The Deception of Time

TW: death, chronic illness

“We have all the time in the world,” I say to Kyrollos as I break apart from his embrace. I don’t meet his gaze as I look around me, eyeing out who can see us. We sit in the school library, doing anything but studying. Which isn’t wise since it’s our last year before we graduate. I’m usually a rule follower but lately, Kyrollos has been very convincing with getting me to just spend time with him. He’d always say, “Just live a little, Vero.” Vero isn’t my name, Verena is and yet, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the latter come out of Kyrollos’ mouth. He’s lucky I don’t mind. Plus, in his voice, anything sounds good. When the bell rings, we abruptly pack our stationary and head to our next class. I stumble as I stand too quickly and Kyrollos holds my shoulders to steady me. 

“You okay?” He asks me, his eyebrows furrowing as he bends down to look me in the eyes. I nod and we walk hand-in-hand to English class.

 Everyone in the year level knows we’re dating and in school, that’s a big thing. Even though I’ve only got a couple of friends and a boyfriend, this is a subject everyone’s aware of. It’s just a teenager thing; we’re always so absorbed into other people’s lives and their dramas. The attention is both electrifying and daunting. In class, I sit with my friends Jaqueline and Sara. I love Kyrollos, I really do. But if we spend every passing second with each other, we’ll a) get sick of each other and b) fail our classes. And I really don’t want to fail my classes or ever do something that fractures our relationship. In class, the teacher is droning on about some novel that no one’s heard of but we’re studying it just because the author is Australian. And even though I’m 99% sure that I’ll hate it, I read the whole book so that I can write an essay that both I and my teacher are proud of. My favourite thing about English is how fluid it is, how I can just write whatever my brain conjures on paper, and my thoughts and interpretations are what get graded. It’s so personal and emotive. It’s also not a downside that English doesn’t require memorisation because my memory is horrible, especially lately. But what can make or break one’s love for the subject is the teacher and the books being read. In my case, the books suck but my teacher is great. Mrs. Lía somehow makes me love English even more than I already do which is a huge feat. Her class is the only one I am happy to walk in even when we’re reading grim books about war and injustice. She brightens up life just that tiny bit more. 

 On the bus ride home after school, I can finally breathe. No more facades, no more fake smiles. My head aches as I try to study Maths. It’s calculus and unlike English, it makes me hate myself. I swallow a couple of paracetamol tablets and an hour later, they do nothing. I can’t be mad considering my tolerance to the medication has increased over the years. My headaches have always been so frequent that I swallow the analgesic as if it’s water. And now I wish I have something stronger. The symbols and numbers blur before my eyes and my mouth waters. I can barely see what’s in front of me but I somehow make it to a sink and throw up the one sandwich and coffee I had today. Great. This has been my life for the past two years. No changes unless they’re for the worse. My vision’s getting worse so my parents are considering getting me to do an eye test so I can get glasses. The thought makes me anxious. I’ve lived 17 years without glasses, I don’t want to have to get used to a new version of myself with them. What if I look weird? To myself and other people? 

“Verena!!” My mum’s voice shouts as she arrives back home. “We’re going to the eye doctor, get dressed and come on!” I can barely catch my breath, let alone argue with her so I do as she says. I take 20 minutes trying to find an outfit, put it on, and make sure it looks presentable before heading out to the car where I find my dad already in the driver’s seat. I tap my foot on the carpet of the car repeatedly until we get there, and again while we sit inside waiting for my name to be called.  

“Verena Magdy,” the optometrist butchers the pronunciation of my last name as he beckons me inside a white room. I hate going to see doctors and specialists and I hate going to hospitals. But unfortunately for me, I’ve seen all three more times than I would’ve liked to. 

 After the examination is over, the optometrist tells me that I do indeed need glasses and my mum helps me pick ones that look the least obnoxious on me (and are also the most affordable). I end up with black square-shaped glasses with full-rimmed frames that look okay with my dark curls and brown complexion. As we leave the optometrist, my mum doesn’t need to tell me where we’re going. The familiar roads and houses are enough of a clue to tell me that we’re going to the hospital. I don’t see the point of the regular visits but my parents have more faith than I do that that they help. 

