Running Forever

The doctors appointments started 3 years, 9 months, and 15 days ago.

The same amount of time has passed since I was told I would die.

And 2 months, 17 days are left.

I have something rare. It's called Goodpasture Syndrome. It makes something called Anti-bodies which are attacking my lungs and kidneys. I've needed an oxygen tank the past two years because of it. It's a big metal cylinder I have to wheel around all the time. I hate it because it makes people stare. And staring leads to questions. I think I might just explode if I have to answer another question.

I don't understand how something called "Good" can be so bad. I've asked Mama so many times, and she's always said, "It's called irony, pet."

I wish irony didn't exist.

The clock on the wall opposite my chair ticks loudly. I've always hated that clock. So loud.

My pants rustle when I move my legs. I struggle to find a comfy

position, the cord of my oxygen tank stopping me from getting comfortable.

"Hush, Alex." Mama says sternly.

"Sorry Mama." I reply.

I eye Mama out of the corner of my eye. She is sitting with one leg crossed over the other, her hands wringing each other in her lap. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, and her eyes dart back and forth.

Years spent on the sidelines, not allowed to do anything, have taught me how to read people.

I can read Mama like a book. She's nervous right now. Her body radiates nervousness. And whenever I tell her that, she says, "You are too perceptive, pet. Too smart for your own good."

I always got told I was too smart when I went to school. By the kids and the teachers. If one of my classmates answered a question wrong, and I corrected them, I would always get told I was too smart.

I fiddle with my hands for a moment before I ask,

"Is Pa coming?"

Mama sighs loudly before replying.

"Should be, pet. I told him to."

I nod my head and silence descends once again.

Pa left three years ago. Right after the doctors appointment that told me I would die. He said it was too hard. Said he didn't want a sick kid. I think he left so that he wouldn't have to around when I died. He doesn't like sad things like that. We still see him every now and then. I guess he can't forget his only child completely.

For a few minutes I watch people walk past, back and forth. Doctors and nurses bustle past, some wheeling chairs or beds, both empty and occupied, some carrying nothing but a clipboard. Families go past as well, crying or laughing, with kids or alone. One of them stops in front of us, a man.

It's Pa. His hair has grown since I saw him last, two months ago. He has the shadow of a beard, and his clothes are disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed. He probably has.

"Hey Christie. Hey Bud." He waves to Mama first, then to me.

"Hi Pa." I say.

"I'm sorry, did your duties as a father drag you away from the bar?" Mama says coldly. "Or is this how you look normally these days?"

"Nice to see you too, Christie." Pa says with an eyeroll.

"Christina." Mama snaps.

I shift uncomfortably. Mama never wants people to call her by anything but her nickname. Except people she really doesn't like.

"Aw come on, don't be that way." Pa pleads. "I'm not your brother. You don't hate me that much."

"You have no idea how I feel.' Mama shoots Pa a dirty look. "And thanks for all the support. It was really nice of you to offer to drive Alex to his appointments every once in a while. Not to mention the contribution to all the payments."

"What do you mean by that?" Pa shoots back.

"You ran the moment things got hard, and I've seen you what, once every two or three months since then?" Mama stares at Pa incredulously. "You're a coward."

"It's not my fault he's messed up!" Pa flings out his arm, an indication to me.

People are starting to stare. I hate staring.

"He is your son." Mama stands up abruptly, poking Pa in the chest. She is yelling now. "And he is not messed up! He is sick, and you don't care about him! Your own son! You run when things get hard, you always have. YOU CAN'T RUN FOREVER, EZRA!"

Pa stumbles over what to say for a moment. But then he gives up and walks back down the way he came.

I don't think I'll ever see him again.

Five Weeks Later...

I'm in a wheelchair now.

It's too hard for me to walk, it takes too much effort. I wheeze when I move, so they put me in a chair. It's fun, I suppose. At times. Times when I forget how sick I really am.

The lights above buzz with electricity. Mum walks behind me, pushing my chair. My oxygen tank is clipped to the back of the chair. We are on our way to visit Doctor Carly Mendoza. I've seen her every two weeks for the past four years, almost. But recently it's become weekly visits.

We stop outside her office door, on the third floor of the hospital. Mama knocks on the door, short and sharp.

"Come in!" Calls a voice.

Mama pushes the door open with her shoulder, backing me into the room.

"Hello Christie, hello Alex." Nearly four years of fortnightly doctors' appointments have gotten us on a first name basis.

"Hello Carly!" I say brightly. Mama just smiles warily and gives Carly a small nod.

"How have you been feeling, Alex?" Carly asks me. I get asked the same thing every week.

"I'm ok. I'm finding it slightly hard to get up to go to the toilet, I get very tired. And it hurts to wee." I answer, making a face when I remember the burning sensation I have when I go to the toilet.

"We can expect the tiredness, naturally, and the soreness when urinating is just from the anti-bodies in kidneys. I can give you a painkiller for that." Carly says, jotting something down on a sheet of paper in front of her.

