The Bucket List

My summer bucket list hangs in my room, decorated with sketches done in bright permanent markers. There are forty boxes and two are checked off: Learn to surf and Go to Panama.

I remember sitting down at our outdoor table and making that list with a group of my friends. From scrolling Pinterest, to talking with friends, to dreams I’ve had for a while, I curated the perfect summer list for my last summer before starting college. It’s a shorter summer than I’m used to, but I packed it full of fun.

Or at least that was the plan.

The past few days I haven’t even seen the sun as I lay in my bed with a cold rag draped over my forehead and a pot at my side, praying that I keep down the toast with peanut butter my mother made me.

I swallow one bite of the toast. We practically hold our breath as we wait for the food to settle, but it doesn’t and comes right back up. I turn just in time to vomit into the pot and not on the bed. The cold rag that sat on my head to try to cool down my fever slips to the floor.

My mom holds my hair back and rubs my back. “It’s alright sweetie.”

I can feel my dad’s presence as he enters the room, even though the tears in my eyes won’t let me actually see him.

“We have to take her to the hospital.” My mom’s voice is soft, like she doesn’t want to worry me.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you start the car and I’ll get her cleaned up?”

My mom readjusts my bun so that no hair is falling into my face before she leaves the room. My dad is by my side, wiping at my face with paper towels. He pulls me up out of bed and I use him as a crutch to get out.

It’s nice to feel the sun against my skin and see the blue sky above me instead of the pink ceiling that I’ve been staring at for days. I’m not sure what temperature it is out since my fever has me feeling like I’m in a burning building.

With each step I take, my entire body aches. Specifically my joints as if I’m the Tin Man. I want to cry out in pain, but all of my energy is going into getting to the car.

Once the three of us are all in the car, I lean my head on the window which is fortunately cool from the AC my mom has had running, and stare out at the trees. I envy them and the way they get to be out in the sun all day. Even when they’re sick and dying, they get to absorb the sun’s rays and entangle their branches with their friends. I haven’t seen another person outside of my family since we returned from Panama five days ago.

I wonder how many boxes all of my friends have checked off their bucket lists. My phone has buzzed a lot since being home, but when I look at the screen my migraine gets worse. I’m sure looking at social media wouldn’t help my mental health right now either. Seeing everyone in their bikinis out on the water or the adventures they’re all going on without me. My mom had to cancel multiple plans for me and if my head didn’t hurt so bad, the pain in my heart would make up for it.

FOMO has never felt so real. In western Washington there are only so many days of sunshine and each one I waste feels like a step closer to death.

My mom runs into the emergency room and comes back out with a nurse and a wheelchair.

As I’m wheeled into the hospital, all I can notice are the artificial blinding lights. They’re too bright and don’t give me the vitamin D of the sun. How is anyone supposed to feel better in a place like this?

The ER doesn’t have a long wait, so they get me a room and immediately hook me up to an IV. Usually I’d pass out from the needle, but nothing is really registering with the pain that’s radiating through my body. Each second I’m in here it gets worse and worse.

Eventually, a movie is started on a monitor while doctors and nurses filter in and out running tests. My eyes slowly drift closed.

I’m in and out of sleep and I’m unsure how much time has passed. It simultaneously feels like long weeks and mere hours. How much of my summer have I wasted on this hospital room?

“She has Dengue Fever,” I hear a doctor say as my mind starts to wake up.

The IV in my hand is keeping me hydrated and they’ve been feeding me pills that I’ve somehow been able to keep down. I haven’t thrown up since being here, I’m pretty sure my fever is down because I no longer feel like I’m sitting in a sauna, and the pain in my joints has almost vanished, but my eyes and head still feel like they’re being stoned to death.

“What does that mean?” My mother’s comforting voice reaches my ears.

“Well, it’s an illness transmitted by tropical mosquitos. It’s very rare and all we can do is make sure her symptoms are kept under control. So keeping her fever down, making sure she gets nutrients through her IV, and making sure she isn’t hemorrhaging.”

My eyes are still closed so I can’t see the doctor’s expressions. I try to picture myself on the beach in Panama. Laying in the sun, feeling the salty ocean air hit my face, and reading a nice summer book full of friends fulfilling their own summer bucket lists.

Reading a book about the perfect summer is a lot easier when you’re living out the perfect summer. I cringe, which hurts my head, reminding me that I’m not even actually reading a book. I’m stuck in a hospital bed with curtains blocking all sunlight from entering, unable to move, and barely able to keep my eyes open for more than a few minutes.

“You have a visitor,” my dad tells me, resting his hand on my shoulder.

Slowly, I blink my eyes open.

