White Eskimo ~ Harry Styles

Then

October 19th, 2009

I clasp my hands together and press my lips in a thin line. Resting my chin on my closed fists, I stare at the water bubbler across the hallway. There's a see-through tank just next to it and I can see the water rippling, rippling every few seconds. My seat is cold and hard, pressing up against my back. I lean forward, like I've done for six months. It's become a pattern now. Sit, watch, lean forward, wait. At first I hated the pattern of the hospital, but now it's become a part of me, like a second home.

This is what every few nights are now like. Thankfully the hospital is only roughly twenty minutes from Holmes Chapel. I used to come every day, but now I can only visit Lauren every three days. When she was first admitted to Leighton Hospital I stayed with her the whole night. I refused to eat or sleep. Mum got worried and forced me to come home. I wouldn't go to school the next day.

Drip, drip. I shudder at the sound of water running somewhere in the building. It still reminds me of how they had to tape Lauren up to the horrendous machine... I block out the sound instead, placing earphones into my ears and rubbing my arms to keep my body safe from the cool, sterile air. The designers have attempted to make the reception more welcoming, using light, soft colours - a pale yellow and cloud blue. The colours are deceptive though. Nothing about the place is calm and warm and friendly. Admittedly the nurses are, but that's not the point.

The point is I hate that Lauren is even here.

“Harry,” a nurse calls. “You can go in now.” I tug out my earphones as Freddie smiles and walks me around to Lauren’s room. He insists he still has to take me from place to place, though I’ve been here so many times I could walk around with my eyes closed and still end up next to Lauren’s bed. He knocks once on the white door before unlocking it and leaving me to have my designated time with her.

Every time I see her, I still get shocked. Lauren decided to cut her hair a month ago, going off on a tangent about how she needed a fresh start, an edgier demeanour, if she was going to fight for her right to survive. It seems strange that her curls are long gone; instead her hair spikes at the nape of her neck. When she sleeps, a tress of her fringe sticks up on her forehead, demanding to be different. No matter how many times I pat it back down it keeps springing up.

Now, though, Lauren is wide awake with a resilient beam slashed on her face. It’s a general misconception that people who are ill are like super heroes – always putting up a fight, staying positive, and never grieving their inevitable fate. Initially I thought Lauren was like that, and she still is frequently – I’m constantly impressed by her optimistic spirit – though with every day that passes, I realise that she is struggling. She does cry, she does grieve, she does have mood swings, she does get angry. So many times I have held her whilst she sleeps, and every time her body quakes with the harsh verve of a sob. Lauren doesn’t like to show how vulnerable she is; I never mention the previous night the next time we meet.

“Hey Haz,” she wheezes. “No sorry, that wasn’t meant to sound so sickly. Hey Haz,” she tries again, coughing to get rid of the rasp in her voice.

I muster up a chuckle, but it seems too strained and Lauren can tell. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve got a throat full of bile, but good, now that you’re here.”

I sit on the edge of the bed like I always do, despite the rule saying to sit on the seat as ‘that is what it’s for’. “Have you eaten your tea?” I question, concerned by the untouched tray by her bed. Often now, Lauren hardly eats, and we’re worried we’ll have to hook her up to a tube. The nurses say that it’s common for that to happen, but once Lauren recovers we shouldn’t have to worry about her eating habits.