Eight Minutes 2/?
THE WRITER’S NOTE: Cancer and its treatments are written fictitiously in this story. I know absolutely nothing on what it is really like to be a victim of the disease. I do not wish to offend anyone if my writing understates it.
Needless to say, I own none of the characters, though I’m slowly beginning to wish I did. The way they are being handled on the actual show has gone beyond merely horrifying and on to outright shameful. I find it ironic that the people who created them are the same people - along with the new “writers” - who are ruining them, completely and utterly. Honestly, it’s almost as though these “writers” are out of sync with each other, and out of tune with their characters.
(Hell, maybe they even hate their characters.)
Now, I know that my age (18, FYI), and my general lack of know-how, means that my opinion may not seem very valid. I know that I’m no professional writer, and that I have never had any formal training on writing whatsoever. But I firmly believe that people who want to write should always try to make it a point to love their characters - even their villains - since it’s the only way they can really give justice to their individual (though admittedly fictional) histories and personalities. But on this show, characters are treated so spectacularly bad, it’s almost unbearable to witness.
(Yes, I am lamenting primarily on the appalling de-evolution of Brittany Pierce. What the fuck happened there?)
There’s so much more I’d like to say on this matter, but I’m sure that’s not why you’re here.
On with the story! (And don’t forget to leave a review!)
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30 Seconds
“Oh, baby.
Can’t do this to me, baby.
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here.”
Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen
“I have an idea.”
That’s where I’ve decided to begin this story - although I suppose all this really started when I was fourteen, squeezed silently between my two parents on the worn, stained couch of a doctor’s grimly dirty-white office, and thinking for the first time to myself, I have cancer.
That would admittedly be the best place to start a narration, especially if accuracy was my intention. But it isn’t. I don’t have the time to write down the details of four years worth of recurring treatments, and sporadic schooling, and relentless battling. I’m going to spare you all of that. Think of it as an act of mercy - though it is one that I think I need to give more than you need to receive it.
Besides, in hindsight, those three years? They were nuthin’. Neither were the fourteen that went before them. Nowadays, when I think of my life, and all the things about it that made it qualify for me to truly consider it as my own, so much time of the time I’ve spent alive doesn’t really matter.
So I will write instead about the things that really do. Like my mother, preparing dinner in the kitchen, slicing potatoes on the cutting board to a steady rhythm, while I sat beside her, my notebook spread open before me, the words, “I have an idea” leaving her mouth.
I grew up hearing those four syllables in all kinds of situations. Before my first diagnosis, they were always schemes of some sort, ranging from daring kitchen recipes to unconventional family art projects. But after my first diagnosis, the ideas shifted sharply in focus: they all somehow became directly connected to me. To name a few: vocal lessons during a brief period when I was completely fine back when I was fifteen; an SLR camera with a whole set of great lenses when I was sixteen; complete unabridged versions of several great literary classics when I miraculously turned seventeen.
I understood what was happening before I had the words to explain it. My mother wasn’t trying to spoil me before my imminent death, or trying to make up for lost time, the way most people rush to complete their personal bucket lists before dying. No, my mother was doing more than that: she was adhering to the most basic instinct of a parent to try and give their child the most normal kind of life possible.
At first, I didn’t really know how to react to that. After all, normal went out the window when cancer became part of my self-intended vocabulary. Besides, I couldn’t really get the point of spending so much on a dying person.
“What idea?” I heard myself asking, standing to hand her a glass bowl to put the sliced potatoes into. She smiled in silent thanks, gently setting the knife down on the counter. When the potatoes were all inside the bowl, I reached over to flip the faucet on, so she could rinse her hands under the flowing spray. All the while, my mother remained silent. “Mom?” I prompted when she finally switched the tap off.
She wiped her hands slowly on her apron. Stalling time, I thought. While she moved slowly, I watched her, admiring for the hundredth time her graceful beauty.
My father used to joke that my mother had the face that could launch a thousand ships. And he was right, she was as beautiful - if not more so - than any Helen of Troy I could imagine in my head. It was in her genetic make-up, after all, that rich combination of German and African-American that almost always guaranteed a fantastic result.
She was taller than me by several inches, with a great abundance of dark, wavy hair curling around her shoulders, complimenting the even caramel tone of her skin. Her eyes were deeply black, framed with long lashes that always cast the perfect shadows across her cheekbones.
