Ivy
The rain is relentless as it attacks the windows of the emergency room, only adding to the gloomy atmosphere. The brightness of the room does not help either. In fact, the white walls just make the sad faces more prominent. They are a constant reminder of the reason I am sitting in this chair. It has already been five hours, and it looks like we will not get out of here anytime soon. Five hours has been long enough for my sobs to die out, but the tears may never stop. They threaten to overwhelm me yet again at any moment. Five hours has been long enough to think, maybe more than I need. My entire life has flashed before my eyes, and my life is not even the one on the line.
“Yeah, I’m fine Anita. It is just a small cough.” That is the way Ivy always was. She never wanted anyone to worry.
Ivy Johnson was diagnosed with leukemia about two years ago, one of the saddest days of both our lives. All of us took it just as hard, if not harder than Ivy that day. She and her mom came to our house after that fateful doctor’s appointment. I knew something was wrong the moment they got out of the car, and started walking to the door. Ivy’s mother had clearly been crying, and Ivy could not have looked sadder. They entered the house and we all sat down at the dining room table, where Ivy and her mother told us what happened. Shock was the initial thing I felt, my heart seeming to have replaced my stomach for a second. We all just hung out for the rest of the afternoon, with no one saying much. I guess there was not much to be said. The tears did not come until that night, while I prepared for bed. That was when I was finally hit with the realization of what this all meant.
Ivy’s chemotherapy commenced a week later, and she has been going in every Friday after that. My worrying started the day she was diagnosed. I would constantly ask if she was okay, and she would always tell me she was, although it was not always true. The same scene played out just yesterday.
We were at the library, doing math homework together. This was what we did every Friday evening after Ivy’s therapy, since we had calculus together. However, this session was not like any of our others. Ivy had been coughing all afternoon, and she seemed more ill than usual. I began to panic when I saw the blood on the napkin she had just coughed into.
“Are you sure you are not ready to go home? We can do this another time if you are not feeling well.”
“No, I want to stay here. Lying in bed won’t make me feel any better. Besides, this has happened a few times before. It will pass. It always does” I figured she knew what she was talking about, so we went home at the usual time. I wonder if I could have made a difference if I had called someone anyway. Maybe we would not be here right now.
I am getting increasingly anxious as more time goes by. I can tell my mother is searching for words of comfort, even though she knows nothing will help. Ivy’s mother sits across from me, next to my mother, and the faintest sound can be heard in the silence of this room. Maybe it is because no one is in the mood for talking. Maybe it is because, like my mother, no one can think of anything to say. Maybe it is because it is five o’ clock in the morning.
We got the phone call at exactly midnight. My mother answered the phone, but I could hear the hysteria on the other end. It did not take me long to realize it was Ivy’s mother. She was telling my mother that the ambulance was at their house. She had gone into Ivy’s room to check on her, but she was unresponsive. So, she called for help, and now we are here.
It is going on six hours now, and I feel like I am going out of my mind. Luckily, the doctor finally comes out, saving me from my rising insanity. I am relieved for a brief moment, but it has completely disappeared by the time the doctor has finished talking.
“I’m so sorry.” The look on his face says that he is sincere, but it provides no comfort. He says that nothing more can be done, and Ivy has only hours left. Now I yearn for the previous hours of sitting in the emergency room. At least there was still hope that everything would be alright, rather than me dragging my feet down the hall as I make my way to Ivy’s room.
“Hey.” I can only give a sad smile in response. If I were not looking at her pale face, I would not have recognized that voice as Ivy’s. My tears have welled up in my eyes again, and I am struggling to keep myself composed for Ivy’s sake. She is not aware of the news the doctor just gave us, and I have no intention to be the one forced to tell her. So, I will just keep as calm as I can manage while her mother struggles to find a way to tell her. Hopefully, she will not start asking questions beforehand.
“Do you remember the day we met, in kindergarten?” The question takes me by surprise, snapping me from my thoughts for a moment.
“Yeah, we stayed together for the entire first day of school.” I still think about that day sometimes. We spent the entire day talking about everything from family, to our favorite colors. We discovered that both of our fathers died before we were born. I guess that was the thing that we bonded over. We each knew what it was like to have only one parent. We both knew how hard it could be. We’ve stuck together since that day, wanting to be there for each other, and becoming something like sisters in the process.
I know my next question may start a topic I do not want to discuss right now, for she may want me to tell her what the doctor said. Then, if I tell her she should ask her mother, she will know that what the doctor said was not good.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting worse?”
“Would it have made a difference?” I have no answer for that question, even though Ivy seems to actually want a response. Maybe she is not asking me about what I know because she does not want the answer. Maybe she figures it will not change anything, and it pains me know that she is right.
Those are the only words said for a while. I try to come up with a conversation starter, but the situation at hand has my thoughts in a tornado. Ivy just lies just there, staring at me. She knows something must be wrong, for I cannot hold eye contact, even if my life depended on it right now. As I had guessed, she does not ask any of those dreadful questions. This is the way we remain until our mothers come. My mother and I step out into the hall, giving Ivy and Mrs. Johnson some time alone. They stay in there for about thirty minutes, with Mrs. Johnson probably telling Ivy the doctor’s statement. I cannot bear to witness it, so I take some time to use the restroom.
I spend the remaining time back in the emergency room, with my mother sitting next to me. It is now six thirty, and I can barely keep my eyes open. Just as I am nearly asleep, alarms snap me back to consciousness. We rush down the hall when we learn that the trouble is in Ivy’s room. We have just approached the door, and see doctors hovering over Ivy, trying to bring her back to life. This cannot be possible. I was just talking to her. I was just looking at her face. I just saw her eyes peering at me. I think my lungs have stopped working properly, because I am suddenly gasping for air.
This goes on for a few minutes longer, and then the doctor that spoke to us earlier comes out of the room. He does not have to say anything. This is another one of those instances where there is nothing left to say.
Something tells me Ivy was prepared for this moment, but I am not. I do not know what else to do except cry. My mother’s arms are around my shoulders, holding me up. I put my arm around Mrs. Johnson, trying to give the little comfort that is possible. As the three of us make our way to the exit, I can hear the distant sounds of a woman giving birth.
This is how we leave the hospital, after sitting around Ivy for a little while longer. Tears are pouring down our faces, passing over the bags under our eyes. Our arms are around each other, holding each other up. I fear that if they let me go, I will fall apart. They are holding onto me as if they feel the same way.
