Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ Chapter Two: of cats and emphysema ( Chapter 2 )

I know I said one every *other* day, but I decided to be generous in honor of St. Patty's day.

Thank you to Emily Hato for reviewing!

Cat's Paw 02

I've known Quatre since I was ten. He was a candy-striper [1] when I first came to the WMC. I remember him as being cheerful and friendly, always going out of his way to brighten someone's day. Conversely, he came across as so dismally pessimistic it made you want to cry. Not that he went around telling people they were going to die and be dragged down into the depths of hell, or anything. He'd just make all these dry, sarcastic comments that, when you knew him, were hysterically funny, but if you didn't, could be taken as near suicidal depression. This made him quite popular with the older patients and quite confusing to the younger ones.

I remember one time, I had just come back from chemotherapy. I was barfing like there was no tomorrow and lucky Quatre got to hold the puke pan. When I finally stopped heaving, he pretended to peer into the pan and said, in this half-angry, half-excited voice, "Oh, so that's where my tie tac went!" He took some getting used to, but once I did, he was an invaluable companion. Anyone who will squirt orange juice out of his nose on purpose is okay, in my book.

He was a junior in college back in those days, majoring in pre-med. He had a ton of course work, but he'd still take time each day to come to the hospital. Sometimes he'd bring his textbooks along with him and I'd help him study. Quiz him on muscle clusters and all that fun stuff. There were times when we'd have to go over sections of his books two or three times before he'd grasp it. Looking back now, I know his lack of understanding was contrived. The sections we spent the most time on were the ones that would help me understand what the leukemia and its treatment were doing to my body.

Quatre was great. He could somehow tell when I wanted to be left alone. Likewise, he could determine when I wanted to be alone, but needed some company. He'd read aloud from books or bring stupid movies or take goofy pictures with his Polaroid camera. He taught me that books weren't just the moral crap the nuns made us read. He's the one who introduced me to "Cannibal the Musical" and "Army of Darkness." And, of course, we have some really great pictures of him and I. I especially enjoy the one where he's polishing my head. I'm sitting cross-legged on a bed and he's kneeling behind me. I'm completely bald, a result of the radiation therapy, and he's rubbing my scalp with a towel. In his free hand he holds a bottle of Mr. Clean and he's winking in an overly exaggerated way, his mouth hanging open. He has a sign taped to his shirt that says, "I'm with Stinky." I have a wicked grin on my face. In my hands I hold a sign reading, "Just wait until he sees his car."

Though I knew it was unrealistic, there were days where I dreamed of belonging to Quatre's family. A couple of times he brought his father to visit me. His mother had passed on when he was born -something he refuses to discuss- but his father was a very nice man. He insisted I call him by his first name, Jack. He'd told me it was a nickname and that I wouldn't be able to spell, let alone pronounce his real name. I insisted he tell it to me anyway and it turned out that he was right. [2]

Jack would only come by for an occasional visit, usually staying no more than twenty minutes. Quatre's sisters, however, dropped in much more frequently. He had a ton of them, all older than he, and they looked so much alike I had trouble telling them apart. I think I met about ten different women, but I might be off. The idea of that many siblings was just absurd, especially since Jack wasn't that old. They'd bounce into my room, all smiles and happiness, and treat me just like they treated Quatre. It was easy to believe that I was their little brother, too.

Eventually they stopped visiting, though. They all joined the Peace Corp. It kind of blew my mind, at the time, that all of them would just up and volunteer at once, but that's just what they did. Even then they didn't forget about me. They'd send letters or postcards from around the world. I still get them now.

The day I was discharged from the hospital was the same day Quatre graduated from the university. We had both wanted me to go to the ceremony, but in the end it just wasn't possible. He went to his graduation and I went back to the orphanage. Over the next three years, we kept in touch through letters. At least once a week he'd call on the phone and we even went on day trips together. However, med school "ate his life," as he put it, and our visits slowly tapered off. Even letters were too time consuming for my over-worked friend and gradually the phone calls became nothing more than a quick hello.