I used to like to think that I would have looked at least half as beautiful as her, if I’d been given any opportunity to live to her current age.
My mother she sighed deeply, lifting her gaze to meet mine. For a moment we regarded each other.
It wasn’t an unusual thing. I’d gotten used to having my mother just look at me for long periods of time, without a single word being exchanged between us. Sometimes she looked at me out of the blue, her eyes tracing the features of my face like she was desperately trying to burn them into her memory, where they could exist, untouched, forever. Sometimes she looked at me even when I was upset and fuming, angry at the entire world, and the pain on her face would almost be enough to rival the one in my heart. Sometimes she looked at me until her eyes shone with unshed tears, before she blinked them away hastily - she never wanted me to see her cry - and managed a watery smile. Sometimes she looked at me while I was laughing, and the force of her smile would make me feel like she knew every single secret in the entire world; like the smallest, briefest traces of my happiness was more than anything she’d ever hoped to witness.
It used to feel overwhelming, these tiny pieces of evidence of my mother’s love. I used to blush and look away, feeling self-conscious for all the wrong reasons: I had tubes connected everywhere, or I had no hair, or I was extremely pale with deathly blue lips, or something stupid like that.
I don’t remember when I stopped feeling embarrassed about it, but when I think about it now, I realize that having my mother look at me the way she did - like it didn’t matter how ghastly I looked, like it didn’t count that I sometimes didn’t even look like me anymore - was one of the reasons why I did my best to hold on for so long.
It hurt to imagine how she would look on the day when she would lift her gaze to see me, but I wasn’t there anymore.
“What do you think about joining a support group?”
It was a remarkably unexpected question. I had one instinctual response- a resounding hell no meant to be screamed at the top of my lungs, while my fists pounded relentlessly against the kitchen counter. A support group, like some alcoholic or drug junkie or depressed loser. There was no way that was going to happen.
I stared at her with a face I hoped expressed something close to calm consideration. Now wasn’t the time to lose my cool, and I knew that. The only way to win this particular battle was to go smooth and composed, like a boat sailing steadily on peaceful waters. So I swallowed my instinctual urge to refuse loudly, refuse adamantly, refuse brazenly - and instead tried a tactic I’d never utilized in the past.
“I don’t know, Mom. I mean, it sounds like a good idea, you know? But I don’t think it’s for me.”
My mother raised an eyebrow, catching on to my ploy. And of course she did, she was my mother. My disappointment would be paramount if she couldn’t tell I was lying about something.
“Oh, really now? And why’s that?”
I sighed, dropping the pretense. “Mom, come on.” I swallowed, trying to find the words to explain why the mere idea of going to a support group was just… wrong. “I don’t need to go to a support group.” I paused, giving her time to consider my words, adding, “I mean, look at me. I’m fine.” My lips twitched at the irony of my own words.
My mother shook her head in slight amusement. “Oh, honey. I don’t want you to go because I think something’s wrong with you.” Again, oh the irony.
“What for, then?”
She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the potatoes for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. “I just want you to have friends, Santana.”
I felt my throat tighten, and I fought a frown from my face. We’d had this argument before. “I do have friends.”
My mother looked back at me, her expression serious. “You know what I mean, Santana. Friends other than your father and I.”
I groaned lowly, crossing my arms over my chest. “What does Papi think about it?”
The relief on my mother’s face was almost funny, but I didn’t laugh because I could imagine how she felt. I’d never been open to at least discussing the idea of not having friends before. “I spoke to him after his shift last night. He thinks it’s a good idea.”
I frowned stubbornly. “I don’t need friends, Mom. You and Dad are all I need.”
Something flashed in my mother’s eyes, and she made a pained sort of smile. “There’s more to this life than what your Papi and I can offer you, Santana.”
I’m not going to lie. There were many instances, before that day, when I just wanted to snap, My life is never going to be normal, I’m never going to be all those other kids, Stop trying. But I never did say the words out loud, no matter how badly I wanted to sometimes. After all, if there’s one thing worse than being another faceless victim dying of cancer, it’s having a parent watching you die of cancer.
I exhaled wearily, slumping back into the seat. “Okay.”
A smile broke over her face, reminding me of sunrise parting away the early morning clouds, and I felt like I’d made the right decision. Still, though, when she turned away to continue cooking, I was writing down the words Support group is going to be a dreadful addition to my meaningless existence before I could even think about it.
