Walking Between Stones

Part 6 - From A to ZT

People say that only once you've hit rock bottom can you then start putting the pieces of your life back together again, that it can't get any worse. Well, I've hit rock bottom and have been renting a space there for the last two months.

Today I've decided to pay a little visit to my doctor, and he is understandably upset with me. I've lost weight, I've lost sleep, I've lost energy, happiness, the will to get out of bed in the morning...

This is turning out to be quite an expensive little trip to the hospital. My doctor is rambling on and on, creating a list of medications that I have to buy, and I can only stare dully back at him as he uses medical terms and jargon way beyond my comprehension, especially when I have little understanding of Muggle medicine to begin with.

I wonder if doctors can tell when their patients don't understand a fucking word they're saying?

'...is my recommendation for combination treatment. Azidothymidine mixed with 3TC, or lamivudine, can be quite effective. Or even D4T. These are nucleoside analogues that will interfere with the conversion process of the genetic RNA material to match your cell material...'

Why is it I just sit here nodding intelligently and throwing in the occasional 'hmm' or 'right' for good measure, when in reality I feel like a complete idiot?

'...a complete blood count, along with a WBC and RBC, and hemoglobin for your fatigue. We may need to advance to electrolyte balance checks and creatinine phosphokinose. Don't forget your T4 count, I must remind you...'

And the more I try not to give myself away the more I can't stop thinking about how utterly incompetent I am, and the more I don't hear a word the man is saying!

'...international units of vitamin A, fifty milligrams of vitamins B2 and B6, one milligram of folic acid, fifty micrograms each of chromium, selenium, and molybdenum. Also, ten to fifteen milligrams of iron. B12 injections three times a week and five hundred milligrams of N-acetyl cysteine three or four times a day...'

I am caught in a vicious cycle of true stupidity and faux intellect.

"Do you understand, Mr Potter?"

"Yes. Completely." Smile easily and nod.

"Good." Pleased smile in return.

And the cycle begins again.

"You're a lucky man, Mr Potter," he says with a smile.

Lucky?

"Your viral load is low and your T4 is in pretty good shape. The new approach to HIV therapy is to hit hard but wait longer. Once you find that these medications are beginning to work, you can slow down and hold off on them for awhile, mainly using simple vitamins and supplements to support your daily diet."

I nod and try to look as if I'm pleased by the news that I now have to take expensive medication on a daily basis.

"Now, Mr Potter." My doctor looks up from the manila folder in his hands, which is my medical record, already beginning to grow. "Have you been experiencing any symptoms of swollen lymph nodes?"

"No."

I wonder what they do with people's medical records after they've died?

"Night sweats?"

"No."

Do they toss out the papers and recycle the folder for a new-born baby? The new life that begins as another fades away?

"Fever?"

"No."

My doctor slaps the folder shut and smiles.

I wonder who had my folder before me? What did they die from?

"So it's mainly just fatigue and a bit of weight loss, then?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." I nod, still staring at my folder, trying to pick up any sense of a previous patient's file. Life - contained between the flimsy covers of cheap paper. Maybe the human race should be buried with their medical records. Your health is your life after all, it would be like being buried with your own personal biographical novel - the accumulation of life's little worries and set-backs. A trail of evidence that leads up to the eventual cause of death. It's like a mystery novel - see if you can guess the ending before you reach the final chapter.

Although in my case, it will not be any great mystery.

"That's fairly normal."

I blink and refocus on my doctor again.

"I suggest you try to maintain a regular eating schedule even if you're not hungry. Your body needs fuel. I would also like to see some activity on your part, not anything to strenuous at first, but try and get into an exercise routine: swimming, yoga, football, jogging, whatever - just some type of physical activity to keep your body fit. As for the fatigue, that will pass as the shock wears away and you are able to adjust and sleep through the night once more."

I nod but inside I'm scowling. He has no idea what he's talking about. The shock will never wear away. I've been handed a death sentence and he expects me to simply get used to that fact?

"I would like to give you something before you leave, Mr Potter."

I frown slightly as my doctor swivels on his stool, his white lab coat wrinkling around his waist as he reaches for something on the counter. He hands over a plain blue book.

"What is it?" I ask, looking the cover over for any indication of what's inside.

"It's a journal."

"A journal?" I open it up and, true enough, it's full of blank white paper. "What for?"

"I suggest to all my HIV patients that they indulge in a little self-expression. In your case, I decided that you might need a little push in that direction and so I took the liberty of giving you one myself. In the beginning, the idea of the journals were for the patients to record their daily health, medications, and moods, but now - I encourage any sort of writing. Short stories, poetry, anything. Will you give it a go, Mr Potter?"

"Sure, why not?" I tuck the blue journal under my arm and doubt that it will ever see the light of day again after I toss it to the back of my closet.

