Thumbs Up, Tumbs Down.

    Every day he would come to visit me; when it rained, when the sun kissed the trees, when he was supposed to be going home. It was bliss when he was here to brighten these halls and hell when he left. His visits were the only thing motivating me to stay through all the poking, prodding and bland men talking as if I were a lab experiment. As my days trudged by, I’d count the hours down.

    “Four more hours.”

    “Two more hours.”

    “One more hour.”

    “Miss, there’s someone here to see you.”

    It was a breath of fresh air to hear those simple words.

    We had a dance, a routine, he and I. He’d enter my too white room and flash that pretty white smile.

    “Hey.” He’d say.

    “Hey.” I’d say.

    The next turn of our dance was the secret code. I’d raise him a thumbs up or a thumbs down to depict how the day had gone, setting the mood of the visit. Thumbs up days were like summer vacations. We’d play games, we’d sing, we’d laugh. They were the days I played over in my head like old home movies when the clouds started rolling in. Thumbs down days were cold like a raging winter. They were lights off, curtains open, hands clasped together. What I liked the most about this boy was how quickly he understood things. My thumbs downs always meant silence. The nurses, however, interpreted them as invitations for their stale words stolen from magazines.

    “Stay strong”

    “It gets better”

    “You can’t give up”

    “Everyone is so proud of you”

    Those words demanded that I fix myself, like this disease was my own wrongdoing. I would lay in my bed quietly decaying while all the doctors smiled at me like I was their pet goldfish. They knew that I lived inside a glass bowl - a limited life with limited years. They smiled because I was just a fish who knew nothing better than too be a fish. I knew nothing better than to be sick. Looking at me reassured them of their comfy lives and how glad they were to be healthy, and the glass smiles reflected that like a broken mirror. All their false encouragements buzzed and screamed inside of my head until he would appear – until he held my hand and watched the sun give way to the moon. He was my only light in the endless dark of sickness, and I can say with certainty that he healed me more than any doctor did.

    Our days together were like the summer rain; warm, kind, gentle. He would stay well past when visiting hours were over. (I credit the nurses for at least understanding how important he was.) We’d talk so long and laugh so hard that, according to most women's health magazines, 15 years should have been added onto both our life spans. Our endless nights were spent with fervent whispers of promises about the future, the stars as our witnesses. Both of us knew in our melancholy hearts there was little chance I'd ever be able to keep those promises. But, being young and hopeful and helplessly in love, we made them anyway. When he was around, there was always hope. Hope that this disease would leave if I held his hand for long enough. Hope that I could someday leave this prison with its medicine and death scented hallways. Hope that I would wake up to those gleaming brown eyes for the rest of my fishbowl life. But being sick teaches you that the world doesn't play by fairy tale rules.

    The disease decided destroying my body was no longer enough. It craved my oblivion with a despicable lust. It would curl its black, oily fingers around my wrists and anchor me to the too white bed, suffocating any hopes of fulfilling passionate promises. Still, he visited me. When the thumbs down days began to outweigh the thumbs up days, he never turned and left. When my hair began to fall out in clumps and had to be shaved, he shaved his head with me. When there were days when words wouldn't escape my cracking lips, he read his favorite poems and let their sweetness fill the dead air. He started staying the nights in the waiting rooms as the nurses sadly shook their heads when they thought I couldn't see. And when I could no longer see, still, he would visit me.

    I remember he held my hand until the very end, and even now when I can no longer squeeze it back, he visits me.  He tells me about his days, whether they are thumbs up or thumbs down. He still remembers all our jokes and tries to laugh, even though it’s a hollow and sad sound. Mostly, he tells me he misses our summer rains and wintry nights – and he always leaves flowers at my headstone.