Jenny Downham - Before I Die aka Now is Good

‘Christ! She’s burning up!’ Dad’s face glimmers right above me. ‘Call an ambulance!’ His voice comes from far away. I want to smile. I want to thank him for being here, but for some reason I don’t seem able to get the words together.

‘Don’t close your eyes, Tess. Can you hear me? Stay with us!’

When I nod, the sky whirls with sickening speed, like falling from a building.

Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and sits there. I didn’t know it would hurt this much. I didn’t know that everything good that’s ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it.

it’s happening now and it’s really, really true and however much they all promise to remember me it doesn’t even matter if they do or not because I won’t even know about it because I’ll be gone

A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like material rippling through trees.

I hear myself moaning from a distance. I don’t want to listen. I catch the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Dad. Their hushed voices. Panic spills from Dad’s throat.

Not yet. Not yet.

I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars.

Cal comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he stands next to Dad, quiet and small, and whispers, ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s got an infection.’

‘Will she die?’

‘They’ve given her antibiotics.’

‘So she’ll get better?’

Silence.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. Leukaemia is a progressive disease. I’m supposed to get weaker and weaker until I don’t care any more.

But I still care. When am I going to stop caring?

I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached angle of a jaw bone.

I want to tell Dad how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up from a vat of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery.

‘Don’t let me fall.’

‘I’ve got you.’

‘I’m falling.’

‘I’m here. I’ve got you.’

But his eyes are scared and his face is slack, like he’s a hundred years old.

I wake to flowers. Vases of tulips, carnations like a wedding, gypsophila frothing over the bedside cabinet.

I wake to Dad, still holding my hand.

All the things in the room are wonderful – the jug, that chair. The sky is very blue beyond the window.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Dad says. ‘Do you want a drink?’

I want mango juice. Lots of it. He plumps a pillow under my head and holds the glass for me. His eyes lock into mine. I sip, swallow. He gives me time to breathe, tips the glass again. When I’ve had enough, he wipes my mouth with a tissue.

‘Like a baby,’ I tell him.

He nods. Silent tears fill his eyes.

I sleep. I wake up again. And this time I’m starving.

‘Any chance of an ice cream?’

Dad puts his book down with a grin. ‘Wait there.’ He’s not gone long, comes back with a Strawberry Mivvi. He wraps the stick in tissue so it doesn’t drip and I manage to hold it myself. It’s utterly delicious. My body’s repairing itself. I didn’t know it could still do that. I know I won’t die with a Strawberry Mivvi in my hand.

‘I think I might want another one after this.’

Dad tells me I can have fifty ice creams if that’s what I want. He must’ve forgotten I’m not allowed sugar or dairy.

‘I’ve got something else for you.’ He fumbles in his jacket pocket and pulls out a fridge magnet. It’s heart-shaped, painted red and badly covered in varnish. ‘Cal made it. He sends you his love.’

‘What about Mum?’

‘She came to see you a couple of times. You were very vulnerable, Tessa. Visitors had to be kept to a minimum.’

‘So Adam hasn’t been?’

‘Not yet.’

I lick the ice-cream stick, trying to get all the flavour from it. The wood rasps my tongue.

Dad says, ‘Shall I get you another one?’

‘No. I want you to go now.’

He looks confused. ‘Go where?’

‘I want you to go and meet Cal from school, take him to the park and play football. Buy him chips. Come back later and tell me all about it.’

Dad looks a bit surprised, but he laughs. ‘You’ve woken up feisty, I see!’

‘I want you to phone Adam. Tell him to visit me this afternoon.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Tell Mum I want presents – expensive juice, loads of magazines and new make-up. If she’s going to be crap, she can at least buy me stuff.’

Dad looks gleeful as he grabs a bit of paper and writes down the brand of foundation and lipstick I want. He encourages me to think of other things I might like, so I order blueberry muffins, chocolate milk and a six-pack of Creme Eggs. It’s nearly Easter after all.

He kisses me three times on the forehead and tells me he’ll be back later.

After he’s gone, a bird lands on the window ledge. It’s not a spectacular bird, not a vulture or a phoenix, but an ordinary starling. A nurse comes in, fiddles about with the sheets, fills up my water jug. I point the bird out to her, joke that it’s Death’s lookout. She sucks her teeth at me and tells me not to tempt fate.

But the bird looks right at me and cocks its head.

‘Not yet,’ I tell it.

The doctor visits. ‘So,’ he says, ‘we found the right antibiotic in the end.’

‘Eventually.’

‘Bit scary for a while though.’

‘Was it?’

‘I meant for you. That level of infection can be very disorientating.’

I read his name badge as he listens to my chest. Dr James Wilson. He’s about my dad’s age, with dark hair, receding at the crown. He’s thinner than my dad. He looks tired. He checks my arms, legs and back for bleeding under the skin, then he sits down on the chair next to the bed and makes notes on my chart.

Doctors expect you to be polite and grateful. It makes their job easier. But I don’t feel like being tactful today.

‘How much longer do I have?’

He looks up, surprised. ‘Shall we wait for your dad to be here before we have this discussion?’

‘Why?’

‘So that we can look at the medical options together.’

‘It’s me that’s sick, not my dad.’

He puts his pen back in his pocket. The muscles round his jaw tighten. ‘I don’t want to be drawn into time scales with you, Tessa. They’re not helpful at all.’

‘They’re helpful to me.’

It’s not that I’ve decided to be brave. This isn’t a new year’s resolution. It’s just that I have a drip in my arm and I’ve lost days of my life to a hospital bed. Suddenly, what’s important seems very obvious.

‘My best friend’s having a baby in eight weeks and I need to know if I’m going to be there.’

He crosses his legs, then immediately uncrosses them. I feel a bit sorry for him. Doctors don’t get much training in death.

He says, ‘If I’m over-optimistic, you’ll be disappointed. It’s equally unhelpful to give you a pessimistic prediction.’

‘I don’t mind. You’ve got more of an idea than I have. Please, James.’

The nurses aren’t allowed to use doctors’ first names, and normally I’d never dare. But something’s shifted. This is my death and there are things I need to know.

‘I won’t sue you if you’re wrong.’

He gives me a grim little smile. ‘Although we managed to cure your infection and you’re obviously feeling much better, your blood count didn’t pick up as much as we’d hoped, so we ran some tests. When your father gets back, we can discuss the results together.’