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Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: See part 1
07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook Part 2
Notebook Part 1
By Phenyx
I was right. The doctor confirmed my suspicions.
He showed me all the test results. The tumor is bigger than a golf ball and located in the worst possible spot. With the symptoms I'm currently having and their increasing severity, the doctor estimates that I have four to six months before I go terminal.
Personally, I think I've got three months at the outside.
It's strange, knowing that my time left on this earth is finite and distinctly measurable. My thoughts keep racing, trying to figure some way out of this predicament. Maybe the tests are wrong. Maybe the doctor was mistaken. I could be wrong. Please oh please, just this one time I need to be wrong. I'll see another doctor, get a second opinion.
I'm in denial. I know that. But I'm not one to give in easily. If I were, Parker would have caught me ages ago. I'll fight this as long as I can. I will not go gently into that dark night.
Maybe the tests were wrong.
Christ, I'm thinking in circles. I can't stop. The dismay, hope and desperation chase each other through my brain like a dog chases its tail. I'm hoping that keeping this journal will help me sort through this. I need to stay focused or I may simply drive myself crazy.
Of course, if I were insane, my last days would be spent totally ignorant of my impending demise. There's an idea.
The irony of the situation is that my mind has always been my special gift. Now it is killing me. The exquisite paradox of it all seems so fitting. Perhaps this is my penance at last. The part of me that was responsible for taking so many innocent lives in the past will now be responsible for taking my own.
--
I can't sleep. It seems like such a waste of precious time. I'm in Chicago. Tomorrow I will run the gamut of tests again. A platoon of doctors and interns will poke and prod at me until my arms resemble some odd pincushion of flesh. They are all sadists.
What can one do in the middle of the night? I'm sitting at a platform, watching the L-train roar by at regular intervals. Every once in a while someone gets off at this stop. They are strange bedraggled people who live their lives on a different schedule from the rest of the world. They are the graveyard shift workers who lead an existence in the dark by choice.
What am I doing? Writing down whatever comes to mind, vomiting my thoughts onto the page like some angst-ridden college student in a creative writing class.
This is pitiful. There's a tavern on the corner. I should go down and see if I can find someone to keep me company tonight. You can always find lonely people in the bars late on weeknights. Perhaps I'll join them.
--
Damn them all. Two different doctors gave me the same diagnosis today. One of them even suggested that I put my affairs in order. I told him to go to hell.
There's a hospital in Cleveland with a topnotch neurological staff. I've booked a flight for this evening. With a little luck I can get in to see one of the doctors in a day or two. Money opens those doors for me quite readily. Centre reserves are providing the cash I need. If Raines doesn't like it he can kiss my ass.
--
Cleveland sucks.
It's raining and dreary. Everything has that heavy, dirty-wet smell to it. I'm sitting in a bus station waiting for a Greyhound to take me away from here. I don't even know what destination they have stamped on my ticket. I'm just getting on the next bus and riding it until they kick me off.
I don't care where I wind up, as long as it is not here. I'm tired and irritable. Half a dozen Twinkies later and I'm still angry.
Having people tell me I'm doomed makes me cranky I guess.
--
I'm dying.
Now I've said it out loud as well as written it down. I'm dying.
The bus arrived in Kansas City this afternoon. I had fallen asleep and was awakened by the bus driver at the end of the line. But upon waking, I was blinded by a quick succession of excruciatingly bright lights. They flashed painfully across my vision like intense strobe lights. It took a moment before I realized that I was the only one who could see them.
I managed to stumble off the bus and into the station. I could barely walk but I made it to the restroom where I promptly locked myself in a stall and threw up. I don't know how long I sat there on the cold tile retching but eventually the flashes began to subside. The lights are gone now. But I can still see spots when I close my eyes and there is a sharp pain shooting through my head.
It was a graphic demonstration of the seriousness of my condition.
I found a small park and bought something to eat. It is a glorious day. The sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I have a desperate need to find an ice cream vendor.