The questions are simple like that, back and forth, for half and hour or so. Then she does the usual examinations, checks my heart, my lungs, pokes and prods me with different things. Then Carly smiles, and says,

"Could I talk to you, Christie, outside for a moment?"

"Of course." Mama stands up. "We'll be just a minute."

"Sure, Mama." I nod.

Mama and Carly disappear out into the corridor outside. If I'm quiet enough, I can hear snippets of what they say. The noise from outside blocks it a bit though.

"Alex...test results...declining...possibility...few more weeks at best." I hear Carly say.

Mama is so quiet, I can’t hear her at all. I don't even know if she is talking.

But I don't need her to talk. I know what Carly means, even without having heard everything she said.

Mama and Carly come back inside, and I do my best not to look like I was eavesdropping.

With nothing but a quiet goodbye to Carly, Mama wheels me out of the room and into the hallway again. We are silent as we walk through the halls, our lives seemingly having paused whilst everyone else's zooms by around us.

We pass the waiting area where Mama yelled at Pa a few weeks ago.

YOU CAN'T RUN FOREVER, EZRA, she'd cried.

And Mama was right. You can't run forever. Life will only catch up.

And I know what will happen to me when life catches up.

I'm going to die.

And there's no outrunning that.

Six Weeks Later...

I've never seen so many flowers.

Colourful bouquets surround me on all sides, their floral scent tickling my nose. Mama holds my hand tightly next to me. Her eyes have heavy shadows underneath them, put there by the past few weeks.

I was moved to this room in the Intensive Care Unit two weeks ago. I haven't left it since.

I can hardly move, now. It hurts to do so, in my bowel and my chest. The oxygen canister that helped me to breathe has been replaced by a machine, a big clunky thing pumping oxygen in and out of my lungs. A heart monitor beeps at a steady pace next to me, amongst other things keeping me alive.

A lot of people have come to see me over the past few weeks. All to say goodbye. None of them stayed very long though. I think the machines scare them.

I haven't seen Pa. I don't really mind though. I don't want him and Mama to fight again.

In the next minute or so, Carly comes in. She remains silent, and the weight of her unspoken words presses down on all of us, heavy and full of grief.

Mama turns to me. Her eyes well with tears and her chin wobbles. In that moment, I'm scared.

"Mama." I whisper through the mask covering my face. My voice is weak, so weak, like a wisp of spider silk. "I don't want to die. I'm scared."

"Oh, pet." Mama whispers back. Her voice is so thick with emotion, I'm surprised she doesn't choke. "I know. But we can't run from this. We've known this was coming for a long time. No one could've run from this." She inhales a shaky breath. "But please, Alex, know I love you so much. More than anything else in this world. The time you've spent in my life has been the happiest time of my life. Don't be scared. I love you."

Mama reaches over to kiss my forehead.

"I love you too, Mama." I reply, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back tears. I reach out my arms in the feeblest of movements, and Mama wraps her arms around me, cradling me to her chest. Her shoulders shake in a silent cry, and one of the tears I'd fought so hard to keep back slips down my cheek, preceding the steady flow of them that start.

"I love you." Mama whispers into my neck.

"I love you." I use whatever strength I can to squeeze her back.

Mama sniffs and pulls away, but she doesn't let go of my hand. We both look to Carly, who is hovering in the corner of the room. She walks over to us, her footsteps silent, stopping at my bedside. She bows to me, an inclination of her head, before reaching up to the switch on the wall powering all the machines around me.

Mama and I watch her movements carefully before our gazes meet under Carly's arm. I don't think I have ever seen so much sadness in one person's eyes than I do in Mama's.

"I love you." She whispers, for what feels the thousandth time.

"I love you." I reply, for what feels the thousandth time.

Then the whirring of the machines stops, and Carly pulls away from the switch at the wall.

Silence descends on all of us, like a thick blanket. At first I think it's suffocating, but then I realise I would prefer silence to the loud machines.

As my body fights for breath, a pointless, weak fight, and my eyes flutter closed, I think to myself,

Why me? This wasn't supposed to happen, I'm too young. So why me?

A voice in the very back of my mind whispers back.

No one knows why. And everyone wonders; why me? And everyone tries to run from it. From death. But no one can, and no one ever will. Some people think they can run forever. But they can't. Your Mama can't run forever, your Pa can't run forever, Carly can't run forever. You can't run forever. But that's okay. The most important thing is that you are loved, and there are people on this earth who are so grateful for the times when you were here. You are loved.

As I slip into the darkness, the voice's words accompany me, comforting me.

I couldn't have run for this. If we had tried, we would've been running forever. And I think I would much rather to accept my fate than be afraid of it, always running, always looking over my shoulder, always waiting for it to catch up.

I love you. Mama's voice echoes.

Maybe if we had kept running, I would never have heard those words so heartfelt.

I love you too, I whisper into the oblivion, before finally succumbing to the warm embrace of death.