Prolouge: Paper in the Wind

The somewhat experimental beginning to a novel that I've been working on for some time...

 

Prolouge

Paper in the Wind

 

            Time flies like a jagged piece of charred paper caught in the grip of the Santa Ana winds. It dances through my room, whirling and bowing, spinning and weaving, but never stopping, never slowing down. I stare into the semi-darkness of the coming morning, trying to see it in the shadows, trying to visualize time’s next move. Yet, I suppose if I was able to see where time was going, what would happen in the coming seconds, minutes, hours, days, I wouldn’t be so afraid. I wouldn’t be lying here in my bed waiting for time to take me away.

            The brain tumor, or whatever the men and women in pressed white lab coats called it, has been growing in my head for nearly a year, give or take a day or two. I’ve seen the fancy full color images of exactly where in my head it is residing. I can reach up and rub the exact spot, more easily now that I have no hair left, and I do touch it, at least ten times a day. At first I thought that if I could reason with it, make friends, it would stop growing and be happy to live quietly in my head. I even tried talking to it, telling it that if it would just be content at the size that it was, I wouldn’t mind sharing my brain. I have learned that brain tumors are selfish. They like to expand, push their way farther into your “good brain tissue”, like a dog who starts off curled at your feet and by morning is stretched across the bed in such a way that you are teetering on the edge. Brain tumors don’t like to talk, and brain tumors don’t take kindly to forceful removal either. Mine is inoperable. I always liked that word, before it was applied to me. 

            “Inoperable doesn’t mean unstoppable”, that’s what the doctor’s told me in the beginning. I believed them too, for a while. I started Chemotherapy willingly. I could close my eyes and visualize that rouge piece of tissue shriveling up and dieing. I guess its human nature to believe that you are unique, that you are going to be one of those few people who the chemicals will actually liberate. In those early days I would walk into the treatment center with my head held high, looking down my narrow, sloping nose at all of those poor souls who laid in their hospital beds, tubes feeding their veins clear fluid, and I would think about how unlucky they were. I never thought about how unlucky I was. I had cancer, and I was going to beat it, there was never a question as to if it would happen, only when, and I was shooting for November, so that by Christmas my life would be back to normal. The only thing that I got in November was a lesson in how to tastefully wear a wig.

            That was nearly eleven months ago. It seems like longer, like a memory of a time that I never really lived, like a flashback of a time before I was even born. Sometimes I lay in bed, with my eyes tight shut, trying desperately to hang onto the little things; the way that my grandmother’s cookies smelled when I was eight years old, or the way that my mother used to wear her hair, insignificant things that most people can recall, but don’t bother to. Most of the time I can’t remember those things anymore, sometimes I can’t even remember what I had for dinner the night before. My doctor, Doctor Rob as I like to call him, says that will happen more frequently as the disease progresses. He tries to say it in such a way as to not “upset” me, and I try to react in such a way as to make him believe that he succeeded. My memories are all that I have, and now I can’t even count on them to stick around. 

            The sun is rising, and I can see its glowing aura from my bedroom window. Time slips slowly passed as I watch the way that the sunlight filters in through the window, the way that dust dances in the splinters of light. I look down at my arms, bare and exposed, and they don’t look like they belong to me. They are thin and white with an ever so slight gray cast. I can see the tiny pin pricks of red, where the needles were embedded into my skin. I have come to loathe the nurses who stab me with those little pieces of surgical steel. They are always so calm and quick. They come into your room, chatting before they even see you. They talk about the weather, about how busy they have been; small talk drips from their incessantly moving mouths. Eventually they get around to “how wonderful you look” or “what a brave woman you are”, but they never really look into your eyes, they never quiet themselves long enough to see that you really don’t look any better, that you look like walking death, a hairless zombie with sunken eyes and pale lips. They stick you with that cold metal and hurry out of your room as quickly as they can. 

I sometimes watch the nurses, I mean really watch them, tuning out the sounds of the hospital and tuning in their conversations. I fall into their lives, I ride with them in their cars as they make their way home, I follow them into their houses, I kiss their husbands, pet their dogs, if even for a little while, I live their lives. There is one in particular who I have lived many times, a short, perky blonde with curly hair and puffy lips. She doesn’t look like she should be a nurse. She looks more like a fragile little doll who should be forever resting on someone’s bed. I’ve managed to gather that she lives alone, but has a boyfriend who she is hoping to marry. I’ve never actually seen the boyfriend, but I can picture him. He’s tall with thick black hair and ice blue eyes. He’s my favorite part of being her, the thing that I look forward to when I tune out the dripping and clanking and tune in the quiet of her apartment. Then the poison finishes filtering into my veins and I’m me again. It always finishes too soon.

