Synchronicity

The headaches had gotten worse. They came more frequently; the onset and intensity gaining momentum with each episode. The pills Doc prescribed to help with the debilitating pain and nausea made me sleep most of the day, leaving me wide awake at night. I had transformed into some kind of nocturnal creature, wandering through my home in the dark like an interloper.

Floating like a tortured spirit from room to room in the midnight hours, I touched everything; feather-light fingertips were caressing picture frames and book bindings. I poured through old photo albums and journals with a flashlight. Desperately clinging to the memories the images and words invoked, I was filled with nostalgia.

Unable to force my legs to support my pacing any longer, I sat with a heavy sigh. The throbbing in my body radiated from my bones. The injections meant to help my immune system grow more robust instead brought pain that left me more feeble with each passing week. I wanted to lay down. I fantasized swallowing a handful of painkillers and falling into bed to sleep off the excruciating discomfort. 

But the sudden determination that gripped me couldn't be dissuaded. I had to write. My body was dying, but my mind was alive. Pregnant with incessant thoughts, demanding to be acknowledged, to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.

I opened my laptop, my fingers waggling with anticipation as it booted up. Writing had always been my escape. It was the pathway for my brain to connect with my body. I'd never been good at conversation. I'd grown up dreadfully awkward and shy, my anxiety rendering my social skills incompetent. My thoughts had remained locked inside my dysfunctional head. That was until I learned to tease them into trickling to my fingertips, conjuring them forth like some sort of sorceress.

The blank screen beckoned me, insisting on being filled. Hesitant at first, my hands began their waltz across the keyboard, the quick tapping soothing my frayed nerves. Black letters conquered white space. My thoughts took form line after line, morphing into a world alive with a myriad of colors and sounds. 

The speed at which my brain fired accelerated, leaving the rest of me scrambling to keep pace. I furiously pegged the keys, words pouring out of me, completely ungovernable. Like a dam giving way, my walls fractured under the enormous pressure, the powerful, consuming force I created taking control.

My eyes grew dry and tired, every blink of my lids causing uncomfortable friction like pieces of sandpaper, yet I couldn't stop. It was an itch I had to scratch. It was a tic I was unable to ignore. I became obsessive; each word swapped over and over; each sentence dissected again and again. A yawn escaped my lips, and I reached for my mug, slugging the cold coffee with a wince.

The light slowly chased away the dark, and the sky began painting itself in a beautiful array of hues, the perfect backdrop of the gurgling river below. My neck and shoulders ached. The pulsing agony behind my eyes was impossible to brush off. I pressed save at least a hundred times, fretting over losing the precious prose that had streamed from somewhere deep inside me. It felt as if I was purging myself of things I'd been digesting without success for so long. Like bloodletting, releasing syllables held within to create new ones became cathartic.

I closed the computer, and wearily folded my arms over the table, my head quickly feeling heavier and heavier. I was tired in every way possible. The insidious companion that lurked deep within my brain leeched my energy, feeding off of it to strengthen its hold. I rubbed a hand over my scalp's smoothness, silently cursing the monster that infiltrated and festered underneath.

In the beginning, my vanity was thick, and my skin thin. I'd worn a wig every moment I wasn't sleeping. I clung to it, the only thing keeping me from appearing different than anyone else. I drew my brows on with an eye pencil. I slathered on concealer to hide the sallowness of my skin. I chose clothing in bright colors to boost my appearance and mood. I detested the thought of being noticed.

Eventually, the desire to camouflage my sickness waned. As days turned into weeks, and weeks flowed into months, it became evident to any onlooker that my health was failing. No amount of makeup could hide the dark shadows under my eyes. No clothes could hide the wasteland my body had become. The poison injected into the port in my chest chipped away at me, breaking me down bit by bit into smaller, more brittle pieces.

I stood gingerly, huffing, and puffing like someone triple my age as I made my way to the couch. Curling into a ball, I pulled a blanket up over my face and snuggled in. My eyes drifted shut. One by one, my senses disengaged. My ever sharp hearing was the most difficult to turn off. The only sound in the little apartment came from the clock hanging above the faux stone fireplace. I centered in on the rhythmic sound as it ticked away time, continuing the ominous countdown. With the clock as my only company, I drifted into a dreamless, deathlike sleep.

