Day +26
This is all just so... surreal.
Red. Red everywhere.
Stark, bright red hues flash before my eyes, a swaying sea of anger and solidarity. It moves in unison, ebbing and flowing with the wind, unaffected by the harsh might-as-well-be winter breeze. Its color is relentless in its austerity, shamelessly augmented by red and blue flashing lights. The lights strobe brightly, duplicitous in their optimistic illumination of the chaotic scene unfolding before them.
Signs of all shapes and sizes are thrust in the air with gusto, held up by gloved hands. They flow along with the current of people, all of whom are adorned in red attire. Varying in creativity and professionalism, the signs attempt to verbalize what has been so long felt by this group of people—once respected—but are now cast aside.
Megaphones sound loudly, competing with one another to capture the last word, their musings barely blanketing the disorganized murmurs of the crowd.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
The chants form the steady beat that propels the feet of all those in attendance—nurses, policemen, firemen, teachers, local political figures, union leaders, and even some patients—all united by common ideals. Representation from other frontline, first responders serves as a pleasant surprise, their presence reassuring and humbling. At least... at least someone recognizes our worth.
I would be surprised if those around me didn't notice my disassociation with... all of this. My feet move without instruction, my lungs continue to take in oxygen, and my heart continues to beat, despite the fact that the other half of it sits anguished and shrouded in despair within those hospital walls.
Unfocused eyes take in my surroundings as I walk aimlessly, my soul resigned to total purposelessness. Colleagues, close coworkers—friends, even—are animated and invigorated with this opportunity to stand up for what they believe in. I can't help but dwell upon the knowledge that this is just one more experience cancer has stolen from me.
Selfish.
The ball of self-loathing that dwells within me pulses with disgust, alarmed that I could at all consider myself burdened while Mia—beautiful, sweet, smart, precious, never-even-got-a-chance Mia—rests distressingly upon a thin line separating life and death.
Determined to be too critical to transfer, Mia lays blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounds her from within the confining walls of her PICU room, her care now in the hands of a strike nurse. She's unbothered by the knowledge that yet another machine is charged with maintaining her body's most basic functions. The ECMO machine ebbs and flows that dangerous hue of red, much like this sea of people.
At exactly midnight, I was escorted out of Mia's room by a security guard sent by the PICU manager—my desire to cry only outweighed by my desire to maintain my dignity. Logan's expressive face said it all, he was pained, saddened, frustrated, annoyed, and upset by my leaving.
And I can't go back for another four days—after today, of course.
The hospital 'campus' is composed of five buildings nestled together in the center of the city. Large, orange roadblocks stand between those protesting and the people they are protesting against—although, it's unclear which group of people the roadblocks serve to protect, as each group is fueled by anger and frustration. Security guards stand at each entrance, pacing the perimeter of the hospital to ensure no one enters without their approval.
A large stage was constructed—when, I have no idea—and sits tall and sturdy in the middle of campus. Lined with microphones and speakers, union leaders take turns sharing statistics and facts about the hospital's profits, mistreatment of staff, and misappropriation of funds and supplies. Cars honk and journalists roam, television crews hustle with their giant cameras to catch a glimpse of this rare moment in history.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
How the world continues to spin on its axis while Mia's fate hangs in the balance is lost on me, and I briefly wonder—does any of this even matter?
Will anything matter ever again?
"Lauren!"
My feet continue their march, my fear of being still the only motivator I have to keep moving. A blur of red comes in and out of focus for me, my vision impaired by the heaviness of my swollen eyelids. Honks, screams, and chants are relentless in their pursuit to be heard, but to no avail. In my daze, everything sounds... muffled, somehow.
"Lauren!"
The wind nips against my face, my cheeks undoubtedly as red as my jacket, my scarf. It burns in a way that almost feels good, a steady fire dwindling into numbness—my new normal.
"Lauren! Lauren! There you are! I've been calling your name!"
A hand lands heavily upon my shoulder, directing me to face the voice that has, apparently, been calling my name.
Sami's concerned face hovers close to mine, eyes intense under furrowed brows. My gaze trails down her french braid to her crossbody bag—unwilling to dare a peek at her own stare. Her pursed lips move slowly, and I find myself concentrating on the dips and curves her mouth makes as it moves up and down.
"Lauren! Are you listening to me?" She grabs my arms and applies even pressure, shaking me slightly.
Her action catches me off guard, causing me to slip.
I look in her eyes.
Hazel irises bore into me, forcing me to finally focus on something other than the redness blurring my vision. Tiny, green flecks stand out against honey-brown pigments, the color a harsh reminder of Logan's tired, anxious eyes... of Mia's eyes, eyes I'm unsure I'll ever see lit with happiness again. My body trembles slightly under the weight of that realization, and I have to actively hold back tears from rolling down my stiff, lifeless face.
