The Rock

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It was a summer day, school was out, and neither Megan nor I had to work that day. Jerry had been itching to hang out, so he came over. Payday had come and gone and it was time to re-up. Megan and I each took the opportunity, then sat around with Jerry trying to figure out, what next?

Then, brilliance! Beautiful day, brand new sacks, and the mountains only moments away. Jerry decided we needed to learn to roll a joint and that the canyon was a good place for that. We headed up Little Cottonwood Canyon to "The Pipe."

Jerry said he knew of the perfect place. Megan and I followed him blindly over the big water pipe, into the brush, until he came to this massive rock. "This is it," he stated proudly. Megan and I looked at this monstrous rock in front of us, then at each other, then at Jerry. "Great. Now what?" We asked sarcastically. Jerry circled the rock a few times, deep in thought, then used a neighboring tree to monkey his way up on top of the rock. "What are you waiting for?! Come on!"

I looked down at my flip-flops and thought, "Fuck." Megan tried to mimic Jerry's monkey-moves to get up the rock. She fumbled around clumsily and Jerry told her to just try to run. So she tried again, using the tree to get up as far as she could, then "running" up the rock. Jerry grabbed her hand and pulled her up.

My turn.

I decided the only way I was getting up that rock was without the shoes. I took them off and tucked them away underneath some brush. Hesitantly, I maneuvered around the tree, mimicking both Jerry and Megan's moves. The rock was hot from the midday sun and I wasn't entirely thrilled about putting the soles of my feet to the heat. I placed one foot on. I could feel my foot heating up and the moisture gathering from the heat. I had to move fast. I reached my hand up as far as it could go. Jerry laid on his stomach and reached down towards me. I only needed to"run" up the rock about 2 additional feet to reach his hand. With my foot slipping on the rock, I repositioned, took a deep breath and lunged up and forward. I screamed impulsively as my feet slipped on the rock while I tried to gain inches. Jerry grabbed my hand and pulled me up.

The view was spectacular. We were aware of all who were walking past using the popular trail, but they remained oblivious to our position. We sat in a small circle, whipped out the papers and the fresh new sacks we had purchased not long before, and the lesson began. Mostly, we laughed and smoked and talked and smoked. After smoking nearly an entire sack and an indeterminate amount of time later, we decided we should probably head down.

We all crab-walked along the sharp edge of the rock, trying to scout a good way down. "How do we get down, genius?" I asked Jerry sarcastically. He laughed in his high pitched giggling laugh and stammered a bit. "Usually there's a rope. But I don't see a rope." We all laughed uncontrollably while we searched for an escape route. Jumping was out of the question. The drop was borderline too far. It was possible-- for those with shoes. There was no way in hell I was going to even attempt a jump in bare feet. One of us laughed and announced, "I have to pee."

Jerry's face was contorted with thought. He turned, lowered himself to his stomach and inched down until he was holding the ledge and stretched all the way down. His feet stretched out for a branch on the tree we had used to climb up and caught it. He bounced a bit on the branch to make sure it was secure then looked at Megan and me. "Climb down." We both laughed at how ridiculous it seemed to use Jerry as a human ladder, but, it was our best option.

We took turns climbing down Jerry to the safety of the tree, and then further to the ground. "Wow, that's a big rock," we laughed.

Jerry swung his feet away from the tree and kind of ran/fell backwards off the rock until his feet hit the ground.

"Perfect," he announced triumphantly. "Let's go home."

We laughed amongst ourselves as we shimmied over the big pipe over the river and towards the car. It was late afternoon and time to find some food.

The Infusion Room

We were not entirely sure what to expect when it came time for Andrew's first outpatient chemotherapy. We walked down the long hallway to the back end of the Huntsman Cancer Hospital, crossing the skybridge into the Hunstman Cancer Institute. Andrew checked in at the front desk and we took a seat in the lobby.

There were about 10 people in the lobby with us. We were quite obviously the youngest ones there. The middle-aged women looked at us with pity in their eyes. The older-men had tired scowls on their faces. The older women spoke amongst themselves in hushed whispers. One woman sat in the corner knitting. We played handheld Solitaire games and talked and laughed.

The longest part of the wait was before being called back. Sometimes we would wait for hours in that waiting room. Near the beginning of his chemotherapy days, we were patient and jovial and pleasant. We would talk and laugh and joke and play games. As the chemotherapy started to have an accumulative affect on Andrew, the waits got quieter and he grew impatient and edgy as we waited.

Once called back, you entered a long hallway-like room with about 15 modified patient armchairs. The nurses were clad in special chemotherapy gowns and masks. They looked like the hospitals own personal HazMat team. The room was generally quiet and had a depressing feel to it. On either side of the long room there was a "kitchen." They had coffee, teas, juices, milk, and different varieties of crackers and cookies and fruits.