If there was one upside to having a relapse, it was that I got to see Quatre again. He's interning at the WMC and will graduate with a medical degree in another year or so. He's specializing in pediatric oncology. When I asked him why, he looked at me funny and said, "Do you need to ask?"

~+~+~

A week later found me sitting up in bed, busily scribbling in a crossword book. The local Kiwanis Club made a visit the day before and now I have plenty to occupy my time with. They've left me an entire gift basket of game books, puzzles, sketchpads, and colored pencils. There are magazines, novels, Mad Libs, and even a journal. I am in paper-induced bliss.

I love when the Kiwanis visits. They understand that, while they are pretty, flowers really aren't of much interest to an ailing fifteen-year-old boy. They do their best to provide me with some entertainment and consistently have done so for the course of my illness. They even bring me practical stuff like new pajamas, slippers, and socks. They're my buddies. They visit me more often than the nuns ever did. At least twice a month one of them checks in on me. I think I'm one of their adopted causes, a fact I find infinitely hysterical.

Now that I'm aware enough to appreciate it, it amuses me to no end when they come. The hospital always makes them go through an extensive sterilization process before they can enter my room. They even sterilize the gift basket and its contents. They'll come tromping into my room wearing surgical masks and gowns en masse, toting along their offerings, reeking of disinfectant. They're great that way. Nothing fazes them, not even butch, Lysol-wielding nurses.

A young woman named Relena is president of the group. Usually it's either her or the vice president, Hilde who drop by. Both attractive women in their early twenties, a young man couldn't ask for a better pair of companions. Though I've never seen their faces behind the stupid masks, their eyes are certainly stunning. And they both have the best sense of humor. If only I didn't tire so quickly.

Still, I had enjoyed their visit yesterday and was currently reaping the benefits of their company. I'm working on puzzle #85 -19th Century Novels- when Quatre enters my room.

"How would you like to take a trip?" he asks with a grin. At least I assume he's grinning, since I can't see most of his face.

"Where to?" I question, laying my pencil down on my lap tray. I lean back into my supporting pillows and restlessly shift my legs under the sheets. My muscles have reached that oh-so-wonderful state where, no matter where you put them, they ache like the dickens. You feel like you want to get up and swim to Guam and back, just to be moving, but know at the same time you can't even go take a whiz by yourself. Usually I can ignore it, there being far more pressing pains to bemoan, but today they are my primary complaint. They make the prospect of any sort of mobility downright intoxicating. Heck, I'll even welcome a physical therapy session at this point.

"Oh, just a little place called the children's ward," he says nonchalantly.

"What?!" I gape.

"Your tests from this morning came back," he explains happily. "The bone marrow is integrating nicely. It's growing at a healthy rate and, except for the pneumonia, your infections have all cleared up. The doctors feel it wouldn't put you at risk if you were to leave the isolation room."

"Can we go right now?" I ask excitedly. I admit it; I'm a glutton for company. I can happily entertain myself for hours, but after literal months of isolation, I'm about as content as a billionaire in a ninety-nine cent store. I want to bask in the joy of a roommate. Bring on the complainers! Bring on the whiners! Bring on the bitchers! Just give me anyone that talks and I'll be your friend forever!

"Slow down! We need to prep you a little first," he chuckles.

"Well, hop to it! Let's get moving!" I order. I would be bouncing up and down in my bed if I had the energy for it. As it is, the mere thought of moving has my head spinning. I lay there, blinking rapidly, as Quatre runs through my vitals and marks them on my chart. He changes the IV bag, checks the catheter, and makes me drink a few slugs of water.

"Can we go now?" I sigh. Quatre is gathering my possessions up, shoving various books into my collection of gift baskets. He's already packed my few items of clothing and has fished my slippers from beneath my bed.

"Don't forget the black bag," I suddenly remind him. His eyes crinkle at the edges and I can tell he's smiling at me.

