There Is A Paper Airplane Race, In The Eye Of A Hurricane

There Is A Paper Airplane Race, In The Eye Of A Hurricane

Time: 12:30 AM

Location: Hotel Room

My name is Sam Lippman, I am 14 years old. I’m white, 5’8 and I’ve got brown hair and eyes. I lay awake in the bed of a hotel room, lit up only by the lights of the bustling city outside. Night usually felt…comforting, the air, and the way the sky looks, especially with the lights. This night, was the night before an operation.

I have congenital heart disease, and have already gone through this process, numerous times, but it hasn’t grown on me for some reason. I have a few friends with medical conditions; they say the process of operations has grown on them.

It’s odd, loving a city that brings back such painful memories. Then again, not all my memories are bad…I’ve met some good friends at the hospital, though most of them are native to the Boston area. I’ve been here once a year every year for my entire life, for at least a check up. Including the upcoming operation, I’ve had seven operations, one for every two times I’ve been here. I’ve been able to meet a lot of nice people over the years, adult and kid…but still, the hospital has an eerie chill to it. I think it’s partly the brightness of the fluorescent lights...I always feel…weird in there, I can’t really describe it. Probably partly from listening to my I-pod…I get dizzy, like…my eyes are the cameras of a movie…when they try to give you a sensation of dizziness before a character passes out, or they are in a dream…I’m in a slow tornado.

“There is an endless disposition, and it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. There is space for a paper airplane race, in the eye of a hurricane.” Just some words that remind me of my first operation. I may have been too young to remember the details, but it’s a fitting description. The endless disposition describes how I feel, about the operations, there seems to be an endless amount. The rest describes the first operation; a race to save me, in a horrible situation, the metaphorical hurricane. The fragility of the situation…like pieces of sculpted paper. Every time I go in there for an operation, I’m thrown into a twister. My mind is milk and ice cream in a blender, a milkshake, to be precise. My brain is cheese in a Quisinart.

I get up to look at Boston through the window of our hotel. I get a chair from the table and sit in it, next to the window, with my I-Pod on. I open the window just a little, so I don’t disturb my parents. The air rushes in, onto my face, and I inhale it. Air is like water, tasteless, odorless. However, I enjoy the empty smell of air, and not the tasteless taste of water. The air makes me feel happy, but at the same time, it’s as disabling as anesthesia. I hate needles, mostly because of my operations, all the IV’s and anesthetics. All these operations, for one problem, it doesn’t make a lot of sense…certainly gives me a good scare, I suppose. Because of my operations, I will never get a tattoo. I’m sure my parents would think of that as a positive thing, personally, I couldn’t care less either way. I also can’t do drugs, which, again, my parents think of as a positive thing, and personally, I don’t care, I wasn’t planning on doing any reefer or coke anyway. I also can’t drink, not even one bottle of beer, or a glass of wine. I learned that the hard way…when I took a sip of my dad’s Sam Adams at my fifth birthday party. They say when I’m 21, I’ll be able to drink one bottle of beer safely. Well, I can’t wait for that…they’ll probably end up being wrong, and my BAL (Blood Alcohol Level) will shoot up like a tomahawk missile, and I’ll fly into a coma.

Doctors…hah. All of them are just…so, annoying. I have to have a psychiatrist, because when I was little I had paranoia problems, and fears of death. Tell me, who isn’t at least a little paranoid? Even better, WHO THE FUCK ISN’T AFRAID OF DEATH?! Jesus christ. Now, I have to tell her how my life is going, how school is and all that. Whenever I talk about something that angers, or annoys or upsets me, she says “I know how you feel.” What a crock. How can she know how I feel? She doesn’t have any disorders. I was born with an inflexible body, a heart that works like a toy made in China, and a brain with some screws loose. They say its ADD, I disagree, I think its something, but not that. I don’t know, maybe I’m only looking for my own pathetic excuse for uncontrollable chronic laziness. But at least I’m a good writer…well, in order to fake modesty, I’ll say: At least I’m a good writer, or so I’m told. People say it’s because of my grasp of emotions, my understanding of all emotions, even if they don’t relate to my own life, I understand them and can feel them. I agree with that, I also think its because of my vocabulary, and my ability to use it in correct context, and because I write about things most people don’t think too much about, at least, in some cases. I hope to be a good writer when I grow up, if I make it out of the hospital alive, of course. They don’t foresee any complications; then again, they aren’t Nostradamus. Not that I’d trust him, either.

