by Lucy Frank
so we can get you a bit
more comfortable,”
she says, so brisk and tender
with her corkscrew curls,
All I can do is nod
and try to smile.
Tassel loafers,
clipboard, blue blazer,
laser-blue eyes:
“So I hear you’re having a rough time.
What’s up?”
He looks more college admissions officer
than shrink.
I pull out my interview smile.
“Not much. Besides me, that is.
Sitting up.
In this chair, I mean.
Plus, I just took my first walk.
To the bathroom.
And my doctor says
I’m doing fine.”
“That’s good news. Now why don’t
you tell me what’s been going on.
Then we’ll see what we can do
to make you more comfortable.”
“Another pill?
Because, my theory?
I’m not that sick anymore.
It’s just, no one has any clue
how I am, because of the drugs
they’ve got me on.”
“That’s an interesting theory, Francesca.
And we can talk about it.
But first we just need to get through
a few routine questions.
“Would you mind telling me
what year it is?”
Would you mind telling me
why you’re looking at me
the way they look at Shannon?
Not just like I might be
a crazy person,
But like I’m one of those tiny
transparent guppies
Mom bought for me
that swam in circles
for a day, then, belly-up, floated to …
abscess
remission flare-up
immuno-something
treatment goals
Doctor words
I thought I hadn’t heard
flash like fireworks
in my brain.
“Francesca, can you tell me
who’s the president of
the United States?”
… activation of immune system
leads to influx
of inflammatory cells
to the intestine …
… once activated,
the immune system doesn’t shut off,
resulting in chronic
inflammation …
… disturbs immune system’s ability
to distinguish between self
and nonself …
“Francesca, would you be
more comfortable
lying down?”
“NO! I mean, no, thank you.”
And I keep hanging on
by my politeness,
giving him the answers
he’s looking for, until
Monitor Me hears my tiny transparent
guppy voice ask: “If I do
have whatever this is,
am I going to die?”
The shrink sets down his clipboard.
Leans in closer.
I watch his eyebrows knit,
his Adam’s apple bob,
his lips tighten for an instant
before he speaks
of perfectly understandable concern,
normal to worry, not saying
there won’t be challenges, but …
I wait for Die? You?
Of course not!
Don’t be ridiculous!
Wait through cautious, useless
doctor words.
Wait for him to go.
“Doctor! Wait!
Come back!
“Like, for example, that girl
in the bed next to me?
Her body is basically out to get her?
Hates her as much as she hates it?
That’s what ‘autoimmune’ means?
“And ‘chronic’ means
no matter how good
she thinks she feels,
it’s got her?
She’s got it?
She’s.
It?
“Is that
what everyone is saying?”
“Francesca,” he says. “I can’t speak
to what others might have said,
but I can assure you, no matter what
disease you may or may not have,
you’ll still be you.”
“But what’s that mean?”
I’ve been trying to whisper
in case Shannon’s listening
through the curtain, but
his careful kindness
cracks my voice
wide open:
“Who’s ‘you’ when
your own body is
your biggest enemy?
“If her own body
can’t recognize
her, how can she?”
“You’re asking important questions.
It might take a while
to figure out the answers.
But right now, I think
what we need to do
is give you something to calm
your nerves and let you sleep.”
“No! Doctor. You don’t understand!
If I lie down and sleep,
if I die, I’ll never know!”
“YO! NO DYING HERE!
GOT THAT?”
Shannon’s voice slices
through the curtain.
“NOBODY DIES IN MY ROOM!
INCLUDING ME!”
“Leap, ladies! Leap over the lake!
Don’t let those feet get wet!
Tummies in! Arms out!
Heads up!”
I soar above the mirror-shiny floor,
land easy as a dragonfly. “Perfect!”
Ms. Filipova bestows her chilly smile,
whispers to my mom:
“Remember what a clumsy little girl
she was? No turnout, no elevation,
those pudgy legs. She dances
so much better dead.”
To the easy music of the waves
I dance with David in the dark.
Bonfire sparks glint in his eyes.
He swoops me into the air. I fly,
Swim beside him in the lake.
Damselflies skim over us.
Words waft in
from miles away.
It is so pleasant being dead, so easy
floating naked here with David
in the ocean,
waveless now, and warm.
Words drift in …
“Couldn’t you just sneak her up
in the middle of the night?
“She’d be so good, Mom.
I know she would.
She wouldn’t make a sound.”
Drift out …
“Oh, baby, you know
we can’t do that.”
“But I miss her so much.”
“That’s why we need to
get you better.
So you can be with her again.”
“Couldn’t you just bring her
underneath the window
so I could wave?”
In fading light I wake
to a headache and a tray:
cold tea, melted orange icey,
yellow Jell-O.
A doctor voice wishes Shannon
good night.
In the hall a cigarette-voiced man yells,
“You guys with your million-dollar
machines and thousand-dollar pills!”
Mrs. Klein, on her imagined phone,
orders a salmon steak,
enough for two,
make sure it’s fresh this time.
I hear Shannon crying.
And with the dark
the night beetles gather.
I hear their oil
-slick shells rattle,
feel the prickle of their legs,
the tickle of their feelers.
