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Don't Wait

Auteur: Jessa Rose
last update Date de publication: 2026-10-07 08:14:16

Noelle came at 5:58 with her backpack still over one shoulder.

I’d been in room 614 since nine that morning. The hallway on the way in had been colder than I remembered, and quieter, and the lemon disinfectant smell was sharper than it had been in October. The same IV poles lined the wall outside the supply closet. The same nurses walked by with the same badge reels clipped to their scrubs. I knew the routine now. I hated that I knew it.

My counts had needed an extra week to come back after the
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  • Fighting For Normal   Number Seven

    I read it three times. It stayed one word.Bernard lifted his head off the end of my bed. He’d been watching me not sleep for an hour, and now he watched me throw back the comforter.I typed coming, deleted it, and got up instead.Pops’ Navy hoodie was on the back of my desk chair, where Chandler’s beanie used to sit. I zipped it to my chin over my pajamas, shoved my feet into my Uggs, and stood with my hand on the doorknob, listening to the house. The furnace ticking. Nothing else.Bernard was already at the door, tail going.“Quiet,” I whispered.He took it as a suggestion.The hall was dark. I passed the loft, my Algebra II worksheets still spread across the table where I’d abandoned them Tuesday morning, and Stetson’s door at the end, shut, no light underneath. My dads’ door was dark too. The last time I’d stood in this hallway at night, there had been a line of light under that door, and I had walked to it and knocked.Tonight there was nothing to walk to.I took the stairs the w

  • Fighting For Normal   Don't Wait

    Noelle came at 5:58 with her backpack still over one shoulder.I’d been in room 614 since nine that morning. The hallway on the way in had been colder than I remembered, and quieter, and the lemon disinfectant smell was sharper than it had been in October. The same IV poles lined the wall outside the supply closet. The same nurses walked by with the same badge reels clipped to their scrubs. I knew the routine now. I hated that I knew it.My counts had needed an extra week to come back after the fever, so the second cycle was late, and the red bag had gone up at eleven, and I’d been watching it drip into my chest all afternoon with nobody in the visitor chair.It was supposed to be Maekynzie’s day. She’d claimed it in purple Sharpie on the corkboard in my room, with a heart next to it and a crown.At eight that morning, an hour before I was due, my phone had buzzed.Maekynzie: omg sloane i’m so so sorry. something came up w my mom. i can’t today. i’ll make it up to u i promise 💜💜💜I

  • Fighting For Normal   Dibs

    On Wednesday, my hair came out in the shower.A handful. I ran my fingers through it the way I’d done every morning of my life, with shampoo foaming between them, and when I pulled my hand away, my fingers were wrapped in it. Long, wet, dark gold with water, tangled around my knuckles like seaweed.I stood there under the spray and looked at it.Then I did it again, because I needed to know. Another handful. It didn’t hurt. That was the strangest part. It just let go, like it had been waiting for permission.Water pooled around my feet, warm and then cooling, while I stood very still and held my own hair in both hands.I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I picked every strand off my fingers and dropped them in the trash can by the sink, one handful at a time, and then I turned off the water and stood dripping on the bath mat until I started shivering.When I brushed it out, the brush came away thick. I cleaned it. I brushed again. It came away thick again.I stopped brushing.When I came o

  • Fighting For Normal   Almost

    I closed the drawer.It didn’t make a sound. That was the worst part. It slid shut on its runners the way it always did, quiet and smooth, and the Band-Aids and the alcohol wipes and the box of masks disappeared, and nothing in the bathroom looked any different.I stood there in my bare feet with the thermometer in my hand.My Colorado State tee had slid off one shoulder, the neckline stretched out from a year of being slept in. My pajama shorts felt too thin for October. My scalp felt tight again, and my skin was hot everywhere, and I wanted somebody to tell me the thermometer was broken. I wanted somebody to tell me what to do.You see a hundred point four, you come get us. You knock.I’d promised. I’d said the words out loud in the kitchen with Bernard sneezing at the fridge.Bernard got up from the bathroom doorway and walked a few steps down the hall. Then he stopped and looked back at me, like he was waiting to see if I’d follow.The hallway carpet was rough under my feet. Every

  • Fighting For Normal   Short Plan

    I came home from my first chemo cycle wrapped in Pops’ fleece blanket, the ugly plaid one he kept in the back seat of the Silverado for emergencies, and Bernard heard us before the front door was all the way open.He came around the corner from the kitchen at full speed, nails clicking and then skidding on the hardwood, his whole back half swinging. He hit the rug by the door and slid the last two feet. For one second, he was just Bernard, all fluff and tongue and joy.Then he stopped.He sniffed my knee. My hip. My hand. Then his nose went straight up the front of my sweatshirt to the spot below my right collarbone, where the port sat under a square of bandage, and he pushed his face against it and whined.“Easy, bud,” Dad said, reaching for his collar.Bernard didn’t even look at him. He sniffed the bandage again, harder, and the whine went up a note, the same sound he made when somebody was crying in another room.The house smelled like Pops’ stress candle. A cold draft came throug

  • Fighting For Normal   Lilac

    I didn’t hear a single word the anesthesiologist said.He was very nice about it. He crouched next to my pre-op bed in a blue paper hat with tiny cartoon tacos on it and explained everything slowly, with his hands, about the port and the little catheter and the vein and how it would sit right under my skin below my collarbone. I nodded at all of it. I said, “Yes. That makes sense. Thank you.”Nothing went in.It was seven-thirty on Tuesday morning, October fourteenth, four days after the sleepover. The curtain around my bed was a scratchy blue fabric that smelled faintly like bleach. I was in a hospital gown with ties that didn’t line up, too loose at the neck and cold where the gap fell open against my back, and a pair of grippy yellow socks. My leggings and the gray zip-up hoodie I’d stolen from Pops’ closet last winter, the one that said U.S. NAVY in cracked white letters across the back, were folded in a plastic bag under the bed with a sticker that said PATIENT BELONGINGS. My cru

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