"...Lauren," Sami persists, more gently this time.
"Hi," I whisper, my throat constricting against the disuse of its muscles.
"I... I took the day off. I wanted to be here for you."
"Th-thank you," I stammer.
She looks me up and down, briefly, before asking, "Have you eaten?"
I shake my head in response.
Wordlessly, she grabs my hand, guiding me through the crowd and towards the hospital's cafe—one I often frequent on the rare occasion I eat lunch at work.
Warmth prickles against my skin when we enter the cafe, the smell of coffee and bread permeating the air. Reluctantly, Sami releases my hand and turns to me, "What do you want? We'll get some coffee and talk about it... or we won't, okay?"
As if suddenly reminded that it is also a vital organ requiring care and nourishment, my stomach growls with the promise of food. I nod slowly, causing Sami to smile. We approach the counter, ready to order.
"I'm sorry, but you have to leave," the woman behind the counter mutters, eyeing my red jacket.
"What?" Sami's incredulous voice resonates loudly in the small cafe.
"We aren't serving anyone wearing red today."
I stare at the floor, heat burning like fire against my cheeks, hot tears threatening to spill down my face.
This isn't happening.
"Let me get this straight... this giant corporation is refusing to serve an individual because of what her outfit represents?"
"Ma'am, we're a franchised location, owned by the hospital. We're under strict orders not to serve anyone wearing red."
"This is ridiculous!" Sami yells, flailing her arms, her body language as expressive as her tone.
I can feel my resolve, my fight, my soul withdrawing into itself once more, too numb to react. Humiliation drowns me, a veil just thick enough to hide my indelible sadness. My eyes close in an attempt to shield myself from the scene unfolding before me, unwilling to wrap my head around the fact that I'm currently being refused service because of the color of my jacket. My arms cross tightly across my chest, aiming to hold myself together before I completely melt into a pile of surrendering despair.
"Ma'am, please. Calm down. I'm asking you to lower your voice and please leave."
"This woman works here! She has dedicated a better part of her adult-life here! She literally takes care of kids with cancer! And you would deny her a damn coffee! You have NO idea what she's been through! No idea! So no! I won't calm down! I am writing an email to your conglomerate or whatever the hell it is called immediately! I'd like your name, and the name of your supervisor, and the name of the bigoted person who gave you this 'strict order' right now!" Sami's voice is loud and stern, in no way giving away the fact that tears are streaming down her face.
Defeat.
Once again I'm tasked with asking myself, does this matter?
Does any of this matter?
A couple of security guards head our way, their two-way radios buzzing loudly with every step. Their approach is unnecessarily brutish, each stomp of their boots a promise of action.
"Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you both to leave," one of the guards states in a way that is perfectly clear—it's not really a request.
"Fine!" Sami yells, exasperated, "I hope neither of you ever need the help of a nurse, because you finally had a chance to help one of them and you didn't!"
She grabs my hand, dragging me behind her storming feet.
Blurs of red pass us by, menacing and angry. Rapid steps carry us further and further away from the chaos before finally stopping beside Sami's car. She stops and takes a deep breath, turning to me with tears in her eyes.
"Are you okay?" She questions.
No.
I timidly nod my head, eyes on the ground.
"Lauren. Look at me."
I comply with her request, my somber eyes landing upon fiery hazel ones.
"Are you okay?" She repeats, more slowly this time.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, interrupting my muddled train of thought. Quickly, I check the message.
Logan: She's bleeding a lot more than she was before. I wish it were me, Laur. I hate saying it because I never want to leave you but I wish it were me. Why is this happening? Why? FUCK I just... I can't do this without you here. There's just blood. Everywhere.
And just like that, my barrier breaks.
The ice numbing me shatters, causing my emotions to erupt in a violent display of tragic tears. A strangled sob fights its way out of my throat, punching me on its way out. My heart—sullen and heavy—cracks under the pressure of the weight sitting upon my chest. My body shakes with the exertion of effectively demonstrating so many feelings at once—hopelessness, fear, anguish, pain, despair. My firmly shut eyes see a devastated Logan kneeling beside his gorgeous daughter, heavy drops of blood dripping down her body, daring to taint something as pure as a child.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
Faint chants continue in the background, the sea of red marching to the beat of its own melody. It's overwhelming, too much to bear at this moment. Sami's arms are closed tightly around me, but it's too late.
When I open my eyes, all I see is red.
When I close my eyes, that same red is dripping down Mia's limp, sedated body.
Red is daunting.
Red is chaos.
Red is all around me.
***
A/N:
Any thoughts?
I love you all for reading and sticking with me this long!
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—Elise