“DON’T TELL ME
VISITING HOURS ARE OVER
AND DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”
yells the hall man.
“I’LL CALM DOWN
WHEN SOMEBODY STOPS SPOUTING
MEDICAL MUMBO JUMBO AND STARTS
MAKING HER BETTER!”
Their vinegar stink stings
my nostrils,
their whisper weight masses,
making ready, marching
to my heart’s drumming.
“I’LL CALM DOWN
WHEN YOU STOP
TALKING ABOUT
CUTTING HER OPEN.
“I’LL CALM DOWN WHEN YOU
JUST TELL ME. WHEN. ARE.
YOU. GONNA. MAKE. HER
BETTER?”
When I was little,
waiting for the night to end,
my dad could always
scare away the night beetles.
I have no legs, no voice,
can only clench myself closed, try
to fly my mind somewhere safe
as the night beetles swarm.
And I whisper to the dark:
“I wish I could be just me.
Without my body.”
Then through the curtain,
so soft
I hardly know
it’s her:
“Sometimes it helps
if you imagine purring.
One of those big old stripey—
I’ll just stand here on your pillow
and keep this going all night
long as you don’t do something
to annoy me—
tomcats with a rumbling purr
that quiets down your breath
and helps your heart un-hurt.
“Anyway. That’s what works
for me sometimes.”
“I had a cat when I was little.
Bobo. My dad used to tuck her in
with me at night.
“That Cupcake thing?
That’s what he called me back then.
And I’m not saying
it was my goal in life:
‘So, Chess, what do you want to be
when you grow up?’
‘Oh, I want to be a fattening pastry item.’
“And I realize
the cupcake bottom line
is, you get eaten,
but I felt so …
“I mean … who doesn’t
love a cupcake?
Small and perfect.
Neat. Sweet …
“If it were up to me
I wouldn’t even
have
bowels,
“Never mind
a disease
with ‘bowel’
its middle name.
“ ‘Oh, hello! I’m Chess!
I have a bowel disease!
I’m gonna be spending my life
looking for a bathroom!’
“Not happening.
I do not
have it.
I refuse.
“At least cancer,
even the meanest person
wouldn’t be all ‘Ewwwwww!’
behind your back,
or, when they see you,
trying not to look away.
“I mean, sick
is the last thing
you’re supposed
to be thinking about
on an island in the middle
of a lake in the middle
of the night with a boy
like no boy you’ve met before.
“He was the first boy
I liked who ever really …
you know …
wanted me.
“Shannon?
Y’awake over there?”
“Yeah. But this pity-party shit
is getting on my nerves.
“They can’t take shit,
who needs ’em.”
“Could you stop saying
that word, please?”
“Oh, does Cupcake like
the D-word better?
Cuz you know, diarrhea
can be your friend.”
“I said, stop!”
“Excuse me, Mr. Teacherperson.
This exam takes how long?
Because I think you should know
I have this little diarrhea problem—”
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR
THIS!”
“Oh, Aunt Mabel,
I’d love to clean your garage.
But unless you got a bathroom close by,
and I mean REALLY close …”
“SHANNON!”
“And you don’t even have to say
the D-word, but trust me, if you do,
no one will mess with you.
They don’t need to know
your pills got it under control.”
“Pills?
There are pills?
Besides the evil juice?”
“Oh yeah.
They got all kinds of pills.
Pills, shots, shit they drip into you …”
“That work?
Because
I mean, if
they work,
how come
you’re so sick?
“Sorry!
I shouldn’t
have said that!
I’m so sorry!”
“And it’s not like psoriasis
or something where the whole world
can see what you have.
You might feel like crap, but
to people who don’t know
you have a disease,
you look fine.
“Except for if you get the acne
and the fat face
from the evil juice,
or your hair gets thin and weird.
Like mine.
“But you know what?
Most people are too busy
worrying how they look
to be thinking about you.
“Unless the evil juice
makes you blow up
like a balloon.
“Which obviously never
happened to me. In fact,
I could stand to gain—”
“If I get fat again
I’ll die!”
“Would you shut up about dying?
I’ve been in and outta here
since I was ten, okay?
And do I look dead to you?
Don’t answer that!
“Forget dying.
Forget fat.
Forget necessary evil.
There’s only one necessary thing
and that’s to get it through your head:
“We don’t take stress.
We give stress.
“Which is why
you need to lose this ‘sorry’ shit.
Someone comes to take your blood,
and you’re like: ‘Oh, thank you!
How much would you like?
Oh, have some more!’
“Uh-uh! ‘Go away! I barely
got enough to keep me going here!’
Why d’you need to be all meek
and shit?
“You’re the one sick!
And you’re worrying
some boy
won’t like
you for it?
“Does that
sound right to you?
“Yo. Are you even listening?
You didn’t go to sleep on me, did you?”
“I can’t be sick.
I’ve got this really busy life:
this summer job, plus
going to look at colleges.
Plus, I’m planning
to go out for track, so
I’ve been doing a lot of running.
“When I wasn’t feeling too bad.
“Cuz
I haven’t been feeling
all that good these last months.
“Plus, we had this whole plan—
