routes on the trail were lassoes, rising up around me, and I was pushing them away. She chortles: Frequently I run with my friend and we take turns to hallucinate.

Along with 44 other athletes, Seabrook has just vied in the Sri Chinmoy Self-Transcendence 24 -hour Track Race. Ultra-running, in which opponents take part in hastens longer than a marathon and often 100 miles or more, is one of the fastest growing sports in the world, with brand-new races propelling all the time; the most difficult ones have been forced to introduce lottery to systematically cope with the numbers who want to enter. But part of the appeal of these races is that they usually take place amid some of the worlds most remote and scenic landscapes, such as the Sahara or the Rockies. Not around a line in Tooting.

Paul Corderoy: You can get into that infinite; a few laps go by and you dont realise it. Photograph: Marietta d’Erlanger for the Guardian

The winner, James Stewart, moves a mind-boggling 160 miles over the course of the day. Its hard to comprehend, watching him plug away, lap after lap: 160 miles, without going anywhere. He could have moved all the way to Cardiff, but hes still here, on the trail in Tooting.

Seabrook is the oldest opponent here and considers 83 miles during the course of its race. Its not that great, she says, gathering off another plaster. Last year I operated 87. As well as innumerable 24 -hour races, she has also move 456 marathons. She didnt even start loping until her late 40 s, when all her children had grown up and left home. I required something to prevent me busy, Seabrook says. What else am I going to do on a Saturday?

Yet in spite of her low-key attitude, something else is going on here. The race was started virtually 30 years ago by adherents of the late Indian spiritual coach Sri Chinmoy, who believed that ranging was integral to a spiritual life.

In 1977, Chinmoy started a marathon team, which started putting on races in New York and is now one of the most important organisers of perseverance happens around the world. While most of the voluntaries and organisers in Tooting are adherents of his teaches, only one of the smugglers, Mahasatya Janczak from Poland, is part of the Sri Chinmoy unit. He has done the race twice before. Does he find self-transcendence through it? At minutes, certainly, he responds, a shimmer in his eyes. Its truly something. You can only understand it if you try it.

Pat Seabrook, aged 76, is the oldest challenger. I necessary something to deter me busy. Image: Marietta d’Erlanger for the Guardian

Diana Celeiro has come the whole way from Argentina for the hasten. Its her second experience here. Her husband, Gustavo, acts as her reinforce gang. Most of the smugglers have someone who accepts diligently by the track watching, offering encouragement, devising snacks or helping with any issues that arise, from sores to emotional failures. Some of the approval crews have brought tents; one family even has a motorhome parked up on the edge of the track. A few of the smugglers have no gang and have just set up a table on the grass or, in one athletes speciman, an ironing board laden with their supplies.

Some allies disappear dwelling or to a hotel on the night for some sleep. Gustavo, though, puts vigilant throughout, always smiling. This is different from flowing 100 miles in the mountains, he says. When “youre running” 100 miles all around a way, it is a battle with your mind.

I expect how his wife is, after completing a race like this. Very quiet, he says. Almost dead.

In Japan, monks on Mount Hiei run 1,000 marathons in 1,000 daylights in a effort to reach enlightenment. One of the monks once told him that the idea behind the constant shift is to spend the memory, the body, everything, until nothing is left and you are almost dead. When you are nothing, then something pop! comes up to crowded the cavity, he said, miming a bubble popping. That something, he told me, is the immense consciousness that lies below the surface of our lives a feeling of oneness with the universe.

Diana Celeiro has travelled from Argentina for the race. Photograph: Marietta d’Erlanger for the Guardian

None of the athletes here in Beeping vocalises it quite so lucidly, but there are peeks of something deeper than PBs and course accounts. Sometimes, you can get into that opening; a few laps go by and you dont realise it, Paul Corderoy says.

Theres a nowness to it, thats for sure, says Jamie Holmes, a management consultant who lives less than a mile from the racetrack. He has recently completed the famous Spartathalon ultra-marathon in Greece, which is 153 miles. When I ask why he remains doing such long races, he says he cant certainly made a statement in explanation, but thinks hes trying to break himself. I suppose Im trying to find my restriction, he says. Perhaps when I find it, Ill stop.

Shankara Smith, the race director, says that the biggest challenge is yourself. Sri Chinmoy used to say its not mind over thing, but middle over attention. If you cant stillnes that brain, then you cant do it, because your brain will tell you you cant. Here, you cant tell yourself its you versus that mountain, because there is no mountain. Its merely you versus you.

