The Fault In Our Stars

Dear Diary.

The only reason I am writing this is because ever since Gus left I haven't "been myself lately" and Mom says that means I'm depressed. She should know better than to try combat another side effect of dying. She should know I haven't been myself for a long time.

I was that thirteen year old; the one who could march up a flight of stairs and barely feel a puff. Now I can hardly sit up without needing the assistance of Philip. Damn this stupid disease. I swear if Cancer had a face it would be covered in all sorts of bruises and cuts from my angry fists. I would kick its ass even if I couldn't do that in real life.

I know I know, there's no point in being bitter. I just get mad and when I get mad I get aggressive but because of the whole lungs-not-working thing I can't project my hostility onto anything which subsequently makes me more aggressive. Sneaky bastard.

Isaac came to visit me yesterday. He has been getting used to not seeing for a while so now he barely needs his mom's arm anymore. But she always stays close by.

I'm in ICU recovering from another deoxygenation attack and so naturally my brain feels like someone stabbed me. I want to sleep but Mom said Isaac could only come in today so he visited. We chatted for a while, dropping the odd comment about Gus and sharing momentos over a small bag of peanuts. I wasn't in the mood for company but I figured wherever Isaac was going I probably wouldn't see him again for a while.

"So where are you going? You running off to France with some sexy blind girl or something?"

He laughed. "No. Uh, Mom found me a decent school a little far away from here and I think it might be better."

"Is it a school for blink kids?"

"Yeah," He said. "It's in Pittsburgh."

"Oh."

"We leave tomorrow."

"Oh."

"But you and I can still keep in touch?"

That's when I felt tears brimming. I hated that. I hate crying. Your nose starts running and your throat gets all hard and you feel like there's a tight ball of emotion building in your stomach that begs for release at any cost. I tried to make it not so obvious.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing." I said. I didn't want to tell him that once he leaves tomorrow, he'll never see me again.

We spent the rest of the afternoon playing audio games and I kissed him on the forehead when he left.

"Bye," I said.

"Bye."

I waited till I was sure he'd left the building to let my tears fall over my cheeks. I didn't want him to hear it, no matter how late his sensory over compensation was. I'm angry at myself because I should have told him what was happening to me. He thinks I just had another lack-of-air mishap but really my lungs are beginning to exhaust their last options. I won't see it through the month.

I hate having cancer, Diary. I know that's the cliché line of every cancer kid but it doesn't mean it's not true. Sometimes I fantasize about being able to rip myself away from Phillip, springing out of bed and sprinting across a field that never ends; a field that's large and broad and continuously bathed in sunlight. And Gus would be there waiting for me. Maybe that's what oblivion will be like.

Don't be silly, Hazel. Oblivion is nothing. Complete nothing. There is nothing waiting for me.

Dear Diary,

I had more scans today. The tumours have calmed but too much fluid is building in my lungs. I have to be drained daily now.

Mom brought me fresh flowers from the gift shop downstairs and told me we should never forget the nice details in life. That's what inspired me to write what follows.

I have a treasury of my most cherished memories tucked away like a chest. Sometimes on the really bad days I'll unlock it and explore the moments within. But the thing is when I die that chest will be gone too and for some reason I want to give them a permanent place, somewhere where they will live on. So I guess that's where you come in.

One of my favourites is a date we shared at a taco bar. We shared jokes and puns over tacos. Our conversations had a tendency of taking a deep turn every now and again so naturally we got on the topic of death, how he feels about oblivion and all that hubbub.

"I believe we all have an idea of a paradise. I don't think that that nessecarily means it's going to happen but...it's nice to imagine."

"What's your paradise?" I asked, sipping soda from a straw.

He pondered this. "The beach."

I laughed. "Really?"

"Nah," He shook his head, amused. "What about you?"

"I don't really have one yet," I said. Needless to say he knew I don't believe in God.

"You'll get one. I'm telling you. A paradise doesn't in anyway have to be religious or Godly. A paradise in my eyes is simply a sanctuary in which every human can escape after suffering the disease of dying. I believe that paradise is the one place where you feel entirely...well...at peace with yourself, I guess."

Another favourite of mine was September, 12th. Gus and I were home alone. It was before the cancer, after Amsterdam.

He made me wait at the top of the stairs to the basement, not allowed to enter.

"IM JUST CLEANING UP ALL THE SKELETONS DOWN HERE!" He screeched, playfully.

"Can I come down now?" I asked. I'd dressed in a formfitting shirt that accented my slender features and I'd actually bothered to apply some mascara to the stubby hairs I call my eyelashes. I was having a good day.

"ALMOST – ONE SEEEEEEECOND." He marched up the stairs. "You may enter."

I laughed as he lead me down by my hand.

What I saw took my breath away – quite literally. He'd lit candles around the room that gave off a gentle calming vanilla scent. Rose petals scattered across the floor as quiet music played in the background. I'd realised that Gus had combed his hair for once and fitted himself in a relatively formal button shirt.

We made love twice in his bed and afterwards I lay on his chest, my face in the crook of his neck. I listened to his heart beat thundering under his skin as I breathed in his smell. He was tired but I was wide awake and more than happy to go again. I kept kissing his skin never wanting to stop.

"Hazel..." he said, grabbing my hand in his. "I have something for you."

"What?" I asked, drawing lazy circles on his stomach muscles.

He reached over to his bedside table and retrieved an envelope. I went to open it but he stopped me. "Why can't I open it?"

"It's not time yet."

"So why'd you give it to me?"

"It doesn't matter. Just come here."

He put his fingers through my hair and held my face. His thumbs moved over my cheeks, caressing me so gently I could feel tears beginning to well up. No, Hazel. I told myself. You're not going there.

