ALISHA
Did I hate doctors? Yes. Did I hate meeting new people nowadays? Yes. And the person who was about to meet me was both.
“Thanks.” I smiled half heartedly at Malaika who applied some blue liner for me. I was in my short summer dress, with my hair in a pony. One thing I learned today, my hair went through some major damage too. I made Malaika make me look better today so she asked, no, ordered the maids at our house to bring some accessories. She practically changed the entire room into mine. I had my toys, clothes, towels, bags, shoes, glares, make up, CDs, laptop, books and even my curtains. Yeah, that bad.
“Welcome. Now, you know Arhaan really wants to see you now. He’s throwing tantrums I can’t handle now. And the nannies are about to quit.”
“I miss him too?” I asked, remembering the innocent little nephew of mine. He treated me more like an elder sister than aunt, and was fond of me. Arbaaz and Malaika decided not to tell him about what had happened, and he thought I was gone for some competition.
Malaika just nodded, and just then Dr, Anderson came in with some other male in a white coat. Malaika got the cue, and got out after kissing my forehead.
“Alisha, this is Dr. Murray. He is a specialist in child PF. And as he requested, I’m gonna leave now.” Dr. Anderson left, leaving me alone in the room with Dr. Murray. I looked away from him. He was just a reminder that I had this freaking disease I couldn’t control, and strangers as it is got to me these days. Ok, the latter I was getting better at, but still.
“Hello there.” He said in a terribly chipper voice. Was he kidding me? He reminded me of nothing but a disease that would kill me, and was so God damn happy.
“Hello.” I replied, a little too harsh.
“I get that a lot.” He chuckled and went through my case file and medicines prescribed.
“Ok, I know it’s a shock. And I also know under what circumstances this disease was detected. And I am truly sorry for your loss.” His voice was now a lot more sincere. I looked at him for the first time, and immediately processed the details. Within his early thirties, he was tall and fit. He was wearing casuals underneath the white coat, and had orange rimmed specs that separated him from the rest.
“Thank you.” I honestly didn’t know how to reply when someone said sorry. Thank you was just a way to get over with it, because the last thing I wanted was to discuss that day. And he seemed to get it, unlike others who pressed for details.
“Ok, so I need to ask some questions. Let’s start with…your favorite song?”
“You don’t want to ask that. I have gazillions of them.” I pointed at my itunes playlist which contained thousands of songs, and no it isn’t exaggeration.
“Ok. So, favorite sport?”
“Gymnastics.” I didn’t even need to think over it.
“I heard you are pretty good.”
“I’m an elite.” It ticked me off. I mean, most of them didn’t even get the levels and stages of gymnastics, and then said, ‘Can you do a flip?’ It was annoying at the very least.
“So, it’s the uppermost level?” he asked, dragging the chair next to my bed.
“Yeah, the Olympic level.” He raised a brow at me and smirked,
“Guess I shouldn’t mess with you.”
“How does it matter? It’s all over now. Nothing of it can ever come back.” I looked away. My passion was now something I could never get my hands on. The Olympic gold was something I could never claim now.
“Who says it’s all gone?” he asked, playing with a strip of medicines.
“But, I…this thing. PF, it is incurable, right?” if he was joking or was trying to illusion me, he had it. He just nodded, and asked me a completely different question.
“What all do you know about PF?”
“Besides it’s scarring of the lung and fatal? Nothing.”
“You deserve to know the facts then.” He stated, and started off with stuff I wish I didn’t have to hear.
‘Ignorance is bliss’… I now knew very well what it meant. At first, the thought of having a crazy lung disease was too much to handle. Apparently, it kills over 50,000 people every year only in the USA. Yes, that was as good as the people dying from breast cancer. Tragically, there was more. With no cure, complications increased. More brain problems, more heart problems.
Basically, having this disease meant death.
I was numb now. People wished they knew what their death would be, I now knew. Chances were I would die out of this, and live my last months in agony. I’d be hooked to oxygen masks, and wires. Then I’d die of a simple flu turning deadly.