Andrew and I would talk and laugh throughout his chemotherapy. It was our day together. We would plan lunch and spend the day together. The infusion room provided the stark realization that we were just kids. While most remained quiet, slept, read or knitted, we joked with each other, played games, and tried to keep a smile on our faces.

The nurses would sing a song on someone's last day of chemotherapy and give the patient a homemade blanket. It was sung to the tune of Happy Birthday:

"Congratulations to you,
Your chemotherapy is through!
We wish you good health
and happiness, too!"

After about 8-10 rounds of chemotherapy, Andrew's attitude and demeanor began to deteriorate. He was increasingly sick and fatigued from the chemotherapy. Many times, the mere anticipation of the infusion room invoked vomiting. It began getting harder and harder to accompany him. His spirits were down and he was frequently edgy and bitter. The post-infusion transplants had long since stopped... he was now lucky to make it home from the hospital without having to pullover to vomit. He began changing the words of their song around for his turn.

"Congratulations to you,
your chemotherapy is through.
You now need a transplant,
so good luck to you."

The end of his infusion room days was anything but a landmark for him. All it meant was that now he would be receiving a bone marrow transplant and would have to remain inpatient for a period of time.

Another chapter begins.

Cliché.

I knew it wasn't going to be good. The parents had voluntarily left the room while the doctors came in to talk to us about fertility issues related to chemotherapy and the treatment regime planned out for Andrew. Everything was so new. Only yesterday had they delivered a diagnosis. Tonight, they were starting chemotherapy. We took it in stride... this could be handled. It was a temporary thing-- he would have treatment, he would get better, and we'd live our lives.

The doctors entered the room. There were fact sheets and information pamphlets in hand. I eyed the door. What an uncomfortable topic. I held Andrew's hand while they delivered the news. They explained our options and suggested making a sperm donation before beginning chemotherapy. He handed us a card with a number. We were to call the number when we were ready for that donation.

We sat in silence after they left. I felt the walls of the room beginning to cave in on me and I had to get out of there. I fought back the burning sensation in my eyes as I headed for the door. "I have to go to the bathroom," I choked out when Andrew asked where I was going. I stepped into the hallway. My eyes felt blurry and I suddenly felt dizzy. I could see our family gathered at the end of the hallway in the lobby. I couldn't see them-- I knew I didn't want to see them. Seeing them would evoke the tears-- and crying in the hospital was so cliché.

It was too late, my mom saw me. Their eyes shifted in my direction and I felt them peering into me trying to read my reaction. My feet were moving, but I had no control. I saw my mom and I could no longer be strong. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I couldn't pretend to be okay. The tears poured out. I momentarily forgot where I was, I forgot there were other people around. I didn't care.

My mom saw my face and started crying. I fell into her arms and she just held me and rocked me while I sobbed uncontrollably. The family around me tried asking questions and asking how Andrew was. I couldn't answer. I only buried my face into my mom's shoulder and cried. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Let's go for a run," my mom suggested. "Let's run up to the top of that hill." She motioned to the mountainside immediately behind the Huntsman Cancer Hospital. She knew I hated crying in public. She knew that I didn't want to be here. But I couldn't do it. I was crippled by exhaustion.

Finally I started talking in short jabbing sentences.

"It's not fair!" I cried into my mom's shoulder. "I know, honey, I know... it's not fair." I could hear the tears in her voice while she ran her fingers through my hair. I felt the need to explain further. "It's not bad enough that this has to happen right now-- but now it's something we're going to live with forever. It's not going to go away." She couldn't respond.

I could feel Andrew's parents staring at the back of my head. It almost stung. It felt as though they were telling me to calm down so as not to upset Andrew. I couldn't deal with it. I only cried harder. My head was light and I was suddenly exhausted and paralyzed by my tears.

Reality was beginning to sink in.

It's HOW much?

Friday, June 9, 2006.

Andrew was finally taken off one of his IVs.

The goal is to ween him from IV medications and replace them with the pill form of the medication. The bad news is that the medicine we got to replace this particular IV is a hell of a lot more money than the IV. (Insurance would cover 100% of the IV medications now, however for prescriptions, there are copays and different pay scales). With this medication down, he was down to one IV once a day, and one IV ran once a week. We were making progress.

My mom was the "babysitter" for the day. She took him to pick up his new medication at the doctor that day. While Andrew was in the clinic, my mom tried to be helpful. She walked down the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. When she got down there, she quickly changed her mind and returned to the clinic. I got a call on my cell phone.

"How much money do we have in our account?" This question usually means that what is about to follow is not a good thing.

"Enough, why?"

"I'm here to pick up my prescription to replace the IV."

