A/N: Yay! I managed to get this up on time! I was quite worried that I wouldn't be able to keep my promise, due to a screwy internet connection, computer maintenance, and trouble with the writing of the second half, but I persevered! It is now very late at night, I won't even mention it because I know that it's really insane…. Okay shutting up now…
Okay; just as a note, once again, the language is right up there on the not-so-pleasant scale, mostly the f-bomb, but just gloss over them if you don't want to see them; there is a reason for the swearing, and once you read why, you'll understand… Oh, and a special thanks to RVFan, who has once again pointed out something in the last chapter that I overlooked during my self-editing session! It's very greatly appreciated!
Oh! And before we go on, check this out! Look up TB1Fan on YouTube; 'Thunderbirds 2010 Film Trailer'. It's fan-made, and really funny if you find facial hair, and a red-haired Alan amusing.
Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.
As always, I do not claim to be a doctor or a medical professional of any kind; any discrepancies in detail are my own fault.
Ow. Fuckity owie, crappity ouchie crap.
Yep. That was how much I was hurting. And really, it was much milder than what could have come out of my mouth. I usually preferred not to befoul the air with such terrible language —even if most of that air was within the confines of my own head— but this particular time, I thought that I could make an exception.
Around three-quarters of an hour following Dr Kingston's departure, I had begun to feel the beginnings of a headache.
I was sitting there with Dad and Gordon, talking quietly about the specs for Thunderbird Four that Brains had sent to me via the wrist comm. system, while Scott, Alan and Virgil took a trip down to the café for coffees, milo, and hot sweet tea to fortify the lot of us for the next few hours.
I grimaced slightly as I remembered the reason for the latter beverage. My father, Virgil, and Dr Kingston himself had all downright refused to even consider letting me have any concentrated amount of caffeine; only the lemon-laced tea, which was a suggestion from Onaha was to be the type of hot drink I was to be consuming. She and Kyrano had heard that it was helpful in terms of soothing of chemo symptoms, and despite my slight annoyance at the inability to have the hot drink that I so desired, I was inclined to trust them.
I'd managed to somehow, miraculously convince my father that I should be the one to be working with at reconfiguring the Thunderbirds' systems; reasoning to him that if I wasn't going to be allowed to help with the manual labour, I should at least be allowed to contribute to the brain work. If not, I was going to go certifiably and perhaps even irreparably insane if I was not to have anything to do in the interminable hours that I was to be sat on my backside in treatment therapy.
Brains was more of a higher-level genius than me –which was saying something, as my own IQ was well over 140– but despite his preternaturally advanced mind when it came to constructing machines and creating designs for ships that defied the laws of modern technology, the actual act of calibrating and programming the systems within them was much more my forte than his; though he could do it if circumstances forced him into the job.
At first I thought that the burgeoning throb that was beginning to unfurl from behind my eyes was merely a residual thing left over from the impact I had suffered at the bulkhead of 'Five, but as I found myself blinking more and more often from behind my glasses in an attempt to stave it off, I was of forced to admit that there was no way in heck that this was in any way an ordinary headache. I had also thought that it was also a result of the dull throbbing that was reverberating from the insertion site, all the way up my arm that I was feeling so off, so of course, stubborn Tracy that I was, I just had to ignore it until the pressure in my head imploded within my brain.
I was at the point that I was typing a complex string of algorithms and large, memorised chunks of binary code into the mainframe of my 'Bird for Brains and Fermat to tinker with later, after the older man had finished creating the advanced defence weaponry for each of IR's ships, when white-hot agony burst shockingly bright, large and razor-edged from practically nowhere. It stunned me into stillness, and making the luminous green print that was scrolling across the screen jolt both blurry and dizzy-fast; like demons possessed with their own form of radioactive strobe-light.
I felt, rather than saw or heard the laptop slip sideways off of my lap, and I nor did I hear any sound of something heavy impacting with the hardwood floor. But I could also have very well been wrong, seeing as it seemed that I had blacked out momentarily, losing all sense of thought, hearing and touch.
The coppery tang of blood flooded my mouth, and it was the only thing besides the iron hammer within my skull that I could completely sense, as I realised that I must have chomped down hard on my tongue. I screwed my eyes shut with all the force I could muster; my hand(s) flailing wildly as I grasped for leverage, as to not fall sideways to the floor, nor onto my face.
