They said I would have a year to live.
I got three months.
Three months of chemo. Pain. Illness. Exhaustion. Seriously, guys—chemo's a rough way to go.
My hair fell out. I had bruises everywhere. My kidneys even failed, leaving me in the hospital for a month before I was released on hospice care at home.
And when I died?
My mother wasn't there to give me a hug.
My dad wasn't there to tell me I was going to be just fine.
I didn't even get to say goodbye to my dog.
To be fair, it all happened quickly.
I had chemo earlier that day and couldn't stop throwing up, so my sweet mother brought me to the hospice care center for some medicated relief. She told me she would see me in the morning.
The vomiting never stopped.
The pain never ceased.
At midnight, the night nurse held my hand, assuring me that my family was only five minutes away.
And then I died.
Alone.
—Vivienne Wells, 25 years young.—
* * *
The unmistakable scent of ammonia is so overpowering my entire body flinches away from it before my eyes are even open.
Gagging and coughing, my eyes fill with tears. Rapid blinking doesn't help as they run in streams down my cheek, leaving the entire world blurry.
Shit.
I thought I was dying, but I guess the nurses managed another medical miracle. Should I be pissed? I'm DNR—Do Not Resuscitate. There shouldn't be any CPR or heroic measures to keep me alive. That's the point of hospice when you have a terminal diagnosis like pancreatic cancer.
"She's awake," a male voice says unnecessarily. Must be a doctor. They're always stating the obvious when they examine me.
"No shit," I croak, deciding to remain in the fetal position on the floor. I'll probably catch whatever germs the housekeepers didn't bleach away, but my brain's still catching up to my body.
"Give me the smelling salts. I'll put them away."
There's a rustling sound, and then someone's close enough for the air to warm with their body temperature.
"Ma'am, I'm putting my hands under your arms to help you sit up." It's the man again, giving me about a half-second warning before he does exactly what he said he would.
Squinting through my blurred vision, I can barely make out his silhouette. "Thanks."
"Eh?" His hands spasm against my ribs. "Ah, you're welcome, ma'am."
Odd reaction to a simple thank you, but okay.
Once I'm back on a stable surface—soft and plush and feeling nothing like my hospital bed—I rub my eyes, wondering why they feel so rough, and try to look around.
No tears, and yet still blurry.
Fuck. Has my vision gone, too? As if it wasn't bad enough to lose my hair and, you know, every semblance of normalcy in my life. Now I'm going blind?
None of the doctors mentioned this side effect.
"Are your contacts in?" Cold fingers pry my eyelid open, and I'm too shocked to react. "They're in. Maybe they're both dirty?" He sounds unsure. "Let me get your contact case, and you can take them out. We can rinse them."
"I don't wear contacts, sir."
"S-sir?" His stutter is so comical. Too bad I can't see his face. Maybe he's just an intern. How cute. "Ma'am, I'm not—hold on, I'll get the doctor."
Yeah, definitely an intern or something. How young are they? I guess young enough being called sir would surprise them.
Still, why did he say I had contacts in my eyes? I've never needed glasses.
"Excuse me," I call out, hating how vulnerable I feel without sight. "Is anyone there?"
Silence. Not even the beeps of machines answer me. That's not good.
I reach for my port access, but it isn't there. Not even a blemish on my skin. No IVs in my hands or arms. No pulse oximeter keeping my finger hostage.
What the hell…? Have they given up on keeping me alive? But this makes no sense, either. They saved me.
My pain is gone, but my head isn't muddled like it is on morphine. And actually, I feel…
Wow.
I'm scared to admit it, but I feel great. I mean, aside from being kind of blind. Hopefully glasses can help.
But otherwise? I haven't felt this good since long before my diagnosis.
My body isn't heavy. My muscles aren't trembling with fatigue. I don't feel like I'm about to pass out, and I've been sitting for a while now. I'm even hungry. Actually hungry. I can't remember the last time food sounded appealing.
I want steak.
No, a greasy cheeseburger.
Wait. Chinese. So much Chinese. Sweet and sour pork. General Tso's. Fried rice.
Ooh, eggs. I want eggs, with green peppers in them and a dash of hot sauce.
"You're having trouble with your vision?" a well-modulated female voice asks. A new person. Probably the doctor the intern was looking for. There's no sound of her shoes hitting the tile floor; maybe she's really light on her feet.
Come to think of it, I didn't hear the intern—I'm calling him Bobby in my head, because he just feels like a Bobby—running off, either.
Odd.
"Everything's blurry. I can't see things. Just light and darkness." I squint in the direction her voice comes from. "Is this permanent?"
"Let me just check your…" Her voice trails off, and once again someone's prying my eyes open. This time, a long, nail stabs into my brow as she lifts it.
Aren't they supposed to cut those short? Now I see why.
"Your contacts are in," she murmurs.
"I don't wear—"
My vision dims, and my eyelid desperately tries to flutter shut as something presses against my eye.
Then it's gone.
It happens again in my second eye before her pokey-nail hands let go of my face, and I blink several times, watching the world come into view once again.
What the hell?
Did someone put in contacts while I was sleeping? Some stranger's contacts?
But as my vision clears, my face goes slack.
This is not the hospice room I checked into. It's not even a room for medical care. It's… overwhelming.
"Wow," I murmur, taking it all in.
Gold. Everywhere. It's like King Midas went on a rampage, leaving no surface untouched. The furniture is no less ostentatious. I'm sitting on a massive four-poster bed.
My eyes drift to an ornate vanity, its mirror framed by twisting golden filigree. Perfume bottles and jewelry boxes crowd its surface, each one more elaborate than the last.
A hairbrush with bristles which look suspiciously like they're made of gold sits next to a comb, and together they probably cost more than my old apartment. Who the fuck brushes their hair with gold?
"This can't be real," I mutter. Even the side table has legs carved to look like snarling wolves, with accents of—you guessed it—gold.
The wood is cool and smooth beneath my fingertips, dispelling any notion this might be some sort of hallucination.
I close my eyes, count to ten, and open them again. Nope. Still here. Still surrounded by more gold than Buckingham Palace.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. This has to be some kind of fever dream. Or maybe this is heaven. If it is, it needs to be renovated. Or maybe I'm just high as a freaking kite on whatever drugs they're pumping into me.