I continue to lead him. "Well how much is it? $60? $70?"

"It's $886.00." The only response I could muster was to laugh. Never had I imagined that I would pay nearly $900.00 on one bottle of 60 pills. I could only laugh. I told him I would move some money around so we could pay for it.

Bitching about $70 prescriptions was a thing of the past.

Philosophy over Gin.

I had signed up for the seminar in advance. It was about bone marrow transplants and what it took to be a donor. I thought it was the noble thing to do. I should put myself on the registry to try to give back what someone had provided for my family. They told people it was uncommon to be selected to be a donor. They said it was a lot like winning the lottery. I decided it would be almost as exciting as winning the lottery.

The seminar was a waste of time. It was medical lingo that danced above everyone's head. People had a lot of questions for the doctor presenting. I didn't. I already knew the answers. I felt I could have answered them better than the doctor. I had to take a little break from the statistics and the side-effects and such and retreated into the hall. Nobody from my family asked questions or shot questing looks. They all knew. I didn't need to hear the statistics on survival for transplant patients. It was too fresh to me.

I let them draw my blood, take my information, and headed home. Duncan had been at my house when I left. I knew he would still be there. During this time Andrew had to have someone with him 24 hours a day. Since all the family had signed up for the seminar, Duncan came over.

I came home to Duncan leaned up against our bed writing furiously in his notebook. Andrew was passed out on the bed. It was only 8:30 p.m. Apparently he had fallen asleep during the movie they were watching. I had a suspicion that Andrew would fall asleep before I got home. His energy level was still suffering. It was not uncommon for him to be in bed and asleep by about 8:00 p.m. I stopped at the liquor store on my way home and picked up some Gin. Gin was our summertime drink. It was definitely a Gin night. I stopped by the gas station and picked up some mixers. I was hoping I could talk Duncan in to staying and hanging out with me for awhile. He hesitated at first, but then agreed. I poured us a couple drinks, and we sat out on the back porch watching the rain and talking.

The subjects ranged over the three or four refills we poured. I told him that I had been motivated to write lately. I wanted to relearn how to play the guitar and the piano and get myself a piano. I was hoping that I could get to the point of writing music. Megan had been wanting to get together and make music. Duncan was incredibly supportive. He was interested in helping. The three of us had talked about making music since high school. Mostly, it was talk. Only Duncan had actually followed through.

We talked about writing in general. We talked about the styles that people pick up. The main subject came to be about each person's life as a story. We wondered if we would be able to get someone to pick up our story and read it.

We talked about religion and the bible and radical leaders and "god". I told him that I thought of the bible as a book of fables. I didn't mean it as a degradation of what so many people revel as a holy text. I simply said that I see it as a book of stories that are meant to teach morals and values-- like a fable. I shared that I didn't think there was anything that made the bible more sacred or legitimate than other holy texts, such as the Quran. I told him that I think that they should all be taken collectively and deciphered and interpreted. After all, the bible wasn't written first hand. The writings came second or third hand as stories were passed down, and then eventually written down. Perhaps the gin was beginning to do it's wonders. I told him that if definitely sounded more like a case of fables to me than doctrine. Native Americans and many cultures taught right from wrong with stories. The conversation not surprisingly turned to religion and the idea behind "God."

We refilled our glasses and resumed our position on the back porch. We began talking about texts in general and about accepting things with an open mind and about going against popular culture. We talked about norms and thinking for oneself; not just accepting something as truth because it is the "norm."

Duncan reminded me that he thought I had been the first person to think that way back in high school because I had said that I wanted to read Mein Kampf just for the sake of reading it. I wanted to see for myself what it was all about. I didn't want to hear about it from a History teacher. I wanted to hear it from "the mouth of the pig" so to say. He said it made him think about getting all the perspectives, then deciding for oneself. I had forgotten about all that in high school.

I have not read Mein Kampf.

I have not read the entire Bible.

I have not read the Quran.

(I am behind.)

Harsh realizations.

We were expecting a short follow-up trip to the hospital. Things seemed to be going well. He had to follow-up weekly with BMT to make sure his counts were high enough to be mingling with the real world.

We arrived promptly at 10:00 a.m. In and out. In and out. That's all we were thinking. We had made plans to go out to lunch when we were done. We drew his blood at home and dropped it off at the lab on our way upstairs to the BMT unit. It was supposed to be faster that way.

His counts came back reasonable. This was good news.
They wanted to give him a dose of methotrexate while his counts were good (this is bad news). Methotrexate is a chemotherapy agent they had injected into him numerous times before. This particular agent was meant for his spinal fluid to make sure no disease lived on in hiding in his spine. He was visibly upset. The doctors left the room. Andrew vomited. It was the first time in months that he had vomited. The mere thought of more methotrexate was nauseating for him.