Heart disease… I might as well be in a wheelchair; it’d barely make a difference. I’m practically paralyzed, my participation in sports is extremely limited, I can’t even walk for too long, because I’ll get dehydrated. One of the worst parts is the sympathy. From the adults I get the “I know how you feel”. As I said before, how can they know how I feel? None of them have the disorders I do. Most of them are perfectly healthy.

The people my age aren’t any better. They just say, “Oh, that’s so sad.” Then they go on and on. I feel like responding “Oh, thanks, you know, I have this paper-cut on my finger, you think you could come see me later and squirt some lemon juice on it?” Unless they have something that can completely cure me, they ought to shut the fuck up.

The kids here though, more specifically, at the hospital, them I can discuss it with, they do know how I feel. Henry and Sarah for example. Henry has a heart problem, different from mine though, but some of the effects are the same. He’s my height, white and got short blonde hair, and brown eyes. Sarah has GSD (Glycogen Storage Disease, or Hepatorenal Glycogenosis). Why don’t they use layman terms, for people who aren’t trained. I mean, they have to explain it to us all the time, it takes an extra ten minutes, which they could spend in another way, much more useful, where is the logic in making “scientific names”…anyway, Sarah has short black hair, blue eyes, she’s tan and also my height. We talked about everything together, from school and homework to dating and sex. I was probably better friends with her than anyone I saw on a regular basis. When I was twelve I remember getting her a necklace. I worked for two straight summers to get it; it had a gold chain, an emerald with a golden “S” on it. Childhood memories…seem so distant. The one thing about her, that always struck me as odd, was, death seemed like some happy ending for her. All I know is, I can’t wait to see her.

There were a few other kids I knew there, but I didn’t see them every time I went. We‘re like a support group, for AIDS or something, only, none of us have AIDS, we have other diseases.

You always think when you’re a kid, you’ll never deal with the stuff you see on TV, I mean really deal with it, on a regular basis. Things like, rape, murder, famine, corruption, bigotry, disease, and just death. At least, a lot of kids I know don’t think they’ll have to deal with it, nor do they think kids do. They think of those things as…impossible, and surreal, like a painting by Max Ernst or something…

Not that any of this matters, like I said, I’m just a kid, my opinions are valued about as much as…well, they aren’t valued. So is anything else about us, our emotions, perceptions, everything, we are taken for idiots, and I have to get to bed anyway, its 2:00 AM.

Time: 11:00 AM

Location: The hotel room

I woke up, and got dressed, in ripped jeans, a Bad Religion t-shirt and an Atticus sweatshirt. I’m still tired, and, like always, I look stoned, from the lack of sleep, which gives me bloodshot eyes. I still can’t eat, so I wait around for my parents to get ready, and then we go to the hospital.

Time: 12:00 PM

Location: The main hospital lobby

Back at Boston Children’s Hospital, again. Oddly, I feel a little happy to be here, not for the operation of course, but I’m looking forward to seeing Sarah and anyone else. I look around, seeing the information desk, purple with a navy top. I see the pharmacy, and the restaurant, Au Bon Pain…a restaurant with “pain” in the name, at a hospital, how… appropriate and relaxing. To the left is the huge staircase, leading to the elevators. I see Sarah coming down the stairs, in a black sweatshirt, white t-shirt and jeans, and, of course, the necklace. I go over to the stairs.

“Boo!” I say to her, because she’s looking down. Upon hearing me, she looks up.

“Hey!” She exclaims. I put my arms around her, in a friendly hug.

“How are you?” I ask her.

“I’m nervous, better now, yourself?” She responds.