I wove drunkenly from side to side as arms clamped firmly down on my arms and chest, and then I heard flickers of questions from voices both familiar and unfamiliar. I couldn't distinguish brother from father from nurse from doctor, but I gathered from the scattered impressions, and vague recollections of prior experience, the general gist of the questions that were whirring busily and foggily around my brain.
Yes; I had said that I had been suffering from migraines over the past few days, but Dear Mother of God in Heaven, why now did I have to have one so epicly proportionate to a detonated bomb? It just had to make me dizzy and altogether sick, not forgetting the feeling that was equivalent to the crushing and cleaving power of an eight-ton anvil being dropped onto the top of my head… What possibly could I have done in all my time on the earth that was so bad that I deserved this?
I had had migraines before; a lot worse than the ones that my body had seen fit to throw at me lately, but never in my entire life had they been as severe as this one. My mother and Virgil both had suffered (and still suffered) from the skull-splitting, massively overwhelming ouchies, but not once had I wished to die more than I was right now.
It was some minutes later that I managed to claw my way back to something that even slightly resembled consciousness. I tentatively inched my eyes open a minute amount, only to clamp them instantly closed again, as the bright-white from the overhead lighting made me cry out. There were whispered words filtering into my brain from the vicinity of my left ear, and it took a huge amount of concentrated effort just to work up enough comprehension to realise what was being said to me.
Scott. I realised in confused relief. I was unsure why exactly he was here with me, but somehow knowing that he was fixing it; working the problem and finding a solution, made me happy. Just if it was hopefully and gladly not at the cost of my wellbeing.
A spare trace of random thought; —thank God— then the sweet, blissful cold-fire of impending relief came flooding into my veins; welcome chilliness centred at the point of my new infusion line, snug and tight within the crook of my left elbow.
"I'sa Migrain'" It was an all-purpose answer; covering the inevitable questions, ranging from 'are you okay?" to 'what's wrong?', and even the good-old 'Do you feel sick?'. It sounded incoherent, and that was somewhat of an achievement when you considered the fact that it was coming from a guy whose head was in fact being bludgeoned from the inside out, and yet, I couldn't really find it in myself to care.
"John." The tendrils of the word were literally breathed into my ear, and I again thanked the Lord for having present at this time, the only brother who really knew just how badly these things could affect a person. "You can open your eyes when you're ready, Big Brother. The lights are off, and I've sworn everyone but Dr Kingston, me and you to silence, or I promised I'd lock 'em out the room."
I grinned wanly; my eyes still shut firmly, despite the no-light assurances, but I gathered enough of my bearing to mutter, "I bet you Scott would've taken that well. Dad too."
Virgil chuckled lowly, and I cringed as the sound echoed brutally inside my head, despite the quietness with which it was spoken. I scraped the dregs of my patience out of the barrel that was usually full, brimming and full of that of saints as I heard Dr Kingston begin to speak. I scowled and wondered rather viciously, What in the hell do you want?
But I needn't have worried. All he really asked me was what I usually took for migraines, and he left without saying anything but that he'd '…give you an extra half-hour, but unfortunately it would be unwise to delay the first infusion for much longer.' Oh well. At least it was a start.
Still steadfastly refusing to open my eyes, I fumbled around with the blanket that some wonderfully kind brother had pulled up over me, and resolutely decided to try and sleep the earth-shattering monster out of existence before one pm.
##
Unfortunately, it came far too soon for my liking.
I was more-or-less still within a drug-induced haze when it came time for me to drag my sweatshirt and pyjama-clad self out of the hospital bed and into the hospital-prescribed doom-cart.
Fortunately, I had four brothers who were more than willing to do their bit in pushing and coaxing my overly-fuzzy body into the wheelchair that one of the orderlies had wheeled in. I was still too drugged-out-of-thumpy-headed-heaven to actually locate the gentlemanly manners that our parents had drilled into us, but Scott handled that part just fine.
All I had to do was close my eyes against the whirling scenery and try to ignore the duller-than-before-but-still-nauseating throb that seemed to have taken permanent residence up behind my eyes, and hope to God, the stars, and whoever else that may have proven to be listening that I wouldn't end up being sick before I even had anything done to me.
