Breathe

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” he mutters under his breath sarcastically.

           Rolling her eyes, Matilda doesn’t bother lifting her head from the papers she is pursuing. “You need to quit watching soap operas, Theo. You’re getting too melodramatic for my tastes of late.” She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment, feeling the tell-tale tightness in her neck indicative of an incoming migraine. She can’t tell if it’s Theo’s nagging, or the topic of conversation that is inviting the migraine. She suspects a healthy, equal dose of both.

           “You’re only 26, Tills,” he reminds her, moving from the doorway of their bedroom to the large bed. He gracelessly slumps onto the bed on his back, resting his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling fan above. “You don’t know for certain that it could actually end badly. It’s almost like you aren’t even trying anymore.”

           This makes Matilda clench her hands into tight fists, her fingernails biting into the skin of her palm painfully. She has to clench her teeth and eyes closed tighter to ward off the sudden urge to cry and scream. She tries to focus on her breathing; breathe in through her nose, count to three, breathe out through her mouth, and repeat.

           The room is silent for the short moment that Matilda takes to gain control of her emotions. Theo can surely hear her controlled effort at maintaining her pattern of breathing, and the stiffness in her shoulders slowly moves with the concentrated effort of breathing.

           Just breathe.

           Slowly, she unclenches her hands, and turns her desk chair to face him. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans – palms now each covered in four crescent-shaped indents from her fingernails – and takes one final big breath in, counts to three, and lets it back out. She meets Theo’s eyes, and she can see that he is starting to feel regret over what he has said to her.

           “I have tried, Theo. For nearly four years now. I’m exhausted.” She pauses and takes another deep breath in. Three seconds. Back out. “The doctors said last time that I was lucky to have survived. They said that lung transplants are one of the most difficult procedures to fully heal and recover from. They warned me that it may not work.”

           Again, she pauses to concentrate on her breathing. She actually found these breathing exercises to combat panic and anxiety to work fairly well with her. She could never do them once she became sick. Her original lungs would probably have given out on her by now with how deeply she was forcing herself to breathe. It felt nice to be able to finally breathe after feeling as though she was drowning every time she took in a breath.

           She was going to bask in the painless, mundane action for as long as they allowed her to.

           “It isn’t defeat. I’m not fighting some war, I’m not a soldier,” regardless of her efforts, tears start forming in the corners of her eyes, ready to race each other down her cheeks to her chin, “I am a girl that got sick, got kind of better, got worse, got sort of better again, and is going to find out in less than 24 hours which way the pendulum will swing this time.” She turns back around to her desk, eyeing the paperwork that she had been looking over before being interrupted by Theo returning home from work.

           A Will, and a summary she has written up of how she would like her funeral to be planned.

           If there is one thing that cancer did not take from Matilda, it’s her neurotic need to plan.

           Shuffling the papers into organised piles, she turns off the desk lamp and joins Theo on the bed, laying her head on his chest. Automatically, one of his hands moves to her waist to pull her closer, and the other moves to stroke her short-cropped hair.

           “I know you’ve been sick again, but does that truly mean that you may not get better in a week’s time, or a month’s time? I mean, it’s only been five months since the surgery, Tilly. You’ve only been home for three weeks. Maybe it’ll take you longer than average to get used to the lungs.”

           Theo’s optimism verges on suffocating at this point. Nonetheless, Matilda feels herself relaxing into his hands massaging her scalp and waist, his voice also relaxing her now that he isn’t being loud with anger. His voice has a tone of defeat. He knows what I will say.

           “The scans tomorrow will confirm if the cancer cells decided to make base on these lungs, too. If they have, I don’t think I can go through anymore chemo, or anymore surgeries.” She turns her face into his chest, tears soaking into his shirt. “I know you mean well, Theo. And I love you so damn much for caring and wanting me to get better, but I’ve known for a long time that I had a higher chance of never truly getting better.” Wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve, Matilda raises her head to look at Theo. Placing her hand gently on his face, she wipes away his own tears that have started trailing down his cheeks. “Please don’t cry, Teddy.”

           He sniffles pathetically and scrunches his eyes closed. He presses his mouth to her forehead and presses a hard kiss to the skin. “I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t understand why none of the treatment has worked. Why are you still sick? Why you?” His voice cracks on the last question.

           Matilda sighs and moves to press soft kisses to his jawline. “I don’t know, Teddy. Plenty of good people get their lives cut unnecessarily short. It’s just life.” Gently kissing his lips, she gives him a small, sad smile. “If my life is getting cut short, I don’t want my final days, or months, or hopefully years, to be played out in hospital rooms strapped to machines. I don’t want to lose my hair again. I just want to live the allotted time I have left in peace.”

           “But what if it worked this time? What if this time, the chemo works, or the surgeries work?” He pleads.

           She threads her fingers through his soft blond hair, combing his fringe away from his eyes. “And what if they don’t?”

           He stares silently, his eyes bouncing between hers, occasionally flitting down to her lips. Slowly, he brings her lips to his and kisses her softly, sucking on her bottom lip. Her insides turn to liquid and butterflies erupt in her stomach. God, she’s going to miss this.

           She draws back from him, watching his face as he tries to piece together his next sentence.

           “I’m sorry I’ve been so insistent on you going through treatment again,” he says, rubbing her back slowly, “it’s selfish of me to make you feel guilty for making a choice about your life.”

           Shaking her head, she props her chin up on his chest and lets her eyes drift lazily over his face. “I don’t think you’re selfish. I would probably be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. I just need you to understand my point of view. I don’t see this as defeat. I don’t see it as cancer winning. I’m not afraid of dying anymore.” Absentmindedly, her finger traces small shapes over his neck. She focuses on her finger, too nervous now to look him in the eyes. “I’m just trying to plan everything so that there’s not much room for error once I’m gone. I want this to be as painless and easy as possible.”

           His chest rumbles as he chuckles into her hair. “You’re such a control freak that even your death is planned down to the last detail.”

           She laughs along with him. This is what she wants. She wants this conversation to not be heartbreaking every time. Matilda wants Theo to come to terms with her dying.

           “Regardless, Tills, I’m going to be optimistic. I’m going to use the infinite power of positive thinking to force your body to heal, even if it’s just enough for another decade with you,” he voices with conviction.

           Grinning, Matilda lifts her head and kisses him sweetly. “I’m counting on it, Teddy.” She strokes his lips lovingly, feeling the butterflies returning in her stomach. “That’s why I love you so damn much, even if your optimism is sometimes nauseating.”

           He lets out a hearty laugh and gently rolls them over until he is hovering above her, his weight supported on his forearms on either side of her head. “And your pessimistic disposition has always been what gets me hot and bothered,” he laughs, burying his face against her neck, planting sweet kisses along its length. She begins to giggle uncontrollably as his lips tickle her skin and her heart fills with giddy warmth and love.

           God, she wants this forever.