I awoke just as the sun was sinking below the treeline across the water. Sitting up stiffly, I stretched, my joints protested with snaps and pops. After emptying my painfully full bladder, I turned on the faucet to cold. I yawned widely as I cupped my hands under the running water. Splashing it over my skin, I studied my dripping reflection in the mirror. My dull green eyes protruded from their sockets, the flesh around them having thinned and grown taut. Gray shadows hung like half-moons underneath my lower lids. My cheekbones jutted out in hard angles. My nose resembled a beak, accentuating all of the sharp edges that had once radiated with glowing softness. I sighed in resignation, shutting off the light.

My bare feet made little noise as I made my way across the cold wood floor of the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I grabbed a nutritional shake and a string cheese before plunking down on a barstool at the counter. I ate carefully while my computer fired up. The ulcers in my mouth made ingesting anything other than water incredibly uncomfortable, but my stomach churned with hunger. The second the food hit my tender gut, I wanted to expel it. I struggled against the clenching muscles to keep it down, willing my body to accept the much-needed nutrients. I sucked in big gulps of air, and as the urge to vomit finally passed, I wiped the sweat from my forehead on the back of my hand.

Turning to the illuminated screen, I began where I had left off earlier that morning. The tapping of the keys became my applause as I unleashed my thoughts. The cursor became my therapist. My hijacked fingertips spewed words like sparks, igniting an inferno that quickly engulfed me once again. Like a mad scientist, I cackled and cried, watching my creation evolve before my eyes.

Time passed fluidly, hours slowly stretching into days. Wake, write, sleep, repeat. Sometimes I'd remember to eat. In this one remaining nugget of routine in my life, I thrived. I excelled. Nothing else mattered. Unaware of the date or even the time of day, I startled when my phone rang. Recognizing the number of Doc's office, I let it go to voicemail. When a chime signaled a message, I huffed at the repeated interruption and pressed play.

"Hi, Becca, it’s Michelle from Doctor King's office, calling to confirm your 4:15 appointment this afternoon. See you then." 

Instantly alarmed, I swung around to look at the clock. 3:30. How could I have forgotten? I pressed save one last time and hopped down from the stool. Racing as fast as I could to the bathroom, I showered in record time. Tearing through my dresser drawers, I flung myself into the only pair of decent sweats I owned. Ripping a t-shirt off the hanger, I fought to get my arms inside the sleeves with a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. Stuffing my laptop in my leather bag, my bare feet into sneakers, and my bald head into a beanie, I hurried out of my apartment. Though I lived on the outskirts of the city, the medical campus was just a few blocks away.

I miraculously caught the bus before it pulled away from the curb, holding my pass out for a punch as I scoured the rows for an empty seat. Eyes averted their gaze at the sight of me, and at that moment, I wished I was invisible. I gripped the bar above my head and plugged my earbuds in. I turned the volume up, drowning out the sound of the world around me.

I closed my eyes, letting the melody pull at me. Music was my second love. I had always wanted to learn an instrument but never had the ability nor the patience to do so. I settled for letting someone else play for me. Certain songs often touched me in such a profound manner that my throat would tighten, tears leaking from my eyes. The irrepressible reaction had gotten stronger since my sickness. It made people feel uncomfortable, or worse; they found it comical. Another reason why I kept to myself.

The bus slowed and I released the bar, making my way to the front before it came to a complete stop in front of the medical complex. I bounded down the steps, my knees protesting with a slight buckle as my feet hit the sidewalk. The Spring air smelled of freshly mowed grass and apple blossoms, along with a mixture of tantalizing scents from the food trucks down the street. I loved this city. Big enough to have everything a person could need. Small enough that it didn't quite feel like a bonafide metropolis.

I began climbing the steps of my doctor's office when an unexpected wave of dizziness washed over me. I stopped for a moment, gulping air, closing my eyes against the spinning sensation threatening to upend my stomach. A sudden stab of pain ripped through my skull like a scorching hot lightning bolt. My teeth clacked together and I felt the trickle of warmth run down my chin. My hands desperately groped for the hand railing, but I felt nothing. I fell backward, my vision going black as my body hit the concrete.

