Steve XVI: August Nineteenth

By some miracle, Steve got accepted into all of the online programs he applied to. He ultimately chose Southern New Hampshire University. It took endless phone calls and paperwork, but he and his parents informed all of the pertinent faculty of his situation. At any given time, he could take a temporary leave of absence to have major thoracic surgery or, should things not turn out as they hoped, a permanent leave of absence.

He loved working towards his goal, and the online program at SNHU was phenomenal, but he still wished he could go live on campus like his friends. Steve had to stop checking social media because it made him too jealous to see all his friends out living their best lives at their schools of choice. At this point, Steve's best life was literally any life at all. Although he did make an exception for Bucky and Josiah's amputeam shenanigans. Those never failed to make him laugh, and he was so happy that Bucky had found a friend with similar life experience that he could be himself with.

A mere month after starting college, he was hospitalized for a flare-up of the fungus he'd been culturing since the collapsed lung and sepsis nearly killed him. Normally he endured hospital stays with grim indifference because he knew he wouldn't improve without them, but normally he had the familiarity and companionship of the pediatric residential ward to comfort him. Now that he'd turned eighteen, they stopped admitting him there and instead put him on the general CF ward with unfamiliar nurses and doctors. Every second made him miss the way things used to be. Determined not to fall behind in school, Steve kept up with his coursework from a hospital bed. He'd been staring at the blank screen before him for one second too long, and he closed the laptop with a huff of frustration that turned into a wreck of a coughing fit.

The assignment he'd been attempting to work on for his core writing class darkened the mood in his room even more. They had to write an essay analyzing this short story that the professor had seemingly chosen just to strike at his heart. Steve didn't know if it was already a part of the curriculum that she couldn't remove, or if she'd added it just for him, but if the latter was true then Steve decidedly did not like this professor. The short story was about a young woman who came down with pneumonia and told her friend that she would die when the last leaf on the ivy by their window fell off the vine. The friend didn't want her to die, so she turned to their downstairs neighbor for help. Without either of the girls' knowledge, he stood outside in a storm and painted a realistic image of the last leaf clinging to the vine on the wall, so realistic that the sick girl believed it to be the real thing. The next day, he died of pneumonia from being out in the cold and wet for so long.

Steve hated the story with every fiber of his being, but he had to write this essay. He decided to move to an environment that he hoped would be more conducive to getting work done, and marched upstairs to the classroom on the pediatric residential ward. Not knowing if there was a class going on, he knocked.

"Come in," the Ancient One's voice called. Steve walked in and found her seated at one of the tables, sipping tea with Dr. Strange. The sight was so preposterous that Steve's mouth fell open for a moment before he thought to close it.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"Not at all," Dr. Strange assured him.

"What brings you here?" the Ancient One asked.

"I, uh…I have to write this essay for a college course. And I thought I might be more productive in a classroom."

"Please, have a seat and work away." She gestured to one of the empty desks. Steve sat down, but his gaze never once deviated from the pair in front of him. He hadn't seen Dr. Strange since he disappeared from Gravesen over three years ago. How long had he been back? That was probably a rude question considering the circumstances under which he left, so Steve refrained from asking it. Instead, he asked the Ancient One if she was familiar with the story he had to analyze.

"The Last Leaf? That's an O Henry piece, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"The Gift of the Magi was better," Dr. Strange said succinctly. Then he took a long sip of his tea.

"They're both beautiful stories of love and self-sacrifice," she said.

"The ending I don't mind," Steve said, "I just can't get past the whole concept of her insisting she's going to die when the last leaf falls. You just don't get to choose that."

"You're right. We don't get to choose our time." She took a sip of her tea and eyed Strange knowingly. He smiled and half-heartedly rolled his eyes. "But Death is what gives life meaning. To know your days are numbered."

Steve sighed. "I know that. But my dying isn't going to save anybody else."

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"I—what?" Steve had no idea what she meant by that. He certainly didn't plan on painting in a rainstorm to maintain the illusion of someone else's final countdown failing to reach zero. But that wasn't the overall theme of the story; themes were never that specific. It was about giving something of yourself to inspire another—whether or not that something was your last breaths didn't matter. Scott's youthful zest, Carol's mordant realism, Pietra's undying love for her sister, Clint's graceful acceptance. Steve strived to embody them every single day. While they may not have saved his life from ending, they saved it in a thousand other tiny ways. And that's exactly what Steve's legacy would do for his friends after he left. He glanced between the Ancient One and Dr. Strange, both of whom were staring at him expectantly, and nodded.

The Ancient One smiled. Dr. Strange took another sip of his tea, cleared his throat, and asked hesitantly, "Do you know how Wanda's doing?"

