Survival, Terminal Illness, and Hope Theme Analysis

It’s not like I don’t want to go. It’s just, quite literally, a matter of life or death. I can’t go off to Cabo, or anywhere for that matter, and risk not coming back. I can’t do that to my parents. Not now.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hearing the familiar wheeze of my lungs trying desperately to fill with air through the sea of mucus. Exhaling slowly, I slap a big Hallmark-greeting-card smile on my face before opening my eyes and pressing the enter key to go live.

Lying back, I pick up the worn panda resting on my pillows and wrap my arms tightly around him. Patches, my sister, Abby, named him. And what a fitting name that became. The years of coming in and out of the hospital with me have certainly taken their toll on him.

We’ve fought CF together for a freaking decade. Well, together from a safe distance, anyway. We can’t get too close to each other. For cystic fibrosis patients, cross-infection from certain bacteria strains is a huge risk. One touch between two CFers can literally kill the both of them.

There are a lot of things that piss me off about CF, but that’s not one of them. Pretty much all guys with CF are infertile, which at least means I don’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant and starting my own shit show of a family.

“Lighten up, Stella,” I say, sauntering to the door. “It’s just life. It’ll be over before we know it.”

But walking around the hospital without a mask on? It’s no wonder he got it in the first place, pulling stunts like that. I’ve seen his type in the hospital more times than I can count. The careless, Braveheart type, rebelling in a desperate attempt to defy their diagnosis before it all comes to an end.

“He’s choking! Poe’s choking!” I shout, tears filling my eyes as I fly down the hallway behind Julie, pulling on a face mask as I go. She bursts through the door ahead of me and goes to check the beeping monitor. I’m scared to look. I’m scared to see Poe suffering. I’m scared to see Poe…Fine.

The only thing I remember from most of my hospital stays is white. White hospital sheets, white walls, white lab coats, all running together. But I do remember the mountains and mountains of snow that fell while I was there, the same white, only beautiful, less sterile.

Probably because for the first time in eight months, I’m a car ride away from home. Home. Where Hope and Jason are. Where my old classmates are slowly chugging their way to finals, shooting for whatever Ivy League school their parents selected for them. Where my bedroom, my freaking life, really, sits empty and unlived in.

But as I roll over and turn out the light, I realize for the first time in a long time, I don’t really feel alone.

“You ever think about, I don’t know…traveling the world or something?” I look back down to see number 27, “Sistine Chapel with Abby.” No line through it.

For me, it was easy to give up. It was easy to fight my treatments and focus on the time I do have. Stop working so damn hard for just a few seconds more. But Stella and Poe are making me want every second more that I can get.

Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.

I think about that very last breath. Sucking for air. Pulling and pulling and getting nothing. I think about my chest muscles ripping and burning, absolutely useless. No air. No nothing. Just black.

Without me, my mom is all alone. All this time I thought she only saw my disease. A problem you fix. But, instead, she was looking right at me, trying to get me to fight alongside her, when all I did was fight her tooth and nail.

I take a deep breath, letting out a relieved sigh that I’ve been holding for more than a year now. My chest heaves suddenly, and I begin to cough, water pouring out of my mouth.

We need that touch from the one we love, almost as much as we need air to breathe. I never understood the importance of touch, his touch…until I couldn’t have it.