 The drive back home is silent except for a few raised eyebrows my mum delivers my way through the side mirror. That is, until she turns around from the passenger seat and really looks at me. I feel like I’m being scrutinised and I feel wrong in my own skin. My parents don’t want me out of their sight as if I’m about to explode at any second. I kinda wish that I could generate the anger to tell them to stop looking at me as if I’m a glass cup that can shatter with a drop of the hand. But I can’t; I’m so fatigued and that I go to sleep at 8pm without dinner, and forget all about my school responsibilities. 

 The next day at school, my teachers send sympathetic looks my way as I rest my face against the desk, unable to keep my head up despite sleeping early yesterday. They don’t hate me for it because they know about my illness. But sometimes I wish they treated me like everyone else instead of someone who’s about to fall apart before their eyes. My dream is to do well in school so that I can have something to be proud of in life. But my motivation withers and my grades fall and that one dream I have shatters before it’s even achieved. 

 In Chemistry, Kyrollos and I are paired up for our experiment on photosynthesis but we don’t get it finished in class both because I get a splitting headache and need to go to the sick bay and also because we spend most of our time joking around. If I were anyone else, I would never get paired up with my boyfriend but my teachers are being lenient out of pity. Instead of handing in the sheet we’re supposed to have filled in today, Mr. Jamal gives Kyrollos and I the weekend to get it done and I’m eternally grateful that I can shout it from the rooftops. But I fear I don’t have the energy for that, unfortunately. So when I get home, I tell my parents that Kyrollos is coming over to work on something for Chemistry. My mum raises a brow at me but says nothing. My dad steps in and says what I know she’s thinking. 

“You’d better keep the door open.” My cheeks heat furiously even though I know the command is coming. 

“Of course,” I rush out. “He should be here in a few minutes.” 

 Kyrollos arrives half an hour late, blaming ‘Egyptian timing’ which I don’t excuse today until my parents laugh at his excuse. We go into my room and leave the door slightly ajar. I mean, we still listened. I sit on the wooden chair facing my desk but turn it around to face my bed which Kyrollos is currently sitting on. Kyrollos is on my bed. Kyrollos is on my bed. Kyrollos is on my bed. I zone out long enough to hear him tell me loves how glasses look on me and my cheeks heat up despite myself. In class, we only finish the title, introduction, and aim. So now I need to get down the materials and method (which I just copy from the textbook), results, conclusion, and discussion questions whose answers are also in the textbook. Despite my headache that doesn’t want to go away no matter what I do, I push through, my voice quietening as the time passes to avoid worsening my headache. It seems that my parents notice as my mum shouts from the kitchen.

“Verena, are you feeling okay or do you want me to get your medication?”

“What medication?” Kyrollos whispers urgently.

“Just paracetamol,” I say. “I’ve got a bit of a headache.” He nods but doesn’t say anything. I don’t think he believes me. I then shout out to my mum.

“I’ll take it before dinner!” Kyrollos still looks at me like he wants answers but I change the topic before he can prod further. 

“Oh, we forgot the references!” I really did forget; it isn’t on purpose but the timing of me remembering is perfect. It gives us the opportunity to work independently to look through our search histories and find all our sources (in addition to the textbook) before we cite them THE WAY Mr. Jamal asked us to. We sit in silence, only the sounds of our fingers tapping away at our keyboards making any noise. 

“Done,” Kyrollos’ voice shatters the silence. 

“So am I,” I respond. We each compare our booklets, add up our resources, then put them in our bags. We’re now left to face reality. I’m sat on my bed with Kyrollos opposite me. We’re not touching but my parents would still kill me if they walked in on us like this. 

“Vero…,” he whispers. He says my name with a sense of tortured longing that I wish I could erase forever. I wish I don’t have to disappoint him. 

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” He asks, bringing his forehead closer to mine until they touch. I wipe the tear that escapes from his eye but the ones in my eyes don’t fall. He can’t see me like this. This vulnerable. This fragile. I try to turn my face away but he holds my wrists in place and forces me to keep looking at him. 

“Verena!” My mum shouts for what must be the tenth time today. But it takes me out of the trance that I’m in. 

“Come take your temozolomide so you can have dinner.” I don’t realise how quickly the time has passed until I look at my bedside clock and see that it reads 6:00pm already. The blood drains from my face at my mum’s specificity right now. Hopefully Kyrollos doesn’t know what the medication is and doesn’t ask. But hope is fruitless to me and this is another time that it’s betrayed me. 

