seven and three-quarters

seven and three-quarters

At the age of seven and three-quarters, Alana decided she no longer wanted to celebrate her birthday. Her quick-thought decision didn’t come lightly, there was the perk of parties, cakes, presents, and of course not forgetting Mama’s birthday-breakfast-pancakes; however, everything had changed. The thought of birthdays had become tainted with an unnerving wave of nausea, and much to her dismay, she knew she could never go back. 

Her decision was more of a solution: or so she thought. Without celebrating her birthday she could stay seven forever: that’s what happened to Mum during the pandemic, she was going to stay thirty-nine for an extra year and turn forty later once she could see her friends. It really was that simple. Plus, staying seven and three-quarters forever meant she could stay in Miss Daniels class, which automatically ensured school would be fun and she might be able to be allocated the class monitor permanently. However, her biggest dilemma now was persuading Mama and Mum to both stay thirty-nine forever, as what would happen if they kept getting older but Alana was paused, forever seven and three-quarters? 

These internal dilemmas manifested the arrival of goosebumps cascading down her arms, which she counted meticulously whilst sat in the back of the car, desperate to not lose count before they melted away. Yet, alas her counting did not outrun the goosebumps’ appearance and soon they had retreated back into her olive skin. Letting out a small, defeated huff she turned her attention towards the front of the car where her mothers were having a hushed, confusing conversation. Alana played close attention in attempt to dismantle their spoken riddles, evidently desperate for premature ears to not hear. Yet, despite her efforts, she could not keep up. There were too many doctors names, too many practices, and too many complicated adult/doctor words that Alana was left with knitted brows. Although she had used her sincerest efforts to be subtle, as Mum always had taught her “listening to other peoples conversations, especially adults, is rude”, Mama turned towards the backseats of the car and caught her eye. It was evident Mama knew she had been listening but her softness did not falter, she smiled with her mouth, her pink lips turning softly up in the corners of her mouth, but it looked different to Mama’s happy smile. Alana noticed the glimmer of tears in her delicate, blue eyes. 

Alana knew this smile well, it was Mama’s doctors surgery smile. Whenever they went for Alana’s appointments this was always the smile Mama gave on the way there and back. The presence of this smile was how Alana kept track of where they were going; her, Mama and Mum: a family affair. Softly pinching Alana’s sweaty toes in her sandals, Mama turned her attention back to the front of the car, flashing a glance at Mum who kept her hands firmly placed on the steering wheel. Alana noticed how her mothers olive skin turned white and bony around her knuckles where she gripped the hot, leather steering wheel. Clenching her fist she looked whether her skin did the same, and, when the white, wonky circles appeared over her small sculpted knuckles she smiled to herself: just like Mum. If her mothers decided they didn’t want to stay thirty-nine forever Alana decided she would miss them terribly. 

After today’s meeting Alana now saw her birthday for what it really was: a way of tracking time until her expiry date. She had been playing with the small and childish collection of toys allocated to children like her in Dr Harvey’s room, yet contrary to what the adults believed she was still able to listen to both of her mothers agonizing questions persist. “Is there anything we can do for just a little while longer?”, “But she’s so young, and her lungs are covered in all of this?”, “Her 40s? But that’s nearly us now!”. It had been this way for as long as Alana could remember, but still her mothers elicited every ounce of optimism during every appointment in hopes a ‘cure’ or an ‘actually…’ was replaced by the “I’m so sorry Mrs and Mrs Raina, if you need more information or some time outside, just let me know”. Following this the course of her illness was explained out again, in yet another different way that was more digestible than the last. Alana continued to stare at the molded plastic, wishing she could have her birthday-candle wish to come true and have someone else’s lungs. 

Ten minutes later, once she was strapped into the back of the car, her thoughts began to take a turn for the worst. Her mothers’ optimism was left unmatched by her vulnerable imagination, how could they constantly keep showing up with so much hope? Daydreaming out the window at the voluminous, fertile, blooming landscape speeding passed her window she began to imagine the progression and movement of mold over her body. No, she must absolutely never have a birthday again. The mold would begin as the occasional small dot over different areas of her body, smaller than the naked eye could see, unnoticeable at first. Then, as her enemy time went on these small dots would begin to disperse and grow outwards into more defined and established circles. The circles would be an ashen-white gray infused with a hazy green hue, eliciting a somewhat hallowe’en mood. They would be smooth to the touch before the inevitable layer of fur would begin to secure them in place. She imagined the smell: what would they smell like? Alana accumulated all the worst smelling things she could think of: drains, Uncle Mike’s half eaten can of beans he placed in the cupboard and forgot about, the toilets near Ms Astley’s farm and fish, all different sorts fish. Yet, despite the scrunch of her nose the sheer thought of these fragrances, none seemed to come quite close to fitting the smell she had in mind. Alana imagined the stench of a damp, old woolen jacket that had been haphazardly thrown into a bag and abandoned, adorned with the smell of stale ginger beer, with glutinous, gummy seaweed and the sourness of Grandma’s TCP. That was more like it, she internally agreed: revolting.