The question took Steve by surprise, until he remembered that operating on Wanda and Pietra had been what sent Dr. Strange spiraling in the first place. Was he really still thinking about them so many years later? Steve was glad he had the capability to answer the surgeon's question and hopefully put his mind at ease. "She's good. She joined a support group called Twinless Twins and they've been really helpful. It's a funny story, actually, she ran into Tony and Parker at the airport on her way to her first convention, and they added her to our group chat so we've been able to keep in touch."

"They ran into her at an airport? What are the odds?"

"I know, right? It was a much-needed twist of fate for all of us, Wanda especially."

"Twist of fate indeed," The Ancient One said. Steve thanked them both and bid them goodbye. He returned to his room and cranked out the entire essay in one sitting.

~0~

He went home from that hospital visit still on IV antibiotics. So he didn't even get to take his post-hospital deaccessed shower. Steve was decidedly not happy about it, and he only grew more exhausted by the day having to maintain his IV schedule on top of all his other medications and routines. Mom was great help when she wasn't working, and she taught Dad how to handle everything so he could help too, but the majority of the burden still fell to Steve. Roger now pulled double duty, carrying his feeds, which he now did during the day too because he needed some weight reserves for potential transplant surgery but he couldn't tolerate doubling the amount overnight, along with whichever bubbles of IV medication he happened to be hooked up to at any given time.

The only things he had time for anymore were taking care of his health and schoolwork. He had neither the energy nor the hours to spare for sketching or reading for pleasure; he even had to quit shaving because it made him too short of breath. A beard looked out of place on his thin face, but he refused to stoop to asking anyone to do it for him. He often had to cut his FaceTime calls with Bucky short so he would have enough time to do his nighttime routine and still get to bed at a reasonable hour. Steve loved hearing about all of Bucky's adventures at college, but it also stung to see his best friend flourishing when he was wasting away.

By some miracle, he made it through the semester, though he spent almost the entirety of it on IVs. That holiday season was strange and tense beyond belief, because if Dr. Erskine's estimates were correct, unless he got a transplant, he wouldn't be around for next year's. Second semester actually went a little better, but Steve couldn't wait for summer because he desperately needed a break both physically and mentally. That semester also took place during the first leap year since Carol's death. He didn't know how to feel on February twenty ninth, and neither did Steve Danvers. They couldn't get together in person that day, but they did video call and share stories. Steve learned that Mrs. Danvers had been reassigned a few months ago and they packed up Carol's room. Instead of keeping it all in storage or donating it, they distributed some of it to friends and family and made a quilt out of her favorite shirts that they now kept in their living room. Only when he saw the picture of the quilt did Steve start crying. It had been four years without her, and that was way too long to go without seeing a friend, a sister, a daughter. That day, he called Parker and Bucky too, and together the three of them watched the video of Parker's "victory bite," that the kid said he watched every time he was missing her. It still made them laugh out loud even after so many times.

He also talked to Carol for the first time in a while. In the beginning, he'd done it often, with so many things at Gravesen making him miss her, but over the years he stopped relying on that crutch. This time he didn't speak aloud, since talking for too long made him short of breath, but he thought about everything he wanted to say to her. "Hey Danvers. I guess this is officially the first anniversary of your death, since you had to go and die on the only day that doesn't happen every year. I can't believe it's been this long. I still remember you like I saw you just last week, when it was actually four years ago. Especially for someone like me, four years is a long time. I'm sorry I haven't really taken the time to think about missing you, but I've been really busy trying to stay alive. If my doctor was right, I have about five months left, and that's terrifying, but at least I'll get to see you, right?"

At that exact moment, his mom turned on the radio as she often did before starting to work on dinner. The first lyrics to reach his ears were ones he'd heard probably half a dozen times emanating from Carol's room during their two weeks at Gravesen together.

Come as you are...as you were

As I want you to be

Steve used to hate Nirvana. He still didn't really like their music, but at the same time he lit up every time he heard them because they reminded him of Carol.

Take your time...hurry up

Choice is yours...don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

Steve's chest swelled with joyous laughter. "Okay, Danvers. No promises, though. I'm still waiting on this whole lung transplant thing, but if it doesn't happen, I'll see you soon."

~0~

Steve survived the rest of spring semester. His first day off classes, he slept in until noon. Bucky's semester also ended, but he could only come home for one weekend before departing with the amputee soccer team for training and team building in preparation for the Amputee Soccer World Cup at the end of the summer.

"How are you?" he asked hesitantly after releasing Steve from a hug. Steve noticed he didn't put nearly as much force behind it as he usually did, probably out of fear of breaking him. He was under strict instructions to try and keep his weight up so he'd have reserves when (or if) surgery happened, but even with the added daytime tube feeds, he was as dangerously thin as he'd ever been.

