muse_shuffle | June Disc Two
12. If you're scared about the future
I'm scared about the past
And if you're feeling ill
It's cos the world is spinning fast
Yeah, you're staring at the sun
Yeah, you better all hold on
And watch the sky become the ground
[Forever Young - Eskimo Joe]
Getting one's brains squished in a vice would probably be less uncomfortable than what Chase was going through right now. It was another post-chemo day and he swore they were getting worse and worse each round. There was none of the shite that his system would get used it. His system just seemed to want to get rid of it as quickly as fucking possible out of every bodily orifice with easy access. This was his last round before all the tests to see if it had killed the cancer cells, so there seemed to be a little flicker of light at the end of the miserable, painful tunnel.
A small moan fell from his dry lips at the end of the last round of heaving into the toilet. He had lost a lot of weight in the preceding weeks and his skin had lost the healthy tan it usually had to give way to an sickly almost grey pallor. It was summer, but instead of being out in the sun at every possible chance he could get like normal, he had to steer clear because the chemo left his skin sensitive and even the smallest period in the sun made him feel like he was getting third degree burns. He had lost all his hair, but even though it had been traumatic to experience in the early days, he was kind of used to seeing himself like that now.
This time, his stomach was in a constant twisting of cramps that left him fearing he might have an embarrassing accident. It got to the point that he actually admitted to Rogue that he was worried he was going to crap himself and planned to just hang out in the toilet this time, but she stopped him. She told him it was okay and they would deal with it if happened, but she couldn't let him stay in the bathroom and make his discomfort worse. The drained stress of the whole thing caught up with him and he found himself sobbing in her arms yet again, just from sheer disbelief she was his wife and wanted to take care of him. They had shared many painful moments like that since his diagnosis. The reassurance needed to continuously be thrown back and forth between them. It kept their heads above water and stopped them drowning in the grief off what the illness had meant to their lives.
The shivering was back now, causing his whole body to tremble. He sat back on his haunches for a moment to try and analyse whether he was going to be sick again. He was resolute to that symptom now. Vomiting shouldn't feel that natural. He felt like he was going to be okay for the time being, so he closed the toilet and flushed it, but getting back up off the floor was a unsteady process of grabbing from the toilet lid, to the cistern to the toilet roll holder to the edge of the bath up to the shower. His weak legs weren't going to hold him without help. He rinsed his mouth out with water and then mouth wash before splashing his face with the cool water. He didn't look in the mirror. He stopped looking in the mirror weeks ago. He knew he looked like shit; he didn't need reminding of it.
As he crawled back into their already messy bed and pull the covers over him the best he could through their feathered-weight, he tried not to hope too much that this might be the last time he had to do this. If he started to think like that, hearing that he needed more would probably kill him quicker than the disease. It might only be the start, and even though that was a devastating notion, it was better to be realistic about it. He wasn't dead yet, which was a good start. Better than he could really ask for. It still came back to the fact that if he hadn't got caught in the nads with Lachlan's rampant cricket ball with the boys that day, there might never have been swelling enough to make the lump evident to touch. If they found it too late, even chemo might have just been therapuetic in the final stages of the disease. But it was caught early and removed. There was hope, and it was hope they needed to cling to. It would have been easy to give up, but Chase had tried to take the escape route in the past after his mother died. He wasn't going to let himself give in this time. This time, he had too much to live for and he would be fucked if he was going to let someone sign him out prematurely.
Rogue [justalilcontact] used with permission. All other muses referenced with permission.
Word Count | 797
I'm scared about the past
And if you're feeling ill
It's cos the world is spinning fast
Yeah, you're staring at the sun
Yeah, you better all hold on
And watch the sky become the ground
[Forever Young - Eskimo Joe]
Getting one's brains squished in a vice would probably be less uncomfortable than what Chase was going through right now. It was another post-chemo day and he swore they were getting worse and worse each round. There was none of the shite that his system would get used it. His system just seemed to want to get rid of it as quickly as fucking possible out of every bodily orifice with easy access. This was his last round before all the tests to see if it had killed the cancer cells, so there seemed to be a little flicker of light at the end of the miserable, painful tunnel.
A small moan fell from his dry lips at the end of the last round of heaving into the toilet. He had lost a lot of weight in the preceding weeks and his skin had lost the healthy tan it usually had to give way to an sickly almost grey pallor. It was summer, but instead of being out in the sun at every possible chance he could get like normal, he had to steer clear because the chemo left his skin sensitive and even the smallest period in the sun made him feel like he was getting third degree burns. He had lost all his hair, but even though it had been traumatic to experience in the early days, he was kind of used to seeing himself like that now.
This time, his stomach was in a constant twisting of cramps that left him fearing he might have an embarrassing accident. It got to the point that he actually admitted to Rogue that he was worried he was going to crap himself and planned to just hang out in the toilet this time, but she stopped him. She told him it was okay and they would deal with it if happened, but she couldn't let him stay in the bathroom and make his discomfort worse. The drained stress of the whole thing caught up with him and he found himself sobbing in her arms yet again, just from sheer disbelief she was his wife and wanted to take care of him. They had shared many painful moments like that since his diagnosis. The reassurance needed to continuously be thrown back and forth between them. It kept their heads above water and stopped them drowning in the grief off what the illness had meant to their lives.
The shivering was back now, causing his whole body to tremble. He sat back on his haunches for a moment to try and analyse whether he was going to be sick again. He was resolute to that symptom now. Vomiting shouldn't feel that natural. He felt like he was going to be okay for the time being, so he closed the toilet and flushed it, but getting back up off the floor was a unsteady process of grabbing from the toilet lid, to the cistern to the toilet roll holder to the edge of the bath up to the shower. His weak legs weren't going to hold him without help. He rinsed his mouth out with water and then mouth wash before splashing his face with the cool water. He didn't look in the mirror. He stopped looking in the mirror weeks ago. He knew he looked like shit; he didn't need reminding of it.
As he crawled back into their already messy bed and pull the covers over him the best he could through their feathered-weight, he tried not to hope too much that this might be the last time he had to do this. If he started to think like that, hearing that he needed more would probably kill him quicker than the disease. It might only be the start, and even though that was a devastating notion, it was better to be realistic about it. He wasn't dead yet, which was a good start. Better than he could really ask for. It still came back to the fact that if he hadn't got caught in the nads with Lachlan's rampant cricket ball with the boys that day, there might never have been swelling enough to make the lump evident to touch. If they found it too late, even chemo might have just been therapuetic in the final stages of the disease. But it was caught early and removed. There was hope, and it was hope they needed to cling to. It would have been easy to give up, but Chase had tried to take the escape route in the past after his mother died. He wasn't going to let himself give in this time. This time, he had too much to live for and he would be fucked if he was going to let someone sign him out prematurely.
Rogue [justalilcontact] used with permission. All other muses referenced with permission.
Word Count | 797