He leaned towards me ever so gently and kissed me. It was slow and passionate and loving and the feeling of that had stayed with me ever since. Though I could never recreate the feeling completely.

That's the memory I hold most dear to. I didn't reaaaally want to write it down because Mom's always been sex-is-bad-for-lungs but I don't think it will really matter to her when I'm gone. I'd like to think that even my never-will-be children would be able to read them and carry them with them.

Mom says I need to have dinner. Bye.

Dear Diary,

I'm getting worse. Doctors are continuously waking me up in the middle of the night to run more tests and inject all sorts of medications but all it's doing is making me feel more dead. I wish I could just have one night to sleep peacefully, a night where I didn't have needles and nubbins twisting and tangling up in my slumber.

Isaac emailed me. I'm not sure how he navigated the internet, what with being blind and all, but he says his new school is really awesome and he can't wait to introduce me to some of his friends. I write back saying that I'm glad he's having fun but that I'm going to be stuck in hospital for a while so meeting new people will be tiresome and hard on the lungs (damn lungs)

I guess I didn't really lie to him. I mean I didn't tell him the truth but I didn't lie either.

I'm having dreams that Gus is with me. Every night when I get more than a few hours to myself I can feel him holding me, I can see the unlit cigarette between his lips. He kisses my forehead and strokes my cheek and sometimes I get a flicker of hope that maybe there is a heaven; that my Gus is waiting for me up there and we can be together again.

What am I kidding? I'm just fooling myself. He's dead. He's gone. He's

Sorry, I got a little emotional just then. Damn, I really shouldn't be crying on my last memoirs. That's just tragic. Ugh whatever. A lot of stuff in my life is tragic.

I watched more America's Next Top Model today. Mom finger fed me French fries which I tried to enjoy considering I may not be able to enjoy solid foods soon.

Dear Diary,

I feel better. The doctors say that I may be getting better. Mom keeps speaking with them and they're telling her that I'm pulling through. That's a relief.

She took me out to the park today, wheeled me out just like I once did for Gus. I felt a pang as I saw where he and I used to sit.

Mom bought some chocolate for us to share and we enjoyed it behind Dad's back. For a while it felt like we were just a daughter and a mom, sharing secrets and gossiping, the way moms and daughters should.

I felt like maybe I could really go home. Maybe I could see Isaac again. Maybe I could even meet his friends like he suggested.

I asked Mom if we could visit Gus and she said yes. There were tears; I'm not going to lie. I made Mom wait at the bottom of the hill so I could talk to him alone – more like cry alone.

I sat near his grave, touched the stone, lay on the grass. I imagined him lying next to me, asking me how things were going. I imagined him as the strong handsome boy I knew. Not the corpse he became.

Mom let me stay there for an hour but when it started getting dark she was worried about me picking up a pet ghost.

We talked in the car together as we drove back to the hospital. Mom told me I could potentially leave in a month. We just needed to wait it out.

Dear Diary

This is it. I am afraid that this is the end.

It's 3 AM and apparently one of my lungs was being inhabited by a monster tumour that somehow remained undetected. They're prepping me for an emergency operation to remove it but they're warning me of potential complications. I knew what they meant. The operation would kill me if it failed. Do you know what the chances of success usually are? Approximately 25%.

So this is it.

I found Gus's letter under my pillow today. Apparently I'd brought it with me since I came here but I don't remember. Mom doesn't know I have it but Dad does

I opened it and found a fresh cigarette lying at the bottom along with a letter that smelt vaguely of Doritos.

Hazel,

You are my true love. You are my only love. You are my best friend, my companion, my partner in crime. Nothing hurts me more than to have to give you this letter rather than it being the other way round but unfortunately life does not always go our way.

I hope you understand that, as much as you think I love you, my real love for you is so much more extravagant. You may imagine a lake whereas I imagine the oceans. I'm not mad at you for using my wish, that was my gift to you. It was the one gift I could give you as there are things that even Genies cannot grant. Our mortality being one of them. I've spend many hours wishing I could wake up to your elderly face in the morning and greet our grandchildren on the steps of our old house by the beach. Not a day goes by I don't fantasize it.

I guess what I'm trying to say is you asked me what my paradise is and I guess I did kind of tell you in a half truth. I told you it was the beach. I really meant I wanted the life of that elderly couple who get to enjoy every sunset together with you. I want to give you the long happy full life you deserve. I'm never good at this but I guess what I want you to know is YOU are my paradise, Hazel Grace. And no matter what cancer gets to either of us, I will never that that go. Ever.

Gus.

I have never felt a pain as deep as this before. In all my sixteen years of existence, no matter how many procedures or drainings or deoxygenations, no matter how much of that I have had, nothing compares to the suffering I am experiencing now. Tears brim over my lids and this time I let them go freely. I don't care anymore

So I'm his paradise after all huh? Nice line, Gus.

I held the letter to my chest and I've decided to tape it into this diary so it will never be lost. I asked Mom to leave the diary with me if I don't make it. That's all I want. Plus the cigarette.

I don't think he intended for me to die so early. He probably expected me to live to forty with ten cats. Typical. Oh well.

Diary, I can see how he felt now. Even as they hook me up and wheel me into theatre, I can feel it overcome me. Even as I see Mom and Dad's faces through the window, tears streaming from both parents as they hold each other. I smile at them because now I can finally understand what he meant.

They are about to snatch my diary away from me but before they do I want to quickly write down that having a paradise is not a bad thing. That loving someone who you lose is not a bad thing. Living a short life yet experiencing so much is not done in vain. I am content with my time on this earth. Not overjoyed – but content. I guess that's all I could ever ask for.

I can feel it even now; I can picture green fields and a warm baking sun as I run into my Gus's arms. I feel it even as they rip this diary from my fingers and all that's left is the comforting caress of Augustus's embra—