A voice beckoned me in the dark. It sounded alarmed, insistent. It swirled around my head like thick tendrils of smoke. I batted at it clumsily, murmuring my displeasure at being disturbed. My mouth felt numb, my body tingling warmly. I was strangely comfortable for the first time in months.

"Becca? Becca. It's Dr. King. Can you open your eyes?" 

Ugh, that voice again. I could hear the sound, but my brain couldn't decipher the dialect. A searing bright light pierced my right eye, and I groaned, flailing halfheartedly. A moment later, the assault returned, this time on the left. My stomach clenched, its contents racing up and out without warning. 

"It's alright, Becca. Come on, wake up now."

Slowly, my vision cleared. Dr. King's familiar face peered into mine as he held a small, gray basin near under my chin. A hand swooped in from beside me, applying a warm, damp cloth to my mouth. I moaned at the roughness of the fabric, turning my head away.

"Wh-where am I?" I slurred. 

 My mouth was dry and sticky, my tongue swollen and sore. 

"What happened?"

I looked at Dr. King, his kind eyes tired and drawn tight. He placed the basin on the bedside table and removed his rubber gloves. He scooted his chair closer, sitting forward. His elbows rested on his knees, and he laced his fingers together as he took a deep breath.

"Becca, you had an accident outside the clinic. Do you remember?" he asked solemnly. 

I looked down at the wires and tubes connected to my body. I shook my head slightly.

"You fainted…you fell on the steps. You hit your head pretty good, lacerated your tongue with your teeth. We did an MRI and a CT scan to check for injuries. I..." He paused, clearing his throat. 

"The results aren't good."

At that moment, his voice and everything else faded into the background. It was like being near a bomb at the moment of detonation. My hearing muffled, my mind working in slow motion. I felt myself nod mechanically; I didn't need to hear his words. I had known from the moment I felt that first twinge deep inside my skull.

"It's time," I whispered, focusing my sight on Dr. King once more. His lips pressed into a thin line. Nodding, he reached out to take my hand gently in his.

"I'm so sorry, Becca. It has advanced much faster than we expected. It could be a few weeks; it could be a month. There's no way to tell. I know it's a lot to process, but do you have someone who can help you get your affairs in order?" He asked quietly.

"Yes, I know someone," I answered.

Dr. King patted my hand and stood, placing my bag on the bed next to me.

"We'll likely keep you here another day or two. Someone from hospice will be in shortly to speak with you. They provide…end of life care. To keep you comfortable at home."

After being left alone, I tapped out a text message to my twin brother, Kyle. Pulling out my laptop, I turned it on. 

There were a million things I would never get to do. I would never get married. I would never be a giddy newlywed looking at houses while dreaming up names for unborn children. I'd never earned my college degree even. I could finish what I started when I unwittingly began writing my first and only book-My memoir.

Days came and went, Earth continued rotating. Kyle flew in from out of state; his quiet, steady demeanor was lending me strength. We traveled on my good days, soaking up the sun on the beaches of Lake Michigan. 

My bad days were spent lying in my hospital bed, stuffing our faces and minds with trashy food and television. Nurses came and went. Dr. King called every few days. I continued writing, my fingers slowing on the keyboard day by day.

Kyle pulled out photo albums, flipping through the years and years of memories. We laughed and cried at what was and what should've been. Losing our parents within a year of each other had been devastating. My diagnosis 8 months later was gutting. Knowing that I was leaving Kyle behind, alone, left me racked with guilt. If I had fought harder, took better care of myself, maybe things would've been different.

In the early hours of the morning, we finished my book together. Typing "The End," Kyle closed the laptop. 

Those words held such finality, such as symbolism. My brother slipped the USB drive containing my past and present into his pocket. Laying down beside me, squashed against the bed rail, he gripped my fingers tightly. A tear ran down his temple as he looked up at the ceiling and then over at me.

"Are you afraid?" He asked, his low voice cracking with emotion. 

In all my life, if I felt alone, I'd always found comfort in my reflection. My brother, my twin, was there staring back at me. Encouraging me. Challenging me.  And it was comfort again that I found in that moment. To think that I'd be taking my last breath next to him just as I had taken my very first brought me peace.

"No," I whispered. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He whispered back.

With his hand in mine, our heartbeats synchronized, I closed my eyes one last time. 

The End