“I’m…well, I’m here…but it’s nice to see you. Besides, you know how I love it when the doctors dope me up and rip my chest open…” I joke, and we both chuckle. My parents call me; I have to go, to get prepped for my operation.

“I’ll see you later,” I say, before heading off upstairs.

Time: 12:30 PM

Location: Doctor’s office before operation

“Hello, Sam,” Dr. Freed said, as we shook hands.

“Hello, Dr. Freed,” I responded. He did the normal checking of blood pressure, and using of the stethoscope. Some other stuff was done, and lastly, the IV which they’ll be using to give me the anesthetic. My parents and I were escorted into a room, with two dozen or so beds, each with their own curtains. I went to one and got on it. The nurse helping Dr. Freed proceeded to give me the anesthetic.

“Would you like to play a game while we wait for the anesthetic to kick in?” Dr. Freed asked me.

“Do you have chess?” I asked. Dr. Freed said yes, and he got a chess board, which my father and I played on, for about ten minutes; my last minutes of consciousness, my last minutes of being intact, at least, for a few hours. Soon, I fell into…an artificial sleep, as Sarah likes to call it.

Time: 4:40 PM

Location: Hospital room

I woke up, extremely groggy, and with blurred vision. It passed over the next five minutes.

“Hello Sam, as you can see, the operation was a success. How are you feeling?” Dr. Freed asked.

“I’ve been better, and I know it was successful, because I’m not dead. If the operation had failed, I would be,” I said. Dr. Freed chuckled.

“As usual, you have to stay here an extra two days, so we can monitor your reaction, please don’t move around too much, barring of course going to the bathroom, I’d appreciate it,” Dr. Freed informed me. He talked to me for another fifteen minutes, about the procedure and rules and all that. Then I talked with my parents for a few minutes. When he left, I found an information desk I asked for directions to where Sarah was, and went there. Luckily, the informers weren’t aware of the rules that bound different patients; however, I still had to keep out of sight of the nurses, and doctors. I walked into her room once I found it.

“Hey,” I said, softly.

“Hey,” she responded, sounding a little weak. I went over to her bed and held her hand for a second…almost like a handshake, but not quite. Her other hand was fingering the necklace I gave her.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her, keeping my voice soft.

“Considering the situation I’m in, not bad, not bad,” she responded.

“Good,” was all I could let out. I hated seeing her like this, with the tubes and IV.

“How about you?” She murmured.

“Well, I’ve been better, of course, seeing you is always nice though,” I said. She smiled and blushed a little bit.

We talked for a long time, well, a long time considering I’d have thought Freed would have noticed I was gone sooner. I was about to say goodbye, to get back to my room, but was interrupted by something she said.

“Sam, I have to have another operation tomorrow,” she said. This would have been enough to shock me, I was about to speak, but she continued. “I’m really scared, I have a bad feeling I’m not coming out of this one alive,” she said, she started to tear. I took her hand in mine, and I started to tear.

“I know…I know it’s hard. I really don’t have any words of comfort. You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, I’m not going to promise you that you won’t die. I know it’s a possibility, I don’t see it as likely, and I certainly hope you don’t die. And you know I’d give you my own body parts if you needed them, even if it meant my own death,” I said. I leaned over to her and hugged her tight, without hurting her. As I pulled away, I gave her a kiss on the cheek. We always did that, when the other was depressed, it was a habit now, it happened almost once every time we saw each other here. I got a feeling right then. I had to stay with her, I couldn’t leave her. I felt, if I left right then, she would die the second that the door closed.

I stayed with her for a few minutes, holding her hand, but then the doctors told me I had to leave, so I did, hesitantly. I got back to my room, and my parents had brought me dinner, which I ate, before falling asleep.

(Next day)

Time: 2:10

Location: Hospital room

I got up, still tired as hell. I got out of bed, and got into the hospital gown. It took me about five minutes to get to Sarah’s room, where she was waiting outside, to be transported to the OR. She was on a stretcher, too weak to stand. I had never seen her like this, something inside me broke like bullet-smashed glass. I was shattered.