Smith has watched the hasten each year since it started in 1989, when her father was the hasten director. I desire it, she says. If youre here at 3am, the city is quiet , nothing is going on, but on the line, the atmosphere is zinging. But too peaceful.

I spend a few hours watching the smugglers lap the racetrack. Everyone seems in good spirits; its a chilly, overcast afternoon, which is fine for the runners, and while a few have gone off rapidly at the front, most are running well within themselves, chitchatting to one another and joking with the officials. I decide to get some food and rest.

Driving back to the line at 3am, I find it hard to imagine they are all still moving but, for sure, out on the floodlit line 15 hours after they started, the smugglers are still going around and around. About 10( principally those who started at the figurehead in the first few hours) have discontinued out.

Many challengers are strolling, often with difficulty, by the time darkness descends. Photo: Adharanand Finn for the Guardian

Some of those left look as if theyre in pain, their trot modes twisted and contorted. Many are amble, but even that gazes difficult. One boy with a shaven chief is walking gradually with his fists clenched; he examines as if he wants to punch person. They have nine hours left to go.

Some parties stand out, mollifies and compiled. One of them is 68-year-old Ann Bath. Shes not very fast, shes a little inclination over, but she used merciles. While others rarely stop for a rub, or to eat something, she presses serenely on, never stopping. In the end, she extends an incredible 116 miles, an age-group macrocosm record.

Holmes, the management consultant, smiles when he sees me again. He is now ambling cautiously and his knee is heavily buckled. I envisage Ive felt my restriction, he says. At the end of every lap, the runners elapse a tent full of the persons with big clipboards and rolls of numbers. The lap bars have to wave to their smuggler each time to show theyve registered the lap, and the runners typically curve back to double check their lap has been counted. As the hours change, an intimacy builds up. They get to know one another well, there are still lots of chuckling and joking. The athletes say it devotes them a lift.

Ann Bath lopes 116 miles, an age-group macrocosm record. Image: Marietta dErlanger for the Guardian

Some hastens, you have a chipping counter tied to your shoe, one runner tells me, but what I like about this race is that you have people doing it.

Another runner and his bar “ve tried to” call a new animal each lap. After a while, the runner, his psyche frazzled, stops and reclines on the table line. I cant think up any more, he says. Im done. No, await, flamingo! And, with that, hes off again.

Youre looking great, one of the lap counters wail to Holmes.

Youre examining beautiful, he replies, his startled smile now prepared permanently across his face, perhaps shielding the pain. When I catch him along the back straight-out, he tells me he misses his friends. Commonly I run with sidekicks, he says. Without them here to tell me to stop being an dumb, I cant find the will to try running again. So he treads. But he doesnt stop.

Around the track, many of the corroborate crews are sleeping on chairs or on the flooring. Lauren Howes, whose lover, Cameron Humphries, is doing his first 24 -hour race, is struggling to understand what shes doing up there. I dont get it, she says. Its like a religion. His heroes are not Brad Pitt or George Clooney, but some ultra-runner guy.

Kilian Jornet? I crusade. Hes just about the most famous ultra-runner I can think of; he lopes up and down mountains.

Yes, thats it. Hes went four pairs of his shoes.

Some of the gang are hasten ex-servicemen who cant stay away. One tells me she was a marathon runner when a person at her fraternity informed her he had construed a hasten where people were gobbling sandwiches while they were guiding. I didnt believe it, she says, so I went to watch. I turned up in the morning and there was a group of beings wandering all over the way like zombies. Ive been hooked ever since. If Im not leading, Im crewing.

Although at times it seemed that it would never come, lastly, at just before midday, we get the bell celebrating the last five minutes of the race. For the final few laps, the runners are joined on the track by family and friends. Parents run propping mitts with “their childrens”, pairs flow, or move, arm in arm. One serviceman decides to start sprinting, his support crew struggling to keep up, while another carries his young daughter. One lady, clearly in affliction, is accompanied by her concerned partner and two teenage sons. When the hooter goes to signal the end, she abounds into snaps. Others collapse on the dirt where they are, or hug the nearest party. I find myself close to tears.

One runner, the shaven-headed husband with the clenched fists he didnt unclench them the entire race is ambling back alone across the infield. I ask if hes OK. He looks at me blankly for a moment, as though Ive simply emerged out of the field. I simply need to lie down, he says in the meekest spokesperson Ive ever heard.

And so it intentions. I suspect theyll all go back to their jobs and parties will ask them if theyre mad. Why? parties will request. Why would you do such a thing? And theyll likely be unable to answer. But theyll be getting back next year to do it all over again.