"Good, good. Any other questions or concerns?"

"No."

"Excellent." He beams. "Just take your prescription to the pharmacy on your way out."

"Thank you," I reply stiffly, taking the long sheet of paper covered in eligible doctors' handwriting.

I leave the hospital as quickly as I can, a heavy paper bag full of prescription drugs banging against my leg. I'm tired of thinking about this, I just want to be home.

I line the pill bottles in a row on the shelf in the loo, like a line of soldiers preparing to march into battle, fighting the war that is raging inside my body. There is no peace treaty or ease-fire to be agreed upon, I can not bargain with this disease.

This is my life now; an endless line-up of doctor visits and medication, as I sink further and further with no chance of clawing my way out again.

I stare at the shiny plastic bottles without blinking. My vision begins to blur around the edges, my eyes stinging as the colours melt together and the crisp white labels with my name stamped across them are becoming eligible, the black type fading away into nothingness.

I blink and it all comes into focus once more. The brutal clarity of reality.

I lean over the sink and stare at my reflection, trying to see if the person I used to be is still in there...somewhere.

Where is the boy who once possessed so much faith and trust? Who never questioned his purpose in life. Who would never, under any circumstance, give up and accept defeat.

Does the Boy-Who-Lived still exist somewhere deep down inside me? Is his voice being smothered as he tries to scream at the man I have become?

And what have I become?

I search those green eyes staring back at me, desperate to find a glimmer or spark of a younger, better me. But I can't seem to see past the surface. It seems the light has finally burned out, leaving me with more questions than answers. The spirit has long since departed and the body is simply waiting for the end

I remove my glasses and set them down on the rim of the sink.

My gaze unconsciously slides back to my army of medication. They stand neatly in place - awaiting their orders...

I swallow the cavalcade of pills with remarkable ease. Like a child in a candy shop, I snatch handfuls out of each cheerful bottle until I've sampled them all, and what remains is considerably less than what I started with.

The bottle of Scotch I bought myself for my twenty-ninth birthday is still sitting beneath a layer of dust in the far recesses of my kitchen cupboards - unopened. I snatch it from the shadows and press it to my chest, like a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver. Only in this case, the liquor bottle is the ocean and I'm about to relinquish the life-preserver so that I can sink into the unknown depths beyond.

I down as much as I possibly can, then abandon the bottle and lie on my settee to wait.

I stare up at the ceiling, my hands carefully folded over my stomach as I listen to the melodic chime of the clock. It's six o'clock. Shouldn't be too long now.

As I lie in wait all my thoughts seem to start with the same two words: 'I wish.'

I wish it didn't have to end this way.

I wish I had died during the war when those bastards took Andrew away from me.

I wish Draco and I had made another go of it.

I wish I'd used protection.

I wish I didn't have AIDS.

All those 'I wish's could be replaced with 'what if's.

I hate 'what if's, I hate questioning the past. The 'what if' syndrome is definitely an exercise in keeping your sanity. You can't win a game that has no end, that only goes in circles, round and round your head until you end up...well, exactly at the point I am -

Alone and dying.

What a miserably wretched thought. I have nothing to feel ashamed about, I'm only speeding up the process a few years, that's all.

I'm thankful now that I've lost touch with the wizarding world, no one will know that I've died, or how, or why. Most people would find that statement pretty melancholy, but I'm glad that I can't cause any more bother in the magical world.

I wonder how long it will take before someone finds me? I guess I should have thought of that before-hand...

Two hours later that peaceful passing away that I had envisioned is nothing but a distant memory. This is not like the movies, this is painful - incredibly, incredibly painful.

My stomach is convulsing and I'm down on the carpet on all fours, choking up blood and retching on and on until I feel as if my organs will be coming up next. My entire body is trembling and I'm sweating profusely. I collapse onto my side with a low moan and close my eyes.

I've never been so scared in all my life.

That's when I hear it. That voice - that blessedly familiar, but not forgotten voice - is speaking to me. That part of me hasn't died! The Boy-Who-Lived is still living! And he's telling me to get my sorry arse over to the phone and call for help.

I drag myself to the kitchen.

The dial tone is humming in my ear as I pause with one hand over the number keys. I don't want a bunch of strangers handling me, I want someone familiar, I want...no, need a friend at my side to help me through this. I don't want to be alone anymore.

There's ringing on the other end and I slump to the floor, the phone cradled to my chest. I dazedly wonder at the fact that I'm still conscious.

"Hello?"

I drop the receiver to the floor with a clatter then immediately snatch it back to my ear again, breathing heavily as I try to ignore the stabbing pain in my stomach.

"Hello?" He repeats impatiently.

"Draco...I need your help..."