            The alarm beside my bed begins to speak. It’s the voice of my mother, “Time to take your pills sweetie.” This is her idea of making light of my impending demise, put on a happy face and a singsong voice and time will stop slipping away. 

            I reach for the pill bottles on the nightstand. I hold one up to the light and watch as the orange plastic becomes flaming amber, and the little white pills become clouds. I open the first bottle and pour out one little round pill. I open the second and pour out two oblong pills, and finally I open the third bottle and pour out three more oblong pills. I roll them around in my palm, marveling at how simple some things still are. I can feel the traces of pain beginning to crawl up the back of my neck. If I didn’t take my pills the pain would light up each nerve in my head, pulsing across my temples until my vision blurs and my stomach turns. The pills, those simple little white pills, are what keep me sane, what keep me from scratching furrows into the sides of my head to dig out the throbbing.

            As the numbness begins to wash across my body, I realize that today is a good day. My mind is sharp. I reach for the leather bound journal beside my bed, and the pen that has been ever so diligently lying next to it. I take a deep breath and crawl across the bed, reach down and use all of my strength to hoist the bed table off of the floor. I lay the journal on the bed table and touch the soft leather cover. It feels cool beneath my fingers. I open to the first page and begin to write.

Author's Note

Not sure why the formatting is a little off in the first paragraph...

Reviews

[Scott W. Martin]

I enjoyed this very much. You caught my attention with the first paragraph and kept it till the end. The girls thoughts about whats going on in her life, although tragic, was extremely interesting and very believable I thought. I look forward to reading more. And, seeing is how you've already posted them, I think I will.

[bluessadmood]

oh you know i have been working with patients all my life,yes i am romantic and sensitive ,i talk to them even make friends i know they are going through a life i would never call unfortunate,it depresses me a lot ,so many times i could save ,so many times i need to be saved for i would go mad if one of my lovely patients would suddenly leave,i tell myself its before your time ,you are still young ,but thats how life is and they tell me smile to her and she smiles back ,she is cruel like a stone,i wish i was never born oh yes the frustrations i have seen all my life seeing some good friends ,only unlucky being ,so they have to lead a shorter life ,then i ask why,i had that question many times,my job is sad but it makes you wise ,you my friend is never strong as you think just one turn of fate and you go down the drain leaving after you so many hope and dreams you worked hard to make them come true ,i am a believer in God,it helps me a few,you say those workers in hospital laugh and joy and react as if everything is ok ,but i tell you dear ,they have to wear that look of indifference so they can raise hopes ,most of them are cutting on the inside ,i have seen a lot when they are on their own ,they even cry,every one says its not fair why they ,oh i could go and love those patients and kiss them for they show me life is a waste ,its not worth to keep hard working at it ,for just like you are in the middle of your job ,then some one tells you its time to go ,leave everything in hand and follow me ,and i turn and say,but i am almost finished with this can have just a minute,and i know i can never have for its time ,time to leave ,time to say goodbye ,goodbye life ,goodbye friends ,i hope i was not bad to anyone at these times you like to be remembered with all kindness ,they will say look he was so great fellow only he was called away and he had to obey ,for its time,for its time,wonderful work i think your name has something to do with it ,it really inspires me all the time

[Gandré]

This is very intensive; you describe the inner process what is going in a person being that terribly ill. I like the words and style you use, it is not an every day style. Loved it. I really do. Will read more, soon.
be well.

[[untitled]]

I think I like this more than you previously thought. It interests me greatly, actually. I had a friend, that used to play bass in my brother's band, he died a year or two ago from a brain tumor. It hit my brother pretty hard, and it made me feel somewhat intrigued - not because of his death, but because I was always curious to know what he thought when he found out about the malignant tumor in his head. I don't know if he felt the same way as what you've written, but it makes me understand the fear that he must have felt.
I like the part about the main character slipping into the lives of the nurses to escape her pain, and the fear. The pills rolling around in her palm, too. I like the small detail that you put into it.

This isn't criticism of your story, the following is just my own personal thoughts. I don't know how I feel about using the first person present voice in stories. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, but whenever I use this method of perspective, I feel like I'm listing off events in a non-fluid way. I get the feeling when I write in this manner that my writing sounds like, "I did this, and then I did this, and afterwards, I did this. I guess that's the danger of using the first person perspective. But I don't think that you did that with this one. It sounds very fluid, not jerky at all with the character's movements and actions.

The memories, and the character's recollection of her memories, the smell of her grandmother's cookies, etc. is very strong. It adds depth to the character, and gives a glimpse into her past. It shows that, for the most part, that she is a normal, everyday woman who just had the misfortune to have a tumor show up in her head. It's not someone who has been afflicted with such a terrible condition for her entire life, and I think you show this extremely well.

I'd like to see what happens next. I'm ready for the first chapter. Lay it on me! =)