What am I going to do? My time is so limited. How will I spend my last few weeks?
Is it enough time to find my family? Do I still want to?
No. I think not. That would be too cruel to them. I can't meet them again only to have them mourn me a month later. They have suffered enough on my account. I won't bring them more pain. Let them continue to hope, to trust that we'll find each other someday.
So that still leaves the question, what do I do now?
The throbbing in my head makes it hard to think. I'll find a motel and crash for a while. I'll have a new perspective after a little rest.
--
God, what a nightmare! I'm still trembling.
It's late, just before three AM. I'm sitting in the dark and I'm scared shitless.
I dreamt that I was all alone in a cemetery and the dead crawled out of their graves to drag me into hell with them. The vision was gruesome in its detail. I even recognized some of the faces, victims of my simulations. Parker's father was there.
I find my hand hovering over the phone. I want to call her so badly. The need is a physical ache in my gut. But I know that I won't do it. The sound of her voice would send me into a fit of emotional despair. She'd growl insults at me and I would beg her come for me. I'd give anything thing right now to feel her touch, to know that I am not alone.
But I cannot let her know. I can't risk being caught now. The thought that my final days would be spent in The Centre makes me shudder. I can't die in that place. If I did, my soul would surely haunt those terrifying halls for all eternity. Hell would seem like a vacation resort by comparison.
No one should ever have to die alone. I'm not really afraid of dying. I have faced death many times in my life.
Dying alone terrifies me. I can imagine it only too well. My body would lie unclaimed in the morgue for an undetermined amount of time. With a little luck I could wind up on some medical student's dissection table. My final resting place would be an unmarked grave.
No one would ever know that I was gone.
No one would remember that I had been here.
They were right. It is time to put my affairs in order, time to think about these things. I want to be cremated. It's safer that way, less risk that Raines will have his way with my remains. I want a tombstone to mark my passing. I want there to be proof that I was here.
Jarod lived. Jarod died. In between he made a difference. I have to believe that. I need to believe it. I will.
07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook Part 2
Notebook Part 1
By Phenyx
I was right. The doctor confirmed my suspicions.
He showed me all the test results. The tumor is bigger than a golf ball and located in the worst possible spot. With the symptoms I'm currently having and their increasing severity, the doctor estimates that I have four to six months before I go terminal.
Personally, I think I've got three months at the outside.
It's strange, knowing that my time left on this earth is finite and distinctly measurable. My thoughts keep racing, trying to figure some way out of this predicament. Maybe the tests are wrong. Maybe the doctor was mistaken. I could be wrong. Please oh please, just this one time I need to be wrong. I'll see another doctor, get a second opinion.
I'm in denial. I know that. But I'm not one to give in easily. If I were, Parker would have caught me ages ago. I'll fight this as long as I can. I will not go gently into that dark night.
Maybe the tests were wrong.
Christ, I'm thinking in circles. I can't stop. The dismay, hope and desperation chase each other through my brain like a dog chases its tail. I'm hoping that keeping this journal will help me sort through this. I need to stay focused or I may simply drive myself crazy.
Of course, if I were insane, my last days would be spent totally ignorant of my impending demise. There's an idea.
The irony of the situation is that my mind has always been my special gift. Now it is killing me. The exquisite paradox of it all seems so fitting. Perhaps this is my penance at last. The part of me that was responsible for taking so many innocent lives in the past will now be responsible for taking my own.
--
I can't sleep. It seems like such a waste of precious time. I'm in Chicago. Tomorrow I will run the gamut of tests again. A platoon of doctors and interns will poke and prod at me until my arms resemble some odd pincushion of flesh. They are all sadists.
What can one do in the middle of the night? I'm sitting at a platform, watching the L-train roar by at regular intervals. Every once in a while someone gets off at this stop. They are strange bedraggled people who live their lives on a different schedule from the rest of the world. They are the graveyard shift workers who lead an existence in the dark by choice.
