Reason to Believe

If sad isn't on your plate today, back on out now. Someone I know just went through this. Not so much a romance. More of a love story.

There isn't any sex in here as Lit doesn't allow that kind of thing.

In my never ending quest to waste my talents, I present another easy target for the snipers.

Just troping along, as is my norm, as if I had a norm. Please read my profile for my stance on comments. Feel free to email suggestions or to start a conversation. Private messages work too

F. Foster; K. Kristofferson: "Well, I'd trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday, to be holdin' Bobby's body next to mine."

= = = =

Call it Karma. Call it serendipity. I don't really know what to call it. Sometimes the good and bad things in your life are just meant to place you nearby for when you are needed the most.

I first met Chelsea about eighteen months ago. Walking down the hall, I heard a muffled shriek. Turning back I peered into her room. She was holding a few pieces of paper with several others scattered in front of her.

"Problems Blondie?"

Her sneer slowly turned into a shy smile "Blondie! Cute! I can't get this story to work!"

"Have you read it aloud?"

"Never! That would be too embarrassing."

"Would you like me to read it to you? When you hear your words in action, you'll know what actions you need to take."

With an untrusting lowering of her eyebrows "Do you work here?"

"A couple of hours a week. How about you? Come here often?"

That brought out a smile as she handed me her sheets.

I pulled up a chair and eased down. First passes of an unknown story are a little tougher to recite, but I did okay. It had been forever since I'd read a longhand cursive paper.

Although Chelsea tried to stop me, when she wanted to change something, I put my hand up and told her to wait until I was finished.

"My writing stinks" she moaned when I was done.

"It's a bit syrupy but I like it. Besides, the only person you need to impress is yourself."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I'll gladly read your stories for you. Maybe see you in a few days. I've got to get going."

"Wait. What's your name?"

"Peter. Yours?"

"Chelsea. Nice to meet you sir. I have other stories."

"Sounds good. I look forward to reading them. Have a nice night."

And so every time I saw Chelsea, I would read one of her creations back to her. We formed a very strong bond.

+ + + +

I was there when it came time to celebrate Chelsea's birthday. She was quite bubbly.

"Peter, my mother should be here in a bit. I'd like you to meet her. She talks funny, but you'll get used to it. She emigrated from Romania to get her degree."

"What's she do?"

"She's an anesthesiologist."

"Impressive."

While waiting, I read another of Chelsea's stories aloud. When finished she snatched the sheets from me and started redlining her hand written pages. A soft knock on the door made my head turn.

"Mom, this is Peter. I'm going to marry him."

I wasn't sure who was more shocked, this woman or me. Married? Got to love it.

That untrusting lowering of eyebrows was inherited. Extending her hand "Paytar, I've heard a lot about you. I'm ChrisTina."

She shook my hand lightly then turned back to Chelsea "Don't you think the age difference is going to be a problem?"

To which Chelsea quickly rebuffed "It's for you to accept and me to deal with."

I shyly turned my palms up, shrugged my shoulders, and smiled. Christina's frown flattened.

+ + + +

Ten weeks ago, and nine months since I'd last seen Chelsea, I had one of my regular doctor's check-ups. The video virtual office visit, with my cardiologist, went without issue until the end.

"How long has your right eyelid been drooping Peter?"

"I wasn't aware that it was."

"Looking at your portal picture and what I'm seeing, I think we need to run a few tests. I'll put a blood draw in right now and someone will contact you about a CT scan."

The blood draw indicated my immune system was likely fighting cancer. My CT scan found a tumor. The subsequent MRI confirmed the finding. Due to some other concerns, rather than surgery they went immediately to chemo. Due to unexpected results, that stopped after two sessions. Now, instead of playing golf in Phoenix, I was in a room waiting to be wheeled into surgery.

With my mask on, I watched the activity at the nurse's station. They all wore masks, including a man with a beard. It reminded me of those panty ads in Playboy back in the sixties, with the short curlies peeking out.

A familiar voice jolted me back to reality.

"Paytar! What a small world. I was hoping to see you again. Looks like you have a serious problem."

"Christina, what a pleasure! When did you start working here?"

"I rarely work here, but they were shorthanded this week."

"How is Chelsea?"

"She misses you. We'll talk about her when you're awake in the recovery room."

"So you're my anesthesiologist today?"

"Does that scare you?"

I snickered "No, not at all, unless you're here to kill me?"

That drew a playful slap on the arm "You might never know, silly man."

The removal of the tumor, from behind my right eye, went off mostly successfully. Christina was the first person my eyes found when I came to. It was so bright that I had to shut my eyes immediately.

"Paytar, you gave us a scare. I am so relieved that you are awake" in her delectable heavy accent.

She explained that I'd suffered what they referred to as an episode. My two leftmost fingers weren't responding as they should. The light sensitivity was something I had been warned about. I didn't think it would be this bad. Christina massaged my left hand as she brought me up to date about Chelsea.

My hospital stay lasted long enough to start post-surgery chemo treatments. I'm a guy and never ask enough questions. I thought I was done with that brutal experience. They explained it along the lines of a crew putting out the hots spots after a forest fire. Christina called a few times to check on my progress. Chelsea even jumped one call to wish me well.