“Why don’t I see the sense of what you said before? I will die of this thing, but I’ll make it to the Olympics?”
“If you want to. Trust me, nothing is impossible. I have good news for you though. Your condition is at an initial stage, with real less damage. Treatment can manage your disease, and prevent it from growing.”
“You mean, it can stop?” I asked with a glint of hope twinkling in my eyes for the first time in twenty four hours of pure pain.
“Unfortunately, no. What I’m saying is recent studies show a break through. It’s still debated over, but certain drugs can ease the oxygen supply. Along with rehab and oxygen therapy, constant medication will help.”
I was still now. I was gonna die, possibly in a few years. I needed to be right everytime, one wrong decision and I was dead. Anything wrong and…I didn’t want to die. I just fought death. I went through all of that for this? Was it even worth it? Dying with bullets or bomb would have been a lot less painful, a lot less complicated.
“Do you know the Nick dude of the Jonas Brothers?” he asked randomly and I let out a laugh despite being overwhelmed with emotions.
“A fan?”
“A friend.” I corrected him and he nodded. It was weird that he knew about them though.
“How do you know about them though? I mean they are a tween slash teen sensation.” I asked out of curiosity. The guys would be thrilled to know a guy in thirties was their die hard, hardcore fan.
“My eleven year old daughter made me take her to their concert.” He replied smugly and I could almost imagine how lost he must have felt in between all the concert and super girl fans.
“So, you know about his diabetes?” he asked, going through more papers and reports.
“Of course. I’m his go to bêtes girl.”
“So, you know how he manages it?” he asked again, not looking up.
“Yeah.” I was losing my patience now. How in the world were Nick and his diabetes connected to the whole situation?
“Good. So you know the basics of what I’m about to tell you.”
Now, maybe I didn’t hate him so much. He actually told me I could do it. I could actually exercise and make it back to the gym, given my back supported me. He talked for about an hour about some recent discoveries that suggested some drugs could de-scar air sacks in the lungs for a while, improving oxygen supply. It was trial and error, but it could work on someone like me- fit and young. And, it was much like controlling type one diabetes with insulin.
“How is it?” Malaika asked me about her nails. The doctor had briefed my entire family about PF, and much to my distaste, they were acting as if nothing was wrong. The entire day, they were acting to be normal, happy.
I did throw a tantrum after he left. I broke a few ridiculously expensive medicine bottles, throwing them across the room. Then I yelled at everyone around to leave me alone and cried silently. I did everything of that, and was still grumpy.
I got it now- I had a deadly disease, deadly like breast cancer. After hours, I finally accepted it. But then, my family had to act normal. They had to abide by the family profession and act everywhere. Nor did I need the pity party; neither did I want them to be all chipper and smiling. I wasn’t sure about what I wanted, but I knew it was nothing close to what was happening around.
The room was filled with flowers and cards, but it felt gloomy. And it was like the starched white walls were mocking me ‘she’ll die here one day, soon.’ They knew well. And they left no effort in hiding it unlike my brother, sister in law and the entire freaking family.
“Great.” I mumbled, not looking at them.
“I’m gonna get you one of these when we go shopping in London.” She pointed at a sweater dress she was wearing that looked more like a trench coat.
“No, thanks.” I snapped going back to the book I was pretending to read.
“Lee.” Sohail warned and I shut my book.
“What?!”
“I know it’s next to impossible for you right now, but please try and get along.” He looked at me with pity- the only other thing I didn’t need at the moment.
“Like it matters. You know what, you won’t even get it. So just…never mind.” I went back to the book, resisting the urge to yell curses, punch and throw something.
“Look, you survived the impossible. You will get through this one too.” He said again. All the damn optimism was fake, I knew it. I was always the optimistic one, but not now. I couldn’t fight this one off. They were trying to make me live in an illusion, which was gonna crack one day. So, why not just accept it and live like that? Book my grave in advance, and also a hospital room so I could die. Preferably in my own clothes and not in the itchy blue gown.