--
Over three weeks later, I was in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s car, while she drove me to the local McKinley High school for my fourth support group session. The car ride was filled only with the sound of an old collection of Queen’s hits. When we finally arrived, several minutes too early, we waited in the parking lot, while I fiddled with the edges of my notebook. When other people finally began to arrive, my mother turned to me silently.
“Are you going to be alright?”
I had half a mind to say, These things are depressing as hell. But instead I nodded once, leaning over and kissing her briefly on her cheek. “I’ll be fine, Mom.” I pushed the door open and stepped out into the ground. “I’ll see you later.”
When I began walking away, she rolled down her window and called out, “I love you!”
I turned around and waved once. “You, too.” I watched her drive away, before heading into the school.
The Beating Cancer With Music (or the Beat-Can, as I liked to think of it) support group met twice a week, in McKinley’s dilapidated choir room. And when I say dilapidated, I mean dilapidated - it was one of the reasons why support group was enough to make me actually feel depressed. The chairs were dusty and squeaky, almost always threatening to collapse under the slightest weight. The wallpaper was slowly peeling off the walls, revealing vandalized sections that went from downright unimaginative (suck my fucking cock) to vaguely interesting (formal education is a wasteland of lost dreams).
But I think the worst part were the trophies stacked in cases around the room. The awards to the “McKinley High New Directions” were plentiful, but none of them were new. The most recent ones were dated three years ago, then they simply seemed to stop receiving them. Like they lost that spark that used to make them such good performers. Or something.
But anyway, back to the Beat-Can. The support group was led by Will Schuster, who taught Spanish during the day. He was an average-heighted man, with head full of hair that is, to this day, still too difficult for me to describe.
And as it typically is with people who decide to lead support groups, Will was a cancer survivor. He told us he had a tumor in his brain when he was around five years old, and had to travel all the way to Boston to have it removed. “Luckily,” he would say, “I survived the surgery. Now I’ve moved on, and I’m living a wonderful, ideal life.”
I always rolled my eyes whenever he said that - and he said it quite a lot. I wrote once during a session, If he really did move on from his cancer, he wouldn’t be stuck re-living the experience to teenagers twice a week after school hours. Plus, the kind of life he was trying to get us to work towards didn’t really seem to be much. It seemed even sad, sometimes. Here he was, spared from death, and the only thing he’d made out of his life was teaching a language that wasn’t even his first, in a high school that was completely unremarkable.
Emma Pilsbury, his soon-to-be wife, was a guidance counselor of some sort, though I didn’t really perceive how either one of them could even consider her vaguely useful to us. She dropped by from time to time, smiling nervously at all of us, at an ironic loss of what to say.
There were very few of us in the support group, which was open to everyone from ten to eighteen. To be honest, I don’t think we were few because there were few teenagers inflicted with cancer in the area, but because there were few who wanted to join a support group as weird as Beat-Can.
And weird it certainly was. It was like the support group of the outcasts, and if we were a high school club we’d be treated like lepers by the rest of the student body. Will liked to start every session with a really quite overused rendition of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Afterwards, each person had to state their name, age, and cancer type, before singing a song that aptly reflected their emotional state.
It was stupid, really, and I didn’t get how that was supposed to help. Most days I declined to sing, faking some sort of pain, like a sore throat. That was the advantage, I think, of being the kid everyone knew was going to die: nobody questioned me if I said I was in pain, or I didn’t feel like it. They would nod sympathetically and move right along.
There were five regulars, excluding myself. The first was sixteen year-old Rachel Berry, the most obnoxiously loud person I’d ever met in my entire life. She spoke with a projected voice that made her seem like she had an invisible megaphone attached to her lips. During my first session it seemed quite impressive, especially since she was so tiny, with a voice bigger than herself, but eventually I got sick of hearing her voice and wished she would just shut up. She had Papillary Thyroid cancer, and she had great chances of survival and recover with surgery. But she was refusing the surgery at the moment, worried, she claimed, “that it would damage my vocal cords and hinder my ability to sing.”
Annoying, I wrote in my notebook after the first two sessions, to meet someone whose vanity eclipses any desire to get better.
Artie Abrams was fifteen, and had a type of bone cancer called Chondrosarcoma, which forced him to sit on a wheelchair. He was a bespectacled guy who seemed nice enough, but didn’t really do much to attract my attention. He probably had the best voice among all the guys, though. He was one of the lucky ones, too: he was going to be heading to Chicago soon to undergo surgery. He’s going to lose a leg, I jotted down, but at least he’ll have a life. Unless, of course, he went and screwed it up like Schuster.