Steve looked in Bucky's steel blue eyes and considered lying, because to tell the truth would extinguish the spark in them. But he couldn't do it. "Dying," he answered.

Bucky's lower lip wobbled for the briefest of instants before he composed himself. "Do you want me to stay…just in case?"

Steve shook his head. "Absolutely not." He would not allow Bucky to abandon his dreams to keep his ailing friend company. Plus, not saying goodbye to Bucky might give him the incentive he needed to keep fighting if his lungs tried to give out on him. "You're going to the World Cup, and you're going to kill it."

"Okay. I just don't like that the tournament's all the way in Mexico."

"Bucky, if you don't go, I will never forgive you," Steve avowed. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

~0~

He made it to his nineteenth birthday, and fell asleep a mere twenty minutes into National Treasure with his Afflovest still on, awakening only when the vibration suddenly stopped. All day, the same morbid thought kept running through his head, "This might be my last birthday." Despite everything, he'd made it to nineteen. And then he made it to the two-year anniversary of Dr. Erskine telling him he had two years to live without a transplant. His decline had continued, but as of now he showed no immediate signs of kicking the bucket. Steve didn't know what to think now, having already outlived his life expectancy. At his first clinic visit after that anniversary, they told him maybe months, maybe weeks, depending on if he got exposed to anything. Steve didn't put too much stock in their estimates.

They got the call on August nineteenth. Lungs were en route, but wouldn't arrive for a while. The team told Steve and his parents to come to the hospital in four hours, giving him plenty of time to prepare. And panic. It had been over a year since the dry run, so he'd forgotten everything about the process. Steve let his parents handle packing and decided to do something more important: shave. He didn't want his first new breaths to be through scruff. It took him nearly an hour because he had to keep taking breaks to catch his breath. Trying to accomplish everyday tasks with fifteen percent lung function was not easy.

The ride to Gravesen was filled with anxious anticipation. Steve didn't dare hope too hard because of how this had gone last time, but he also knew that this was probably his last shot at survival. The team seemed more sure of themselves this time, getting him admitted immediately and barely even waiting for him to put the pen down after signing consent forms to get an IV line started. They asked a shit ton of questions, took blood samples, and hooked him up to monitoring equipment.

Steve hoped it was another dry run. On second thought, no he didn't. He was torn between how desperately he wanted the anticipation of it all to be over and how terrified he was of subjecting himself to this. So many things could go wrong, but things could also go right, and frankly that scared Steve far more. He'd spent his whole life contemplating the possibility—no, the inevitability—of his death, that the idea of a new life, one with CF-free lungs, was a far more novel, and therefore more frightening, concept. Sitting up on the side of the bed waiting, he bounced his knee rapidly enough to grow breathless.

If this surgery happened, and it worked, little things like that wouldn't exhaust him anymore.

"How're you doing?" Dad asked.

"I'm terrified," Steve admitted. He saw no point in putting on a brave face for his parents. They were just as scared as he was, if not more.

"Me too," he sighed. "Anything you want to do to take your mind off it?"

Steve scrambled to think of something that could draw his mind away from the here and now, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Tell me an army story like you did when I was little."

Upon hearing that, the worry in his father's face dissipated just enough to be noticeable, replaced by a cautious smile. He launched into one of Steve's favorite stories, the one about his first day of basic training. Dad only got halfway through before the news arrived.

It wasn't a dry run.

This was really happening.

The next thing Steve knew, they were completing prepping him for the biggest surgery of his life, one that had the potential to either miraculously change his life—or end it. Both of his parents were beside themselves with a potent combination of worry and excitement. Steve knew the next eight to twelve hours would be some of the most stressful of their entire lives. He was glad he got to sleep through it, because he doubted he'd be able to cope. In the last few moments before they wheeled him off to the operating room, he realized one crucial thing they all neglected in the insanity of this day.

"Call Bucky!" he said frantically before he was carted out of earshot of his parents. The final match of the amputee soccer World Cup was tomorrow. When Bucky left, neither he nor Steve had known that the biggest milestone of Steve's life would come to pass during his absence. But even if he couldn't be here in person, Steve knew he'd at least want to know.

"How are you feeling?" the anesthesiologist asked kindly.

Not knowing what else to say, Steve asked, "It's probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?"

"I'm afraid so. But you're gonna be catheterized, so it doesn't matter," he quipped with a smile, patting Steve on the shoulder. Steve couldn't help but chuckle. He'd been put under enough times to know that the countdown was just for show, so instead he repeated a very important request until the drugs pulled him under. Please let this go well so I can see Bucky again.

Show of hands, how many of you were terrified this would be a death chapter because the last Steve chapter to be titled as a date (March First) was about Carol's death anniversary?