The thought and meticulousness of these images and stenches were becoming more and more frequent and advanced, tending to make frequent appearances during nighttime in Alana’s dreams or whilst she lay in bed anxiously wondering. For over a month she had been found by her mothers waking up cold, sweating, panting with fistfuls of cover, desperate to un-see her illusions. As part of the process she had now begun to dab her forehead with her pajama top to ensure she didn’t kick-start this ‘rotting’ business. Yet, some small pleasure had come to her considering she now had a plan in place. Her body would no longer die from the inside out as this wasn’t due until much later. She had time: she was sure of it. After all, staying seven and three-quarters wasn’t that bad. 

Later that evening Alana had lost her appetite. However appealing Mum’s burrito bowls both looked and smelt there wasn’t a way her food was going down. Sat at the table opposite Mum and Mama encouraging her to eat her dinner, she began to feel small and lost: maybe staying seven and three-quarters forever was not the best solution. Checking-in with her, her mothers knew something wasn’t right, her small, wide eyes wallowed, brimming with tears and a pink flush of confusion and internal fight glazed her cheeks.

“Alana, love, what’s wrong?” Mama asked soothingly, getting up from her chair and moving around the table to crouch next to her.

Alana sat motionless, not taking her eyes from the table feeling helpless at her inability to both consumer her food and stay seven and three-quarters. She felt her Mama’s hand lovingly place over her knee, rubbing smooth circles and her lips planting a small kiss on the side of her temple. Mum had disappeared briefly before returning with Bunny and blanket, slotting Bunny into the crook of Alana’s neck like a new born babe. What would happen if Mama and Mum couldn’t stay thirty-nine forever? Who would know the things to calm her, to make her feel safe and loved? 

After a deep inhale a crying wail surfaced from Alana, continuing and diluting into blubbering with tears erupting and streaming down the sides of her round cheeks. 

“I don’t want to stay seven and three-quarters forever.” She managed in between breaths and hiccups. Closing her and eyes and breathing in the scent of Bunny she was unaware of the exchanged, confused glance between her parents. 

“What do you mean, Alana?” Mum asked, crouching down next to her other side.

“If I stop having my birthdays, Mum, I won’t get older.” She let out another sob alongside an exhausted sigh, her whole body moving with the force of it all. “And if I don’t get older all the mold from my lungs won’t take over my body.”

“Alana, my love, that isn’t what happens—”

“And I don’t want to rot and smell, and go all green and fuzzy.” She continued crying, sweating and growing clammy. All her fears and ideas came spilling out of her, surfacing as though gasping for air. “And you and Mama won’t want to stay thirty-nine forever, and I will miss you so much.” 

“Alana,” Mama said in a lower, more stern voice to catch her distressed daughters attention. “Look at me. Look at me in the eyes and hold my hand.” Alana turned her focus from the table towards her Mama, holding her hand and squeezing it until her knuckles went white, just like Mum’s. She noticed when her Mama softly squeezed her hand back that she too had small, white circles appear: she was just like Mama and Mum, she thought, her family. “This isn’t how Cystic Fibrosis works darling, I promise you that you won’t go all green and fuzzy, or smell or rot. Is this is what has been giving you nightmares?” Her voice stayed concerned and higher-pitched than when she just spoke to Mum, or Doctor Harvey, or Miss Daniels. 

Alana gave a small nod, her mind swirling with contemplation as to what was actually going to happen to her. 

“I think we all need to go and have a chat,” Mum decided, nodding her head, glancing towards Mama who joined nodding in agreement, “and talk about what’s going to happen. I’m sorry darling that you’ve been thinking this is what’s going to happen. We’ve been so worried about scaring you because you’re so young with all these long, adult words. But now you’re so old - seven and three-quarters - ” attempting to enthusiastically beam and tickle Alana’s side, “I think we need to have a grown-up girl chat. Just so you know exactly what is going on.”

Mama started nodding. “And we promise no more leaving you out on what’s going on or telling you the super-young version, you deserve more than that. You’re the greatest gift that your Mum or I have ever received.”

“We promise and we love you so much.” 

Alana glanced between both of her mums, observing their unfaltering optimism making a small camouflaged appearance yet again. Although she still wasn’t utterly convinced — she could feel the mold there already — she decided to hear them out. After all, anything would be better than staying seven and three-quarters forever.