Blaine Anderson, 16, had lung cancer, and carried an oxygen tank around to help him breathe. I wasn’t sure what his treatment plan was, but he was unfailingly optimistic through and through - sometimes it even got to the point of becoming seriously unnerving. After Rachel, he was probably the only person who really took the music part of the support group seriously. Occasionally, his boyfriend, Kurt, would even come and join him in a musical number. It’s almost sickeningly sweet, I noted down. So freaking charming it makes me feel like throwing up.
Mike Chang was by far the most mysterious person in the group. He was eighteen, and built quite impressively, despite his inherent unhealthiness. He had a long remission from kidney cancer. His girlfriend, Tina, dropped him off every session, and picked him up, too. That was basically all I really knew. I wrote: Does silent mean deadly?
Quinn Fabray was seventeen, with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia. She probably was the only person who came close to really becoming my friend, on those few sessions. Whenever Will would start his long speeches about holding on and fighting the battle, or whenever Rachel or Blaine+Kurt would start singing some long, tiresome song about life, or love, or something, Quinn and I would roll our eyes at each other. Her boyfriend, Puck, a mohawked dude, picked her up after every session in a beat up Mustang. It’s pretty amazing that a guy like that sticks around, I wrote. Especially since she’s going to be sick for a long, long time.
The day that I met Brittany Pierce was honestly just like any other. The six of us, plus Will, were all seated in a circle in the choir room. He’d just finished singing his opening number along with his trusty old guitar, and was about to ask some poor unfortunate soul to start the session off, when the door slammed open.
A tall, blonde figure stood at the opening, out of breath. She looked us over with eyes the color of the purest blue I’d ever seen. “I’m sorry,” were the first words I ever heard her speak. “Am I late?”
Will looked Christmas had come early. He put down his guitar and leapt to his feet eagerly. “Oh, no, not at all! Please, come in.” He waved her over enthusiastically.
She smiled easily, lifting an arm to wave. I was surprised when Quinn waved back. When new girl stepped into the room, the slight limp in her walk registered automatically. Prosthetic? I thought to myself, resisting the urge to stare at her legs, so I could figure out which was real and which one wasn’t.
We made space so the new girl could join the circle, and she ended up sitting right across from me, between Blaine and Mike. When she finally settled in, she seemed to feel me staring at her curiously, and she turned to meet my gaze with surprising openness. That’s what made it possible for me to see her completely.
Her hair was golden, long and straight, somehow falling both neatly and messily around her pale face. Her forehead was high, and nose was slightly sharp - but it wasn’t big like Rachel’s was. Her eyes, like I mentioned, were almost impossibly crystal blue. Her cheeks creased with her dimples when she abruptly grinned at me, revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth.
She’s beautiful, I was itching to write, though I resisted the urge since breaking eye contact felt almost criminal. She’s beautiful, though I have no idea why I just thought that.
“Artie,” I heard Will suddenly call out. “Why don’t you start us off today?”
“Okay,” Artie said. From the corner of my eye I saw him sitting up straighter on his wheelchair. “Artie, 15. Chondrosarcoma.” He paused, and cleared his throat, before singing, “But now I’m stronger than yesterday! Now, it’s nothing but my way. My cancer ain’t killing me no more.”
“Alright!” Will exclaimed, clapping loudly. The rest of us followed suit, and I took the opportunity to blink. The new girl was still staring at me. I raised an eyebrow. Her smile widened in response.
“Next, Rachel!”
Rachel filled out the necessary introduction, before launching into a full rendition of Defying Gravity. Out of habit I glanced at Quinn, who was seated by me. She met my gaze and smirked, pretending to gag. I glanced back at the new girl, and she was still watching me with barely concealed interest. It was almost enough to make me feel uncomfortable.
Mike went next. He sang a couple of lines from Cool (“Just play it cool, boy, real cool”), before lapsing back into his characteristic silence.
Then it was her turn. “Brittany.” She said, looking me straight in the eye. It was like she was talking directly to me. “Brittany Pierce. 17. I had Ewing’s sarcoma two years ago, but right now I’m fine. I’m just visiting.” She looked away briefly to smile at the other blonde in the room. “Quinn asked me to come.” She turned to look at Will. “Unfortunately I don’t have a song prepared. Mind if I skipped for today?”
