Of course, they would schedule these meetings too early in the morning for Gabby. She pushed her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose. Naturally, she wore sunglasses to ward off light during her bad headache days, so this was nothing new. This time, not only was her head pounding, but the world was spinning, and it sounded like people were screaming when they talked. Shit, how was she going to have a memory and speech test now?
She signed in, and made sure she signed on the right line. Sometimes, given certain issues, her vision got crazy, and signing 'on the line' took some work. This wasn't anything Gabby really liked to talk about. She flopped down on the seat in the reception area pretty unceremoniously, and looked up when someone called her name. Damn, that meant she had to get up and walk, didn't it? She did get up, though she had to catch her balance slightly upon getting up. Extending her arm for extra support against nearby furniture or walls when getting up was second nature. It had nothing to do with her post-inebriated state either. Tiny Tim had succeeded in nixing Gabby's dancing career. With that luck, he'd also succeed in nixing her life, because shit, there was only so much brain matter a human could spare before the whole tumor thing got serious... But why be serious about it, if life was that short to begin with?
First came the memory test, which wasn't AS hard. Then again, Gabby had a brain tumor, not a concussion. It was pretty hard to forget things when you faced certain circumstances. Okay, there were sometimes instances where she randomly forgot shit, but those were on the worst days. Though, there was one particular test, where she just blanked. She blinked. "Is this fucking necessary?" she asked, to which the clinician raised an eyebrow. "Fine, write the damn thing down, I blanked out on one problem. Guess that means the cancer's eaten away at some of my memory cells, good diagnosis doc," she responded tersely, as she rubbed her temples. Yeah, this headache wouldn't go anywhere anytime soon, would it?
The next appointment wasn't that much better. The headache had intensified to a point where she felt she might vomit if she opened her mouth. It didn't help that this was a speech test. Lo and behold, the second the beginnings of the test started, she had to bolt to the trashcan to throw up what little she had in her system. Of course, how convenient, she was coaxed into drinking some Sprite to calm down her stomach. Well, you stick enough radiation, chemo, and/or alcohol into a person, yeah they're likely to throw up once or twice.
Down the line, the speech test wasn't that bad, until she hit to a certain point where her tongue failed her. It was like she knew what to say, could read exactly what it said, but her mouth said otherwise, a trail of gibberish. Frustrated, she tried again, then again, before the room really started to spin. She grasped the armrests of the chair she sat in, but to no avail as she slumped into an unconscious heap. She remembered waking up in the hospital wing. Apparently she had a small stroke-like spell where she presented signs of 'Aphasia' - i.e., speaking gibberish and presenting a disconnect between her brain and her speech.
It was clearly linked to her tumor. In her unconscious state, her parents had gone over her head, and forwarded the consent to get her started on a new experimental chemo treatment. "Remind me to send them a thank you package with the fucking hair I've managed to keep all this time," she muttered in annoyance, as she was instructed to what her chemo routine would entail. Fucking peachy. Why hadn't she remembered to get her parents removed as her medical proxy. This would have saved her hell of a lot of hassle. Fuck this entire conspiracy to keep her chained to some institution like some mouse in a cage.
For example, her appointment for the doctor was at 1:30, but hell, her lookalike was also scheduled at the same time. Maybe they'd be stupid enough to think that she had been there all along. Yeah, no, nice try. "Ms. Mendoza, you're late," the receptionist stated as Gabby, sunglasses and all, leaned against the counter to sign in. She lowered her sunglasses, and looked at the clock, which flashed 1:40. "Ten minutes, whatever. You guys didn't see enough of me when I was back here?" she asked, as she rolled her eyes before she pushed her sunglasses back on. Sometimes, the brightness in a room, or pain in the ass people, were a real headache. Fortunately, she got in to see the doctor, not that it was a thrilling change of the usual roundabout.
Gabby sat, dangling her legs impatiently on the bed. Inwardly, she didn't really want to hear what the doctor had to say. On the other hand, it could be good news. But she had learned to never be optimistic. How could she? There had been no change from the double vision in one eye, she still had those random thunderclap headaches. On the other hand, she hadn't lost much hair in this last chemo/radiation round. Well tough shit, because they'd probably want to do some more, The door opened, and Gabby lowered her glasses as she saw the doctor come in with an envelope of Xrays. Goody, her MRI. Judging from the white spot, comparison from the old and the new, there wasn't any change. Of course, there it was... the wanting to proceed with normal treatment.
"No." That was her immediate answer, to which the doctors stated that they were optimistic that one more cycle would perhaps shrink the tumor enough to proceed with operating. "For what, a 50/50 chance that I'll die on the table, or wake up with some random-assed disability? I came here, didn't I? Find me that stupid mystery cure, and then maybe I'll consider it." Her gaze remained steadfast as they proceeded with the rest of this doctor's appointment, the vitals, the range of motion, the balance and coordination. Deep down inside, Gabby didn't know if she'd chicken out this time, but for now, that release and consent for another chemo and radiation cycle remained unsigned.
.... Such actions clearly followed her to her psych appointment. "No, I am not on a deathwish, and I'm not suicidal. My little stint in that mental hospital taught me that I'd miss me too much." Of course, that was true. It wasn't that she was on a death wish, but they couldn't begin to understand the extent of it all. Gabby was tired, tire of being so fucking sick and tired. She wanted to dance, and she was so close! She had her offers for music videos and professional cheer and dance teams, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to be a ballerina, en pointe, but her balance was already hindered due to the inoperable tumor she nicknamed 'Tiny Tim' to give her something to laugh about.
"I need time... I need to not be reminded that time is limited." She felt her hands clench into fists as her voice shook ever slightly. But she didn't shed a single tear. "Call it progress, but I didn't tear the release and tell them to shove it up their ass. I did that the last time, but I still went back for another treatment. Let me figure out how to live in a place with people with the same face - around people who have the same face as me - and maybe I'll figure out if there's any fight in me. If this is my last hurrah, then I want to live it up...." Her gaze lingered on the clock. "Time's up, find someone else to harp on about their issues, I'm done." She got up, and walked away, letting the door close shut behind her.
