Time
I'm sorry Miss Chase, but I'm afraid you don't have much time.
That's what the doctor said to me after my last CAT scan. I still remember his words exactly, the sad tone he used, like it would somehow help make the news less horrible. And that damn yellow stain on his jacket. Mustard, from whatever he'd been eating for lunch before my appointment. It still seems so wrong to me that right before handing down my death sentence, he'd been chowing down on a sandwich, like it was no big deal. Which to him it probably wasn't. Just another day at the office, telling some poor girl she was probably going to die before she was even old enough to drink. And as it turned out, I would have made it to that birthday after all, but just barely.
I didn't believe him at first. Or maybe I just wouldn't believe him. It didn't make sense. I was IMPORTANT. I was Angel's link to the Powers That Be, I had those visions for a reason, to do good, to help people. I couldn't understand how those same visions could be slowly killing me. So I told myself they weren't, that the doctors were reading the scans wrong, or the visions were making them look that way when really I was fine. Just a few headaches, nothing some industrial-strength painkillers couldn't take care of. Except they couldn't, not anymore. The pain was getting worse and worse, the headaches lasting so long that they never went away anymore. It was getting so that I could barely remember a time when I wasn't in pain. But I didn't complain to anyone, because I figured that was the price I had to pay for the work I was doing. And it was worth it, to know I was helping all those people. I could take a little pain - okay, a lot of pain - as long as I knew I was making a difference as a result.
I think deep down, I knew the doctors were right. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn't anything they could fix. And it wasn't mystical, or else I would have sucked up my pride and told the others so they could do the research thing and find a cure for me. But because there was no cure, I kept it to myself. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to do, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them the truth. I couldn't look at their faces and tell them I was dying. Hell, I could barely admit it to myself. Telling them would have made it too real. And then there'd be all the pity and the sad looks and the fruitless attempts to find a magical remedy. And the violence, because I knew Angel well enough to know he would cope by kicking as many asses as he could to try to cure me. I couldn't do that to him, not when he had Connor to worry about. He didn't need my problems distracting him from his new son.
There were letters, for all of them. Even one for Connor for when he got old enough to understand. I wrote them after that last doctor visit, crying the whole time. Put them all in a safe deposit box with my revised will, with instructions for the key to be given to Wesley once I died (morbid much?), since Angel might have trouble getting there during the day. I knew they'd be angry at first, that I never said anything, but I really thought that was the best way. The letters explained what happened, and how much I loved them, and that was all that mattered in the end.
I burned the letters later, after I was demonized and had a clean bill of health again. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe those letters would have helped a few years later when I really did die. I don't know... I guess no matter how much you try to plan for those things, you really just never know when your time is going to be up.
That's what the doctor said to me after my last CAT scan. I still remember his words exactly, the sad tone he used, like it would somehow help make the news less horrible. And that damn yellow stain on his jacket. Mustard, from whatever he'd been eating for lunch before my appointment. It still seems so wrong to me that right before handing down my death sentence, he'd been chowing down on a sandwich, like it was no big deal. Which to him it probably wasn't. Just another day at the office, telling some poor girl she was probably going to die before she was even old enough to drink. And as it turned out, I would have made it to that birthday after all, but just barely.
I didn't believe him at first. Or maybe I just wouldn't believe him. It didn't make sense. I was IMPORTANT. I was Angel's link to the Powers That Be, I had those visions for a reason, to do good, to help people. I couldn't understand how those same visions could be slowly killing me. So I told myself they weren't, that the doctors were reading the scans wrong, or the visions were making them look that way when really I was fine. Just a few headaches, nothing some industrial-strength painkillers couldn't take care of. Except they couldn't, not anymore. The pain was getting worse and worse, the headaches lasting so long that they never went away anymore. It was getting so that I could barely remember a time when I wasn't in pain. But I didn't complain to anyone, because I figured that was the price I had to pay for the work I was doing. And it was worth it, to know I was helping all those people. I could take a little pain - okay, a lot of pain - as long as I knew I was making a difference as a result.
I think deep down, I knew the doctors were right. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn't anything they could fix. And it wasn't mystical, or else I would have sucked up my pride and told the others so they could do the research thing and find a cure for me. But because there was no cure, I kept it to myself. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to do, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them the truth. I couldn't look at their faces and tell them I was dying. Hell, I could barely admit it to myself. Telling them would have made it too real. And then there'd be all the pity and the sad looks and the fruitless attempts to find a magical remedy. And the violence, because I knew Angel well enough to know he would cope by kicking as many asses as he could to try to cure me. I couldn't do that to him, not when he had Connor to worry about. He didn't need my problems distracting him from his new son.
There were letters, for all of them. Even one for Connor for when he got old enough to understand. I wrote them after that last doctor visit, crying the whole time. Put them all in a safe deposit box with my revised will, with instructions for the key to be given to Wesley once I died (morbid much?), since Angel might have trouble getting there during the day. I knew they'd be angry at first, that I never said anything, but I really thought that was the best way. The letters explained what happened, and how much I loved them, and that was all that mattered in the end.
I burned the letters later, after I was demonized and had a clean bill of health again. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe those letters would have helped a few years later when I really did die. I don't know... I guess no matter how much you try to plan for those things, you really just never know when your time is going to be up.