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torreygazette · 7 years

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A Grief Remembered

The day my mother died was a rainy one.

My dad later told us that it seemed like every significant day in their marriage minus their actual wedding had been a rainy one. I remember how disgusting that day was. The rain was heavy and the humidity made it feel like you were swimming through the air.

Today marks a year since that day. It occurred to me that I had not reflected on what it was like in the days leading up to and including her last day here on this earth.

A few weeks before she died, shortly after Thanksgiving of 2016, my mother lapsed into a comatose state. The doctors had been giving her pain medication, but the cancer that ravaged her liver had slowed down the processing of those medicinal substances. The comatose state was the result. We had to wait for her liver to filter the medicine. I had driven down from San Marcos for the weekend when my father told me her current state. I sat in the hospital room, listening quietly while the family members around me softly cried and tried talking to my mom. I had tears in my eyes, too, but my allergies were extraordinarily bad that day. Nevertheless, it seemed to make my family feel better that I was crying with them albeit not for the same reasons.

Different family members and friends came in and out of the hospital room trying to get my mom to respond in some way. At one point it was just my father, my brother, our next door neighbors, and me in the room. My father asked me to sing to her, that maybe she would hear and respond. I didn’t think it would, but it didn’t hurt to try. I began to softly sing “It Is Well with My Soul” as I stood by her bed and held her hand. The next door neighbor joined me after a verse, and she sang a lovely harmony. My father had tears in his eyes. My brother began to sob and left the room. My mother remained unresponsive through the final notes of the song.

A few days later, she woke up.

Just A Smirk

My father told me that the doctors had recommended no further treatment, as her body was already too weak and the cancer had spread too far. They gave an incredibly vague timeline of three days to three weeks before she died. He told me they were sending someone over to talk about hospice options later that afternoon.

When the hospice attendant came, he began talking and I stopped listening. The majority of our immediate family was in there; my grandparents were listening with tears streaming, my father held my mom’s hand and smiled softly, my brother just stared at the man. But I caught my mother’s eye. I smirked at her. She smiled weakly back at me. I don’t know what she took from my smile. I had meant to convey all the love and affection that I held for her, telling her with a smirk that everything was going to be okay—even as her body was ravaged by cancer and death lurked at the door. Later that evening, I took her hand in mine. I don’t remember the conversation that followed, but I do remember toward the end of it she said, “I’m going to miss you, Michael.”

In hindsight, I’m surprised I didn’t burst into tears. I think I responded with something like, “You won’t even be worried about me. But I’ll miss you.”

Finally, she was moved to hospice. My father opted to not take her home that she could have twenty-four-hour care from professionals. I think it was also on his mind not to place a greater burden on my mother’s parents. I think I was able to see her twice at the hospice facility. Both times, I walked in to see her in her bed, free of wires, tubes, and IVs, hopefully, a little more comfortable.

For roughly six months, she had greeted me with “I love you.” This day was no exception, except that I finally understood why when she whispered it to me that day. She didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to see me, or how many times she would get to tell me that she loved me.

I don’t remember the final words my mom and I shared. I only remember helping my grandmother clean as my mom got sick, my dad’s constant presence, and holding her hand as we both fell asleep. Time was up, however, and I had to work the next morning in San Marcos. I kissed my mother, hugged her, and (hopefully) told her I loved her. And then I left, never to see her alive in this world again.

Two days later, I woke up to rain. I got up, made my coffee, and headed to church. Everything was normal, but it didn’t feel like it. When I finished teaching Sunday school, my best friend asked if she could come with me to see my mom. For whatever reason, I said, "No, perhaps another day." Something about the day didn’t feel right.

So I drove in the rain. Fast—what my mom always said not to do. I was hungry. I texted my dad, told him I was almost to the hospice facility and asked if I had time to stop for food. When he responded that they would wait for me, I asked again, “Do I have time to stop for food?”

“No,” he said.

I pressed the gas pedal down a bit further.

When I arrived at the hospice facility, the lot was empty. The only two people standing right outside its doors were my father and brother. And that’s when I knew for sure. I quickly got out of my car and walked up the stairs to them. Neither greeted me, my father only half smiled through tears, and then both he and my brother buried their faces in my chest, sobbing. I held their heads against me, trying to control my own breathing.

A minute passed, and I walked into the facility, past the front desk, past my already mourning family, and into my mother’s room. I choked back a sob and grabbed her hand, alarmed that it was already cold.

A host of things followed. More family came through, some of my brother’s coworkers came by, and some of my friends came too. One brought me a bottle of chocolate milk.

