Dear Nobody by Gillian McCain

I’d never spit up pure blood before. It didn’t scare me or hurt me or anything. It pissed me off.
    I mean, here I was on Christmas Eve, having so much fun that I hadn’t had for the longest time, and then something like that happens. Something to remind me that my fun won’t last and that it only gets worse from here. Why? What did I ever do? Why am I spitting bright red blood up, in mouthfuls, from my poor lungs? While my eight-year-old sister watches me and my mom runs into the room?
    I’m so young, I’m too young for this shit, but I feel like I’m getting too old for it, too.
    I was in the hospital for three days and when I finally got out, before I left, the doctor told me that when I was first admitted—he thought I was going to die. So for Christmas I got something special that none of the other kids in my neighborhood got—and it came gift-wrapped in tissue paper.

Dear Nobody,
    I went to see my doctor and guess what? My lung function was 108%! That’s like a normal set of lungs! My doctor couldn’t believe it—neither could anyone—to have your lungs go from working only 30 percent then up to 108% is VERY unlikely. It gave me kind of an invincible, immortal feeling—I had forgotten what it was like to walk more than twenty feet without losing my breath. Like, “Yeah! See everyone? Not even chronic illness and lung disease can stop me!”
    But then, on the weekend, I slipped up really bad.
    All I’m going to say is that I was really not concerned with my health at the time. And when I do something like this, when I slip up, no one understands how I could do it.
    Well, the only explanation I can think of is that after I’ve been feeling so healthy and normal, I kind of stop worrying about my health—because I start to have that invincible-like complex. And believe me, I thank God for it every day; but every time I destroy my health, it seems I get it back.
    But now, because of this weekend I just had, my breath is a little shorter, my mucus is dark green to brown and a lot thicker. And now I’ve got this chest pain that keeps getting worse and worse, and this pain in my hip. My mom is calling the doctor again…





Dear Hayley,
    Hello Angel, how are you? I'm very sorry I haven't written to you for a while, but I've been in this goddamn hospital. I've got a PICC line in my arm—which is like an IV, except it goes from my arm (a little tube) to my heart. It pumps in this medicine. I also have to do a lot of those breathing treatments—two every four hours. As soon as I finally get to sleep there's five people in my room waking me up for another goddamn breathing treatment. At least I don't FEEL sick.
    Remember how before I said I was so lonely? Well, I think that I was lonely then so that it would prepare me (a little) for the loneliness I have in here. I was only supposed to stay for one week, now they say two.
    I'm going nuts because this place IS fucking nuts. The people here are either liars or bitches (or both). My mom can only visit me on weekends because she has to work. Sam and Traci might come up to see me soon (I hope).
    This hospital is a clinic. It's about forty-five minutes from my house. I really fucking hate it here. Geoff calls me long distance as much as he can. Sorry if my writing is shaky, but I'm trying to do a treatment at the same time.
    So, how's your Saturday night?
    Man, it gets so fucking BORING in here. I don't have a roommate any more. I could go walk around looking at all the signs on the walls trying to learn Spanish. I'd only learn words like ELEVATOR, STAIRS, FIRE and BATHROOM though. Maybe I could just hang around the Psych Ward and learn words like PROTECTION FROM ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDER, HOSPITAL BILL, and ABUSE COUNSELING.
    Okay, I'm finished now. So do you like this card? I bought it at the gift shop downstairs then got bitched out for not being back on time (bitches or liars). Isn't she