I had requested earlier this morning that only Scott and Virgil actually accompany me to my first infusion. As much as I adored my youngest brothers, and my father too, there was a line that must be drawn at times, and one of those includes not needing your impressionable younger brothers from seeing you at the lowest possible point you could be.
I wouldn't exactly have minded Dad there, but someone had to watch the Two. I had suggested that they take the time to head to town and show Alan the sights, because really, the kid hadn't been back to the area since we had come to Grandpa Tracy's funeral over four years ago, just after we had relocated to the island that was well on the way to becoming base for International Rescue. I knew that he wouldn't really remember much. And yes, Gordon was of age, but knowing the mischief he and Alan got up to, it was good that Dad was with them.
When the orderly dropped my brothers and me off at the doors to Room 312, my new 'happy spot' for the times in the next few months when I would be in Kansas, it was to find a friendly-ish cream-walled room that contained half-a-dozen well-worn couches, a rack of magazines, a bookcase filled with an array of different novels, and a large-plasma screen TV. There was a nurse with sandy-brown hair and a welcome smile waiting at one of the reclined couch-chairs that were scattered at random intervals around the room.
She was pretty, I thought distractedly, as I blinked wearily at her through half-lidded eyes; she wore the standard nurse's uniform, and had her hair tied back with a blue ribbon. The name on the ID tag around her neck read Chantelle.
Chantelle was cheery and kind as she got me settled onto one of the couches that looked out onto the park across the street; not minding the presence of my brothers in the least as she deftly rinsed each lumen of the PICC line with a saline solution, and connected me to the drip and the first of the many bags of liquid that were going to make me 'better'.
Then, with a nod, she had politely said goodbye to me and my brothers, leaving the three of us alone in a room devoid of any patients but myself. No words had to be said, apart from a comment from Virgil at how pleasant the nurse's manner was, and then the three of us lapsed into a comfortable silence.
Virgil had himself plugged into the classical music he had stored on his iPod, and Scott contented himself with flipping the channels on the TV with the volume non-existent in deferral to my still sizeable headache. I was once again typing feverishly away on my laptop; steadfastly ignoring the kidney-shaped vomit-bowl in the hope that the thing I dreaded wouldn't come to fruition quite yet.
Naturally, what I wanted wasn't what I received. It may well have been as a result of anxiousness and fear that it happened, but I had tried making a bargain with myself earlier in the day; something along the lines of 'I will not puke until at least three hours after the infusion'. Everyone knows though, that a body often has a remarkably different idea to what your heart and mind might prefer. If things had been different, I certainly wouldn't have chosen to be anywhere close to my current predicament. The migraine certainly wasn't helping matters. I was usually vomiting at this point of one anyway.
It began with what initially felt like a rumbling in the pit of my stomach. Not quite hunger-pains, but that stupid stage where your stomach feels like there's something warm sitting there, and you aren't exactly sure that you can do anything about it. I pushed it down; unwilling to believe that it had come on not even thirty minutes into what was supposed to be a six-hour appointment. Then there was that hot, sick nauseous feeling in my chest beneath my sternum. No matter how many sips of lemon tea I took to try and quell it, it seemed to grow substantially stronger with each passing minute. I assumed that my sensitivity to the chemotherapy was affecting my body's resistance to it.
It got to the point where I was staring fixedly at a point on the ceiling, counting silently to myself as I watched both Scott and Virgil watching me covertly from the corners of their eyes. I could tell that the both of them were poised to lunge for the nearest chuck-bucket as soon as it appeared that I was going to hurl, and I loved them for it.
I was just about to ask my younger brother if he could possibly pass me the thermos of tea so that I could have one sip, when my resistance suddenly fell with all the swiftness of Thunderbird Three launching from her silo.
Bile, vomit and spew; a disgusting mess of mostly-watery tea and the remains of the sole piece of dry toast that I had managed for breakfast, re-emerged with all the force of a gushing river.
I choked bitterly on the sour taste of it as it burned its way into the bowl that Scott was holding steadily beneath my chin, and I thought wistfully back to a now just-out-of-reach time where I had been happy, whole and safe.
But that was in the past now. It was time to move forward and fight.
The End.
A/N: DON'T FRET! I'm not planning on leaving it there! Chapter one of Book Two: Determined, will be posted sometime next week, once again depending on my coursework. Thanks for sticking with me so far, guys, and I hope to see you all then!
Have a great weekend, and please review!
-Pyre Xx