I remember excusing myself to use the restroom, whereupon I collapsed on the floor, unable to stop the tears and sobs from exiting me. Believe me or not, it was at this point that I forced myself to whisper the Gloria Patri:

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”

Perhaps it was a bit sanctimonious, but I had to force myself to say it. I truly meant it, and I could feel unbelief wanting to corrode the hope I had in the forgiveness of sins and the resurrection of the body, and the eternal life that my mother had already begun to share in. Despite pain, anger, loneliness, and grief, I felt a joy that my mother was no longer in pain. So I had to confess with my mouth.

We finally took our leave of the hospice facility and returned home. I arrived first. With a friend’s help, I began to clean out our refrigerator which had begun to smell in due to the absence of my family. More family members began to arrive and a man from my old church brought Bill Miller’s for us eat. I don’t even remember if I ate or not, I just remember having a couple beers.

For some reason, they chose to go into my parents’ room to return some items that my father had with him, and to sort through some of my mother’s jewelry. I remembered that when I was young, I had bought her a pair of clip-on earrings from a thrift store that were gold colored and set with fake sapphires. She never really wore them, because she was a grown woman who didn’t want to wear clip-on earrings, and she preferred wearing silver jewelry. I searched for those clip-on earrings that night in every nook and cranny in her dresser and couldn’t find them. I broke down in hysterical sobs, truly uncontrollable this time, as my hands scrambled to find the stupid little gift I gave my mom.

I don’t remember much else from that day. The last memory I have is falling asleep between my father and brother in my parents’ bed.

The next morning, I was sitting in my adolescent psychology class at 11 am. I still had assignments to complete, finals were the following week, and I had offered to plan, sing, and speak at my mother’s funeral. But the week flew by, and everything got done, by the grace of God.

And suddenly, a year has passed by.

Not Left Orphans

I miss my mom. I feel very lost some days. Her death has left me in a dark mood for a whole year. I’m told that doesn’t go away but recedes some. She left a gaping hole in my family, at her job where it took three people to replace her, and in my own life. As a son who has lost a mother and the deep ache that I still feel, as though a part of me is gone, I cannot imagine my grandparents who have lost a daughter, or my father who has lost his wife.

The monotony of my life in the last year has almost driven me mad. The silence in my life has almost done the same. Her death was a catalyst in my life for many unfortunate scenarios.

I couldn’t help but feel and utter those terribly selfish words “Why me?” I am but the youngest of those who knew her well, which means, to my utter dismay, that I had the least amount of time with her. My grandparents saw each of her 52 years. My aunt had 44 years, my father had over 32 years, and even my brother had 25 years.

I think of the twenty years I was able to spend with her, despite being cognitive for even less time, and I feel slighted. But then I remember a friend of mine from childhood who lost his mother around age 6. I remember the friends of mine in high school who lost their mother sophomore year. Or another friend who lost their mom just after they had graduated. They all would count me more fortunate than them for the additional years I was able to share with my mom.

A year later I feel more like a child than I did when I planned her funeral nearly alone. I feel less equipped to deal with prolonged loss and grief than the immediate shock when I was forced to act. I am trying so hard to not wallow in the grief of “why me” to the extent that I forget the grief of my family who need me. I am trying so hard to remember that I need them as well. I am trying to fit into my mother’s shoes, helping my family where I can, being with them where I can, and mediating where I can. But I am twenty-one. And I am scared of the future. I still have so much to deal with in my own mind, how can I help those around me?

Or perhaps these must happen simultaneously.

I am told by those who have lost their parents that the first year is the hardest. And it has indeed been hell. But despite my wandering heart and the incredibly incessant wave of depression and unbelief, I have hope. I struggle to keep it, but I have it. Of course, I do not worry about my mother. She is beyond all harm and woe. But for my family, I have hope that we might heal. I have hope that we might grow in Christ and with each other due to this tragedy. I have hope that we might delve deeper into the truth of what it means to be Christians, bonded both by baptism and the blood flowing in our veins. I have hope that we might be kept steadfast in the faith, that we might see Jesus and my mother when He raises us from the dead.

I can no longer run to my mother for hurt, help, or a hug. She is no longer able to defend me like lioness of a mother that she was, nor is she able to counsel me with her incredibly sharp mind. Once upon a time, the idea of not being able to help her family would have driven her crazy. But even her faith has been made perfect in death. And I have this image of Mary, the mother of Jesus, the Theotokos, greeting my mother as she came into glory and reminding her that I, too, am entrusted to her Son. And that is the safest place I can be.

“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Yet a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live.” – John 14:18-19

“His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

#Death

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