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My fingers rapidly type out my response.
Me: This has absolutely nothing to do with me. If you want to be there for her, then come. If you in any way are coming to toy with me, then don’t bother. It’s her night, and I need to see her enjoy it and be happy. To her, that means having you there. Your choice.
She answers quickly with a short response.
Charlotte: I’ll be there. For Abby.
A piece of me wants to leave out the part of dressing up so that she looks out of place. But I can’t. I also don’t want Abby to think she didn’t care enough to try.
Fuck.
Me: It’s Barbie-themed. So, at least wear pink if you can. Go all out or as little as you want.
Text bubbles appear, then disappear. She doesn’t respond. Instead, she simply likes my message and leaves it at that.
Even just texting with her has my blood boiling and my heart fucking bleeding. I never thought she would ever be the reason I would feel this much agony. But I guess you never really know what people are truly thinking and feeling.
10
Charlotte
As I wake up this morning, I feel the lowest I’ve ever felt. My body feels like it’s dying and falling apart. My head is pounding. I’m bloated—a fun side effect of chemo that is definitely not talked about enough. And I feel like the worst person in the world. Reed is kind, gentle, and sweet, and I unlocked a coldness and cruelty in him that hadn’t existed before. On top of all of that, my hair is now starting to fall out. Sometimes, it’s only a few strands; other times, they’re clumps. My eyes water almost every time as I watch my hair get thinner and patchier each day. I hate it so much. It feels like more of me is disappearing.
How can I continue to try to fool work and everyone else into thinking that everything is fine? I can’t even fool myself.
So many things I didn’t anticipate are changing about my body. My skin is blotchy, dry, and sometimes itchy. My scalp is sensitive and tender. I get fatigued so incredibly easily. I knew it would be difficult, but I didn’t think it was going to be this hard. I don’t think anyone can truly prepare for what chemo does to your body or your mind. I find myself forgetting to do simple things that were normal in my routine prior to treatment. My hands are achy, and typing for even short periods of time is nearly impossible. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this in one piece. I really don’t.
More than anything, I wish I had Reed. He would be the best person in the world to have by my side for this. He’s so attentive and aware. I know he would help me in more ways than one. But I remind myself that I made the right decision by ending things. I can live with causing his cold side. I can’t handle taking his life alongside mine.
My dad never healed or moved on. He never got the light back in his eyes. I won’t kill Reed’s light.
My dad has tried calling me twice this week, both of which I have ignored. I know I can’t put him off forever, and I just need to call him and get through the conversation. I know talking to him and not telling him about what’s going on is going to eat me up the same way it does as not telling Reed. It’s not that they don’t deserve to know. They deserve better; they deserve to live without my burden crushing their hearts.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I press Call on my dad’s contact. He picks up on the first ring.
“There you are. I was beginning to worry,” he answers, and I hear concern etched into every word.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Work has been really crazy busy. I’m sorry. I should have made time.” I fight back the tears that are starting to burn my dry eyes.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to check in with you. Work is going well?” he asks.
Wiping my eyes, I answer with a steady voice, “Yeah, really great.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Someone interrupts him. “Hold on, Charlotte.”
I didn’t even think about the fact that he’s probably at work. He’s an accountant, and he’s been with the same firm since I was a kid, including having the same schedule. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.
“Sorry, sweetie. I have to go. I’ll call again soon. Okay?” he asks, sounding distracted.
Honestly, the busier he is, the better. At least it takes the pressure off of me to answer whenever he calls.
“Okay. I love you,” I mumble, keeping my voice low in hopes it won’t crack.
“Love you too,” he says before hanging up.
Short and sweet—perfect. Actually, it was terrible. Talking to him only makes me think of my mom. She went through this with an incredible support system, the best doctors, and still didn’t beat it. How am I supposed to then?
I need to get out of the house, get some new things to distract myself, and try somehow to counteract these side effects. Never underestimate what some retail therapy, a new fuzzy blanket, and coffee can do for your mindset.