I tried to put on a calm face, for Sarah’s sake.

“Hey,” I said, and touched her hand, gently, it felt cold, lifeless. She hadn’t even been to the OR and she felt dead.

“Hey,” she said weakly. I started to cry, and I grabbed her hand, tight.

“I don’t want you to go,” I said, sobbing like a two-year-old.

“I don’t want to either, but I’ve got to, here, take this, the nurse says I can’t have it on in the operation, and I want you to have it if I…well…If I do die,” she said, and gave me the necklace. I took it and clenched my teeth, and listened to the sound of my tears falling on to the stretcher. I used one of my hands to grab part of my gown, to clean the tears from my face. Then I put my hand on her cheek, and kissed her. I could feel her trying to reciprocate, but she was weak. After a few seconds, I pulled away. The nurse came out, and said she had to take her to the OR. I put the mid-joints of my pointer and index finger in my mouth and bit down so I didn’t protest as she wheeled Sarah away. I sank to my knees and fell over. Then I passed out.

Time: 6:00 PM

Location: Hospital room

I woke up in a daze. Dr. Freed came in.

“Sam, I have some…bad news to tell you,” he said. This next part is the hardest to write about. I went numb, and…disconnected. It was Sarah…I mean, it couldn’t be me, I’m breathing…

“Wha…wha…” I just stammered: I couldn’t form a word. I burst into tears, and felt sick at the same time. I heard the words Sarah, and dead, whilst I was crying, not that it mattered, I already knew. I leaned over the side of my bed, and threw up on the floor; my tears fell into the vomit. When I got it all out, I lay back down, wordless. All I could see was Sarah’s face, blue eyes turning to a dead grey like a raining sky.

(14 Days Later)

Time: 2:00 PM

Location: Sarah’s Funeral

I gulped, it was my turn to speak. I got up to the microphone, in a sort of stagger motion.

“H-H, Hi,” I said, tears streaming down my face, though my voice was somewhat calm.

“I-I, I uh, was writing down what I was going to say today, trying not to sound too cliché, boring. I realized, death is cliché, so is friendship, and love,” I said, my voice unsteady.

“I’ve told a lie. I’ve been telling people that I’m an atheist. I’m not. Sarah was my goddess. She was my best friend, and for the last few hours of her life, my girlfriend. I worshiped her as piously as a Christian worships god. I prayed to her for advice on just about every subject imaginable. I found her to be much more reliable then any other god I can think of. First off, I could see her.” I said, and chuckled a soft chuckle, the only attempt at a laugh you can make while you’re trying not to burst into tears and pass out.

“Before Sarah became afraid of death, when she thought it was upon her, she talked about death a lot…as something to look forward to, like it was an everlasting tranquility. But maybe she was right, we certainly don’t live in a perfect world, we have rampant famine, corruption, hate…Maybe death isn’t an adventure, maybe there is no eternal rapture called heaven, but we treat life as so precious, when, for a lot of people, it isn’t. Maybe the dead are better off than we. Maybe Sarah is in some solitary serenity. I hope, when I die, the serenity she is in, becomes a duality,” I said, choking,

I tried to breathe as I went back to my seat.

Time: 6:00 PM

Location: Outside the hotel

Death. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. If I’m lucky, there is a heaven, and I can be with Sarah…so speaks the atheist. An odd absence filled my body. It wasn’t because Sarah was dead, and it depressed me, which of course it did. I just…its weird and painful to think about someone you’ll never see again. I got in the car and fastened the seatbelt. I put my hand in my pocket, and took out the necklace I gave Sarah, two years ago. I knew she never, ever took it off, except when she showered. I tightened my grip around it, but not to the extent it’d break. I put my fist to my mouth and held it there.

Death. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. If I’m lucky, there is a heaven, and I can be with Sarah. All the way home, I contemplated the trade; life, for a chance to be with Sarah for eternity. The choice was easy. I’ll give it all up, for the chance to live again…the fall of man. And I swallowed it.