"Already got it," he winks, pointing to the foot of my bed. Sure enough, there it lies. I sigh in relief.

"Thanks, man. Don't know what I would do without you," I say.

"Crawl, I imagine," he deadpans, plopping the gift baskets down near my black bag. I'm short; there's more than enough room for them and me on the big-ass bed. He piles my belongings at my feet, disconnects my heart monitor and various other machines, and we're ready to roll. Quatre opens the door to my room, unlocks my bed's wheels, and off we go.

We pass through the door into the sterilization chamber. Quatre knocks on the Plexiglas window and a nurse who's waiting on the other side opens the door to the hall. For the first time in months, I breathe air that's not highly sterilized. Bliss. Sheer unadulterated bliss. Even hospital air smells great at this point. It's damn near mountain fresh. Smells like a laundry detergent commercial come to life.

I inhale deeply, promptly spurring a coughing fit. Quatre and the nurse bend over me in concern, but I wave them off, a huge grin plastered on my face. "Keep going," I mouth. Quatre nods and returns to his post behind my headboard, pushing me down the hall. I manage to get my breathing back to normal around the time we reach the elevators.

We descend two floors and when the elevator doors next open, they don't reveal a catacomb of sterile monotones like the one we just left. Instead, they part to show walls painted vibrant reds, yellows, and blues. It looks like a box of Crayola crayons on speed. Murals cover much of the lower walls and there are cheerful posters on practically every available surface. The children's ward hasn't changed much since I was last here. It still screams with exuberance.

Quatre pushes me down several halls. I peer curiously into the rooms that we pass. A lot of them are empty or have their doors closed, but I do get the impression that I'm going to be one of the oldest kids here. The median age looks to be about eight. Not that I want to be in the adult ward. Heck no! A grumbling, grouchy senior citizen with emphysema is not my idea of an ideal roommate. Especially if he has a half-deaf wife that shows up regularly to bitch him out about leaving her home alone to deal with all the cats. Listening to Grandma whine about how Fluffy missed the litterbox is not exactly high on my list of priorities.

We continue down the hall until we reach the corner room, which Quatre promptly turns in to. I twist my head to look up at him, certain there's been some mistake. The room is obviously one of the more expensive in the hospital, having three huge windows that overlook a park. It's brighter, happier, and more cheerful than any of the other rooms. It has a huge television set and a DVD player. It has two twin beds, three arm chairs and a sofa. It has a bookshelf with actual books on it. It has a private bathroom. It is not a room meant for charity cases.

"Q, what's this about?" I frown.

"Well," he breezily informs me, rolling my bed into the room, "I consulted the powers-that-be and they could think of no one better to stay here."

"I can think of plenty of people who would be better," I protest. "Namely ones who pay!"

"Oh, hush," he chides. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"But, Q," I begin. However, he shoots me one of his no-nonsense, argue-and-die looks and my protests sputter out.

"That's better," he says. "Now let's get you into your new bed."

It takes nearly ten minutes to relocate me from my old hospital bed to my new one. Though normally no transfer would be necessary, the beds in the children's ward are generally more comfortable than those from the adult rooms. Designed for people with slighter bodies, the mattresses aren't as firm and they're also closer to the ground, making it easier to climb in and out. Plus, instead of being made out of depressing cold steel, their head and foot boards and side rails are lacquered red. They are well worth the effort of the shift.

Q winds up having to literally manhandle me from one bed to the other, but eventually that task is accomplished. I lie back against my new, cool pillows and revel in the buzz of noise drifting in from the hall. I have returned to the land of the living at long last. Bust out the confetti.

Before I know it, I am drifting into sleep. The last thing I remember is Quatre as he pulls the covers up around my shoulders. He's chattering again about his stray cats. Who needs the adult ward when you have Quatre?

-end chapter two-

Footnotes

[1] a hospital volunteer. kind of a sub-nurse.

[2] I don't think Mr. Winner's first name is ever revealed in the series. >_<