My best friend, Annie, stands in the doorway.

“Hi,” she gives me a pitiful smile as she makes her way to the end of my bed, taking a seat. She’s perfectly tanned and her sundress screams summer. I’m sure she’s checking the sunset photo shoot off her own bucket list.

We had a shared Pinterest board full of photos to take together. The perfect poses, the right angles, and outfit inspiration.

“Hi,” I squeak.

“How are you feeling?” she asks like, for the first time since meeting at age six, she’s unsure of what to say to me.

“Like I’m about to die.” I’m pretty sure I might actually die. Once the hemorrhaging starts, who knows what will happen. This whole summer, wasted. Only two boxes checked off my list and no opportunities to check any more off.

I wonder if my parents will take down the poster when I’m dead. Will they fulfill it for me? Will my friends? Maybe they’ll have nothing left on their list to do in my honor by the time I’m gone.

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Lily.” Annie places her hand on my leg, attempting to comfort me but it’s all in vain. There’s nothing she can say or do that will comfort the pain of my head and heart.

“Thanks for coming, Annie, but I’m exhausted and just need to rest. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I totally understand. Give me a call once you’re feeling more up to visitors. I can’t wait to check more things off our bucket list.”

Not that damn bucket list. A yell bubbles up in me but dies before I can release it.

Before she leaves, she flashes me a smile that screams, “This really sucks for you and I’m so glad it’s not me in this bed.”

I shut my eyes again before she’s even out the door, giving into the sleep.

“You need to drink four full cups of water today if you want to be released,” the male doctor tells me. “Plus you have to eat a little bit.”

I haven’t eaten a single thing since being in the hospital. It has felt like a lifetime. You could tell me I was about to celebrate my eightieth birthday tomorrow and I’d believe you. I move like an eighty year old. My neck is stiff.

A female nurse hands me a cup of water. My entire arm shakes as I bring the cup to my lips. I’m able to take a small sip before placing it on the table that rolls over to hover above the bed. It’s a relief that I don’t spill all over myself. That’s not the kind of water I imagined I’d have splashed over my body this summer. It should be water from rafting down the river or jumping into the lake.

For the first time, I actually take in the room around me. Getting a feel for what I involuntarily traded my dream summer in for. My mom has been sleeping in a very uncomfortable looking chair while my dad has come back and forth between the house, his work, and the hospital.

There’s a dry erase board on the wall that hosts my “goals” for the day. ‘Four cups of water. Eat something off the hospital menu. Keep my fever down. Don’t throw up.’ As long as those things happen, I can go home.

The bathroom in the corner, which I’ve had help getting to the couple times I had to use it, has a wide open door to reveal the shower I desperately need. Laying in bed for however long I have has made me smell. When I do have the chance to shower, I’ll most definitely have to shave.

Not that it’ll matter. I won’t be going out on summer adventures now. Despite being able to go home today, I can barely move. I’ll have to get wheeled out of here and who knows how long that’ll last.

I’m going to have to start college with no fun summer memories to share with my new friends and pale skin. My beautiful tan from Panama has been completely wasted on this hospital room.

But at least I may be able to go home today. I take another shaky sip of my water and stare at the hospital food menu. I’m not sure how I can be expected to keep down hospital food, but I’ll give it a shot.

“Can I get a salad?” I ask my mom.

With a nod, she grabs the hospital phone and puts in an order for my salad.

A few more hours in the hospital, eating and drinking as much as my body will allow me, and I’m finally able to go home.

A nurse assists me into a wheelchair and with my mom by my side, they wheel me out to the car where my dad is waiting for me.

The sun is red from the smoke of wildfires in the area. I wish my lungs were being filled with fresh air, but they’re not. I wish the sun felt good on my skin, but the heat only reminds me of my fever.

My parents help me into the car. They even have to do my buckle for me. As my dad drives us home, I attempt to turn my head to look out the window. I can do it, but it takes a lot more time and effort than I expected. It hurts too. As I try to move my head, I feel like one of those creepy dolls. I probably look like one.

I may not fit in anymore this summer, but at least I’ll fit in this fall.

Finally, our house comes into view. With a parent on either side of me, they help me into the house. All I’ve done is traded one bed for another.

With a kiss to the forehead, my parents leave me to get some rest. Rest that I know I need but desperately wish I didn’t.

Rest doesn’t mean sleep though. I put a show on, keeping the volume low. Instead of watching, I stare at the bucket list on my wall. The bright colors taunt me. The empty check boxes jump out.

I wish I could have hope that at least there’ll be next summer, but if there’s anything I’ve learned, none of that is promised.