+ + + +

My post-surgery life is that of a hermit. I am to stay self-quarantined to avoid infection or illness. Light still bothers me greatly so all of my curtains are drawn. My lazy fingers are just now starting to respond to TENS treatments. The visiting nurse takes my vitals, some blood, and then pokes me with needles until she gets all of her frustrations out.

I hate being cooped up so I decided to replace a shower in my house. It took me four days, and several overnight deliveries, to destroy the old tiled walls and install insulation and waterproof backer board. Applying seam tape and then waterproofing same and all of the screws completed what I could do. I hid in the basement for the two days it took the tile installer to finish up. Tuesday through Saturday to finish the whole thing. Family and friends scolded me with 'I thought you were supposed to be resting?' All I remember is the doc saying I should quarantine. I did tell you I don't always ask enough questions.

It was 6 Am Sunday, eleven days after surgery, when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I let it go to messages. I had just finished giving my new shower its inaugural test drive. I love the built-in seat.

'Paytar, this is ChrisTina. Chelsea's taken a turn for the worse and she's asked to see you. Would you please hurry over? I'll meet you out front and use my keycard to get you in.'

I let Christina know that I was on my way.

With my heart at my feet I dressed as fast as I could. Although still in quarantine for another week, I had to be there. You see, I volunteer at the hospital where I'd met Chelsea. She was about to turn eleven when we first smiled at each other. Bald as a cue ball, from the chemotherapy trying to save her from some kind of cancer, she always maintained a positive attitude.

When you volunteer, they do a background check on you and you agree to forego giving out your own personal information. You also agree to never initiate contact outside of the hospital setting. We are goodwill go-fers. They warn you not to get attached to a long term care patient. My heart wasn't listening.

When Covid hit, our friendship was severed. Lockdown. No more go-fers. Some kind of divine intervention brought us back together.

Using yellow night vision sunglasses, I drove to the hospital. Oncoming headlights bothered me. A tearful Christina met me out front. We entered the hospital together. I swapped out the yellow glasses for dark wraparound sunglasses.

Outside of her room, I met Chelsea's father and younger brother.

With my mask and sunglasses on Chelsea didn't recognize me until I spoke "Good morning Chelsea. Long time."

A frail Chelsea smiled "PETER! Mom told me all about your tumor. How are you?"

"I'm good. You know it's been a while since we worked on our wedding plans."

I've had many loving hugs in my sixty eight years, but none like the one I was getting now.

Wiping a tear away she whispered "If I die you can marry someone else."

My attempt to hold back my tears failed badly as I returned her hug.

As my own chemo had rendered me bald, Chelsea rubbed my head.

"Your hair is starting to come back in. It feels soft and fuzzy too. Look whose blondie now."

"It'll go back to white soon enough. How's your writing coming?"

Reaching into her Elsa backpack, Chelsea pulled out several folders.

"Here, these are for you to read. Are you sticking around?"

"I sure am."

Chelsea's stories have a lot of Frozen in them, but you have to start somewhere.

We visited until the medical staff shooed me away. I never saw Chelsea awake again. She looked so peaceful lying there. I read a few of her stories to her while she slept. She never stirred and her monitors never skipped a beat. There was nothing more I could do, so I went home. In the early hours before dawn on Tuesday, the heavens welcomed an aspiring young writer. She was twelve.

I'm still trying to locate the pieces of my shattered heart. My nurse is concerned because I haven't been eating or sleeping much the last few days. I'm too old for this kind of heartache.

On Friday night Christina and family stopped by. They'd brought Chelsea's backpack filled with her stories.

"Paytar, she wanted you to have these. She had also finished her Valentine's cards and one has your name on it."

We shared a few minutes reminiscing before they left.

Elsa stares icicles at me as I sit and reflect that stare back at the backpack as if it was filled with explosives. In a sense it is. What's left of my heart would explode to see Chelsea's cursive writing. It will be a long time before I can 'Let it go'.

Adding it up, I probably spent less than fifty hours with Chelsea, and am devastated. Surely there's a special place in heaven for parents who lose a child.

.

+ + + +

Epilogue: (A few days later)

Elsa and I had a busy day on Monday. I took the backpack with me to my MRI session and then again to my next round of chemo. She waited in my locker both times. There might be a guardian angel in that backpack. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

In one of the waiting areas, a precocious little girl approached me.

"I have a backpack just like the one you're hugging."

"Do you like Frozen?" which caused her mother to giggle.

"I do. Why are you wearing sunglasses? Can I try them on?"

I peeled them off and she tried them on.

"Why are your eyes red?"

At which point her mother apologized and made her give the sunglasses back. The awkward silence ended when the technician beckoned "Peter?"

Monday night, Elsa leaned on my recliner as I used eight good fingers to knock out this story.

I've got a few more days to summon up the courage to open that Valentine. Yes, I'm losing my mind, carrying a children's backpack around. Next thing you know I'll be hearing voices. What's that Elsa? My writing stinks? So I've been told.