“Verena, what’s temozolamide? Why do you need it?” It’s now that the tears spill and I can’t keep the secret anymore. I know he’s betrayed because he uses my real name. 

“I have brain cancer,” I whisper as if lowering my voice erases the fact that I’m dying at seventeen. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracks and I see that he’s struggling not to cry. 

“I didn’t want you to worry. I was going to tell you when things got bad. Only now it’s bad.” 

“How long do you have?” Kyrollos asks, looking away as if the answer to the question is in my eyes. 

“Two months,” I croak out. I don’t sound like myself and Kyrollos can tell. 

“You’re not…”

“Graduating? No.” 

“I…and you’ve just accepted this?” He asks, his voice rising, his anger now detectable. 

“What else am I supposed to do?” It’s miserable but it’s safe. Safer than allowing wretched hope to thread itself through me until it eventually chokes me. To death 

“Come on, Vero. I know you. You don’t live as if you’re dying; you live. For God’s sake, you still put in effort in school when it’s meaningless anyway. You’re so kind and helpful and selfless. You’ve changed so many people’s lives. Now live to change yours.”

“It’s all a facade,” I snap. “It’s draining. I’m not strong or hopeful. Helping others distracts me from my own predicament. I’m not kind or helpful or selfless like you think I am.”

“Listen to me,” Kyrollos says, his voice as hard as steel. “Verena Khoury, I chose you. You want to know why? Because you’re the girl who helped Freya with her Biology questions when no one else offered to help. Because you’re the girl who confronted the guys who bullied Ansh. Because despite everything, you’re the girl who still shows up to school when your body is doing everything possible to work against you. And yet, you defy it every day. I am in awe of you, Vero and I find myself loving you more every single day. So don’t give up on me now. You’re stronger than this.” Kyrollos’ words bring tears to my eyes and now we’re both crying. I’ve never seen myself the way that he sees me but what he says makes me believe that maybe I shouldn’t throw away my life just because it’s ending sooner than I want it to. In fact, it’s all the more reason to live it the way I want to. To truly live. When he looks at me like there’s no one else or anything else that matters even when I look as gross as I do right now, I can’t help but do as he says. We stay looking at each other for so long, afraid as if we’ll forget each other’s features. But not even death can make me forget

Kyrollos’ coarse, black hair, his beautiful bronze face, the way his whole face transforms when he smiles, and how he just has one dimple that only appears when he laughs really hard at something. It can’t make me forget how he always opens the door for whoever’s waiting no matter how long the line of people is. It can’t make me forget this moment here and now. This moment in which I make the time I have left with Kyrollos worth it. The moment in which I bring my lips to his. He clings to me, as if afraid that I’ll suddenly disappear. I hold him as tightly as I possibly can without the ability to bend my fingers. We’re both crying and I can no longer distinguish his tears from my own. The kiss deepens, it’s more desperate now. It’s like we’re transported to a completely difference place, a different time, a different world. A world in which love can defeat cancer. 

“Verena, I was talking to you,” my mum’s voice is louder than I expect it to be. She clears her throat and I instantly pull away from Kyrollos. But her face softens when she sees our bloodshot eyes. “You need to take your medication now,” she whispers to me. “And Kero…I think it’s time for you to go home now.” It’s not said with any malice but it’s still a dismissal. I hug him goodbye at the door and watch as he drives off before I literally fall into the kitchen chair. 

 I regain consciousness to see my mother handing me apple juice to energise me. I take it and my temozolamide immediately after, promising myself to have dinner in an hour. As of now, I’m up to date on all my schoolwork. My parents are proud but I don’t feel a thing. Knowing that I’m dying and feeling my body shutting down is an experience I don’t wish on anyone. I never wanted to be this in tune with my body. 

 Two months later, I feel both more alive and dead than ever before. My brain is rotting and my body is deteriorating. But the last couple of months have been the happiest of my life. I experience stars and constellations that I haven’t batted at eye at before, I drink red wine for the first time (it’s gross and burns my throat but it’s worth it seeing Kyrollos laugh for the first time in a while), I go on a cruise to Sydney with my parents, I write stories so that if anyone forgets me they can find me again through my writing. Two months later, I die happily and peacefully with the people I love by my side.