Will looked taken aback, but he shook his head automatically. “Not at all. Blaine?”
While I watched Blaine sing his version of Fighter, I felt Brittany’s stare burning into my face. I began to feel really self-conscious, thumbing the edges of the notebook in my lap. Without meaning to, I began wondering what it was exactly she was staring at. My dark, wavy hair - which I had only managed to grow out now - was barely reaching my shoulders, and my cheeks were more chipmunked than usual, thanks to the treatment. While my body was as normally proportioned as could be, the loose, baggy clothes I was wearing made me look like I was swallowed in fabric.
Quinn sang a couple of verses from There’s A Light, then it was my turn.
“Santana Lopez,” I said in auto-pilot, meeting Brittany’s eyes again. “Seventeen.” I paused, wondering what exactly I should say, before settling on the truth. “I’m terminal.” I pointed at my chest. “My heart is several beats overdue already.” There you go, new girl. I’m dying. You can look away now.
The only reaction I got was a slight tightening of blue eyes.
“Santana,” Will said after a pause, “you promised last week to sing today, remember?”
I broke off out staring contest to look at the older man. Part of me wanted to argue, and tell him I could remember making no such promise, but I could see the hopeful expression on his face, and it felt beyond cruel to crush it.
Besides, when I turned my gaze back to the new girl, she had an eyebrow raised in what felt like a challenge. Go on, she seemed to say with her eyes. Show me what you’ve got.
It made me feel slightly irked. I racked my mind for an appropriate song. I thought back to the last one I’d heard in my mother’s car, the lyrics running through my mind. Taking a deep breath, and praying my voice wasn’t going to shake as much as I thought it would, I began.
“Too late, my time has come. Send shivers down my spine. Body’s aching all the time. Goodbye, everybody! I’ve got to go. Got to leave you all behind and face the truth.” I paused to catch my breath. Will looked aghast, staring at me like he wasn’t sure if he should ask me to stop. I was ruining the feel-good atmosphere of the room, after all. Quinn looked entertained, grinning widely. Brittany looked more than a little intrigued. “Mama, oooh, I don’t wanna die! I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all!”
I stopped there, letting the last note echo across the room. The others - Artie, Rachel, Blaine, Mike - looked like they weren’t sure if they were supposed to clap or not. Before anyone could decide how to react, Brittany suddenly stood up to her full height, and sang, “I see a little silhouetto of a man! Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the fandango?”
My jaw dropped, I couldn’t help it. I could feel everyone else’s bafflement, adding to mine. Brittany just grinned again, this time winking at me - mischievously, it seemed - before sitting back down on her chair.
“Oh…kay?” Will said weakly. “Thank you, Santana…and, uh, Brittany, that was quite…” He shook his head vigorously, like he was ridding himself of a thought. “Anyway, moving on. Does anyone have anything to share?”
Artie raised his hand, beating Rachel by a millisecond. I was endlessly grateful. “So,” he stared, “I’m going to have surgery in a couple of weeks. I’m glad I’m finally going to be able to get out of this chair. I know I’ll be losing part of my leg, but I’m going to have a prosthetic fitted so I’m not really worried about it.”
“That’s great, Artie!” Will clapped. “And don’t ever forget, we’re going to be here for you, no matter what. Right, guys?” He motioned for us to repeat after him. We all spoke in a meaningless monotone. “We’re going to be here for you, Artie.”
Will nodded, satisfied. “Anyone want to say anything about that?”
No one - not even Rachel, surprisingly - said anything, but Will wasn’t deterred.
“Alright, so why don’t we talk today about our innermost desires?” He looked around the group. “Brittany, since you’re new, why don’t you tell us what you want to do with your life?”
Brittany looked at the older man, looking amused. “Oh, that’s easy.” She leaned back casually on the chair, looking completely relaxed. “I want to live it.”
I was raising my hand before I could hold myself back. Will looked delighted. I never really participated before. When he pointed to me, I looked straight at Brittany, and said in a measured voice, “The whole point of life is to die. So are you really living as much as you’re dying?”
No one said anything for a long, breathless moment. Even Brittany had turned serious, and she was looking at me with quiet contemplation. Then, like light seeping into the dark, the smallest, quietest, and by far, realest smile spread very slowly across her face.