“Who cares if I get through or not?” I mumbled under my breath, but they heard. And hell broke loose.
“What do you mean who cares? We do! Every one of us does!” Malaika exclaimed and Sohail got nearer to me.
“Yeah, right.” I retorted with loads of sarcasm making no attempt to hide itself.
“Stop there, all of you.” Dr. Murray came in with a bag and my other two brothers behind him. He was in the hospital at eight pm? To solve our fight? Now, I was back at hating him.
“Test.” He handed me one box like thing with an LCD screen and a few buttons. Ah, I needed to throw something as it is. I grabbed it from his hands and threw it towards the coffee table. And like nothing happened, went back to my book.
“Alisha!” Arbaaz exclaimed, picking the box thing off the ground.
“Exactly what I’m trying to explain. Now, I can bet that you are in the range of sixties. Yeah, that should be it.”
“What in the world are you talking about? It does not make sense what so ever. Not to mention I am in no mood for puzzles and riddles.” I mumbled without looking up from the book.
“Ok, calm down now.” Salman stressed and I rolled my eyes.
“Here.” He took my left index finger and inserted it into the box thing.
“This is an oximeter. It measures the amount of oxygen and heart rate, without blood. Just press this and wait for a few seconds.” He pressed a ‘Go’ button, and it beeped in a few moments.
“Sixty three. Like I said.”
By this time, I was blank along with everyone else in the room.
“This is the oxygen count. Anything below ninety in her is bad, and below fifty is warning. Below twenty, you’ll be in the ER.” He explained the complications and working on oxygen and lung in PF.
“So, you can notice a significant change in behavior with low oxy levels. Grumpiness, moody, snappy, rude. It’s something that happens when the brain gets limited oxygen. Along with no capacity of exercise and increased heart rate, of course.”
“So, now my lung controls my emotions?” I asked. This had to be the limit.
“Not control, but has an effect on it. Yes.”
I grunted and hit my right hand on the bed, causing extreme pain surge through every cell of my body.
“And speaking of controlling, I got this.” He got out a bag of stuff I did not recognize and didn’t want to use.
“Your meds. You will carry them around everywhere. Literally, in cars, gym, plane, room, party, dates, everything and everywhere.” He handed me the brown bag.
As opposed to what I was thinking, there was just one vial of liquid drug. I took it into my hand, thinking this filthy liquid had the responsibility to save my life now. Why did I not trust it enough?
“So, I told you about managing PF, right? This is the drugs you’ll need to make your lungs feels better for a while. The proportion will change, so constant changes in the proportion will be needed too. But that is something I’d explain later. For now, what are the three ways on managing bêtes?”
“Shots, pumps and omnipod.”
“Yeah, true. And in this case, it’s almost similar. I’m not giving you much choice, and till you get out of casts, I will like you to inject. I worked out with your family doctor here and back in states to work out a chart. That is, units of this drug for the oxygen level.”
“Can we not start now?” I asked, scared. I didn’t want to inject myself with drugs.
“Actually, we starting now will be the best. It will give you the gist under supervision, and you’ll know how to handle it. The chart is just estimation. Things like surroundings, activity, past numbers come into consideration too. Also, you’ll know it’s not a given win everytime. You will land up with a horrible number after doing everything you could.”
“So, I’m gonna be doing all this and not be sure of the results?” I glared at him. That wasn’t even fair. From childhood, it was always drilling into our minds- if you work hard, you will get the fruit. Turns out, all the Disney quotes are not applicable in my so-called life.
“Better than doing nothing. Also, this is the only hope you can get back to gym.” He looked at me with those dead serious eyes and I cursed myself internally. I just had to tell him about my favorite sport, right? He just had to use it to blackmail and bend me into it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OPEN external link for more information on PF! PF doesn't have cures, and the management -not cure- I have shown is completely fictious!!
COMMENT, VOTE and FAN !!! Thanks a ton for reading! :D