"I do, I do, and I swear I will eat every single bite." I managed a weak, mock-defensive salute with my plastic fork, trying to inject some life into my voice. I knew her well enough to know she'd stand over me like a sentry, arms crossed and brow furrowed, until the white foam container was scraped clean. Giving a half shrug, I added, "Well, now that I'm officially off the Alemtuzumab and the constant, soul crushing nausea that comes with it, at least I'll be able to enjoy my food again. Small wins, right? Silver linings and all that."
"Maybe you'll even put some actual meat back on those bones," Elisa said. Her voice was forced and light, a brittle shield against the worry she couldn't quite tuck away. She looked at my wrists, thin enough for her to circle with a thumb and forefinger and then quickly looked away.
"Sure thing," I said around a first bite of the only slightly soggy sandwich. The grease was salty, heavy, and grounding. "No problem at all. I'll be a linebacker by finals."
An hour later, the sharp, clinical world of oncology and blood counts felt like a distant fever dream. I was tucked into a shadowy corner of Hannah and Sarah's living room, where the air smelled like pepperoni, spilled soda, and laundry detergent. I was nibbling on a lukewarm slice of pizza they'd bullied me into taking, leaning my weary spine against a lumpy beanbag chair that had seen better years. I was wrapped in a pair of hideous, heather gray joggers, three sizes too big that Sarah's grandmother had sent her in a care package. They were surprisingly soft, a fleece sanctuary that helped keep my constant shivering at bay.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt almost normal again. If only for a little while.
Across the room, the flickering blue light of the flat screen illuminated the familiar chaos of college life. Sarah was curled up in Drake's lap on one of the bland, institutional chairs provided by the housing office. They were caught in that "not quite making out" phase of a new relationship, her fingers idly twisting the diamond ring on her finger while he whispered something into her hair. The rest of the girls and a handful of boyfriends and wannabes were sprawled across the carpet in various boneless, collegiate poses, their faces glowing in the dark.
I was suddenly, intensely glad that I had let Elisa drag me here. If I'd stayed in our apartment alone, I would have spent the night staring at the ceiling, probably crying until I puked and then crying some more until I fell into a fitful sleep. Eventually, Chelsea and Christine would have stumbled back in, loud and drunk with a couple of guys in tow, and I would have been forced to listen to the sounds of their vibrant, messy, living lives through the paper-thin walls. It would have been a cruel reminder of every milestone I was scheduled to miss.
It wasn't that the grief had vanished. I wasn't delusional; I was still dying, and the weight of that reality was tucked into my pocket along with the copperplate card and the tiny bruise on my arm. But right now, in the muffled glow of a John Hughes movie, the cancer wasn't the protagonist of my story. I wasn't "the sick girl" or "the terminal case." I was just a twenty two year old senior at a movie marathon, surrounded by people who were arguing over whether Molly Ringwald should have ended up with Duckie.
I let the greasy remains of the pizza slice drop onto my paper plate and allowed my eyes to sag shut for a moment. The dialogue of The Breakfast Club hummed in the background, a low, comforting static of teenage angst and synthesizers. For this moment, the sterile hospital hallways, the scent of antiseptic, and the predatory, magnetic shadows of Mr. Jason's office didn't exist. I was just here, anchored by the breathing, living warmth of my friends.
It was enough. For tonight, it had to be all I had, and I clung to it with everything I had left.