What am I doing? Writing down whatever comes to mind, vomiting my thoughts onto the page like some angst-ridden college student in a creative writing class.
This is pitiful. There's a tavern on the corner. I should go down and see if I can find someone to keep me company tonight. You can always find lonely people in the bars late on weeknights. Perhaps I'll join them.
--
Damn them all. Two different doctors gave me the same diagnosis today. One of them even suggested that I put my affairs in order. I told him to go to hell.
There's a hospital in Cleveland with a topnotch neurological staff. I've booked a flight for this evening. With a little luck I can get in to see one of the doctors in a day or two. Money opens those doors for me quite readily. Centre reserves are providing the cash I need. If Raines doesn't like it he can kiss my ass.
--
Cleveland sucks.
It's raining and dreary. Everything has that heavy, dirty-wet smell to it. I'm sitting in a bus station waiting for a Greyhound to take me away from here. I don't even know what destination they have stamped on my ticket. I'm just getting on the next bus and riding it until they kick me off.
I don't care where I wind up, as long as it is not here. I'm tired and irritable. Half a dozen Twinkies later and I'm still angry.
Having people tell me I'm doomed makes me cranky I guess.
--
I'm dying.
Now I've said it out loud as well as written it down. I'm dying.
The bus arrived in Kansas City this afternoon. I had fallen asleep and was awakened by the bus driver at the end of the line. But upon waking, I was blinded by a quick succession of excruciatingly bright lights. They flashed painfully across my vision like intense strobe lights. It took a moment before I realized that I was the only one who could see them.
I managed to stumble off the bus and into the station. I could barely walk but I made it to the restroom where I promptly locked myself in a stall and threw up. I don't know how long I sat there on the cold tile retching but eventually the flashes began to subside. The lights are gone now. But I can still see spots when I close my eyes and there is a sharp pain shooting through my head.
It was a graphic demonstration of the seriousness of my condition.
I found a small park and bought something to eat. It is a glorious day. The sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I have a desperate need to find an ice cream vendor.
What am I going to do? My time is so limited. How will I spend my last few weeks?
Is it enough time to find my family? Do I still want to?
No. I think not. That would be too cruel to them. I can't meet them again only to have them mourn me a month later. They have suffered enough on my account. I won't bring them more pain. Let them continue to hope, to trust that we'll find each other someday.
So that still leaves the question, what do I do now?
The throbbing in my head makes it hard to think. I'll find a motel and crash for a while. I'll have a new perspective after a little rest.
--
God, what a nightmare! I'm still trembling.
It's late, just before three AM. I'm sitting in the dark and I'm scared shitless.
I dreamt that I was all alone in a cemetery and the dead crawled out of their graves to drag me into hell with them. The vision was gruesome in its detail. I even recognized some of the faces, victims of my simulations. Parker's father was there.
I find my hand hovering over the phone. I want to call her so badly. The need is a physical ache in my gut. But I know that I won't do it. The sound of her voice would send me into a fit of emotional despair. She'd growl insults at me and I would beg her come for me. I'd give anything thing right now to feel her touch, to know that I am not alone.
But I cannot let her know. I can't risk being caught now. The thought that my final days would be spent in The Centre makes me shudder. I can't die in that place. If I did, my soul would surely haunt those terrifying halls for all eternity. Hell would seem like a vacation resort by comparison.
No one should ever have to die alone. I'm not really afraid of dying. I have faced death many times in my life.
Dying alone terrifies me. I can imagine it only too well. My body would lie unclaimed in the morgue for an undetermined amount of time. With a little luck I could wind up on some medical student's dissection table. My final resting place would be an unmarked grave.
No one would ever know that I was gone.
No one would remember that I had been here.
They were right. It is time to put my affairs in order, time to think about these things. I want to be cremated. It's safer that way, less risk that Raines will have his way with my remains. I want a tombstone to mark my passing. I want there to be proof that I was here.
Jarod lived. Jarod died. In between he made a difference. I have to believe that. I need to believe it. I will.