We had thought the days of chemotherapy were long gone. We thought that chapter was finished.

We were wrong.

We walked out of the hospital at 2:30. While waiting for the elevator on the fifth floor, an older gentleman and his daughter joined us. He was also a transplant patient. The signature bone marrow transplant mask gave it away. His daughter looked to be about our age. The man looked at Andrew in his mask. He said painfully, "You're much too young to be going through this. How old are you?" Andrew answered that he was 23. The man shook his head. His daughter stared in disbelief. We both offered a casual uncomfortable smile. The man shook his head. "You kids should never have to go through this. This should happen to old farts like me.... not kids your age."

All I could say was, "No. Nobody should ever have to go through this." It was not just a comment to be nice or polite. I meant it.

We rode down the elevator in silence. Neither of us had much of an appetite. We just went home.

Deceased.

I got to work that day like any other day. June 27, 2006.

I looked at my bulletin board above my desk as I started up my computer. Moxie. There was a picture of her and Andrew, lying on the couch before his transplant. It was one of the last pictures we had taken before sending her to live with Duncan for a few months (until the doctors gave the go ahead that we could have our animals back). She was a terror. But we loved her. I felt guilty that I hadn't been out to see her in awhile. She had been living with Duncan for about 2 months now and I had only gone to see her once. I brushed the thought aside and turned my attention to my computer.

Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. Duncan. I got a sick feeling. I answered tentatively.

"I'm not sure how to tell you this... I'm really sorry.... I don't know what happened.... I woke up this morning, and she wasn't moving. She's dead."

My heart sunk. Somehow I knew the news the moment he called. Of course, it was Moxie. I didn't ask a lot of questions. I knew she was a special cat. She had been rescued by us and had all sorts of health problems from the beginning. From her first vet visit, weighing less than a pound to her second a week later, where she had doubled her body weight and became alive with kittenhood. She was special. I didn't cry on the phone. I assured Duncan that it wasn't his fault. Repeatedly. Then I hung up.

I looked up above my computer at my bulletin board. It hadn't been that long since I was looking at the same picture thinking that I needed to go visit her. The tears hit me. I sat at my desk and cried uncontrollably for what seemed like forever. That cat. She was a bitch. Pure demon. But I loved her. I called Andrew up at the hospital and sobbed to him on the phone. He could hardly comprehend a word I said. Finally, I calmed down and he understood. I had to get back to work.

Later that day, I got a phone call from my niece. I never answered. I was at work and didn't feel like talking to anyone. Apparently she overheard my sister telling her husband what had happened and demanded my phone number. She called and said something along the lines of, "Krista, It's me, Brooke.. you don't have to be mad anymore because I could, umm.. buy you a new cat that looks like Moxie, but only nicer than her. So give me a call at ______.... k, we're always home, just call us. K, bye." I smiled through teary eyes. What a doll. I couldn't call her back. I couldn't cry anymore at work. She would make me cry.

I found out later that she had scrounged together 90 cents from her piggy bank to help us buy a new cat. Children. I would need to wait awhile before replacing such a unique cat.

One little lie.

The late effects of the high dose chemotherapy and total body irradiation (TBI) have shown themselves. Andrew is now hooked up to a pain administrator. Morphine. It became his best friend as the drugs destroyed the cells in his mouth and throat. He hasn't been able to eat in weeks and has been receiving nutrition intravenously. Now, he can't swallow. They have put a suction tube next to his bed to suck the saliva and dying skin from his mouth. When he's not sleeping, his face is full of pain and frequently grimacing.

The doctors keep emphasizing how important it is for him to brush his teeth and keep his mouth clean. They are empathetic; they know it is incredibly painful with the current state of his mouth.

He seems to be sleeping a little less. It's evening and I'm at the hospital for the evening. He starts to stir, and throws his feet over the side of the bed. My attention is diverted away from my book.

"Watcha doin'?" I ask curiously. It's the most I've seen him move in awhile.

"I need to brush my teeth," he informs me. He reaches for his pain button and pushes it. "Brushing hurts a lot," he explains to me, almost childlike. I nod in approval. I study him for a few minutes, teetering on the edge of the bed, waiting for the morphine to take him away from his pain. His eyes close and he starts rocking, dangerously close to falling off the bed. I smile, and get up from my seat on the little couch.

"Why don't you lay down while you wait for it to start working?" I lay him down in his bed and he reminds me, "I have to brush my teeth, but it hurts, I'll do it in a minute," he pushes the button again, administering more morphine. He's out. I return to my book.

About fifteen minutes later, he's up again, stirring uncomfortably in his bed. Again, his feet are over the side of bed. He pushes his morphine button and reminds me, "I have to brush my teeth, but it hurts," I smile, wondering if he remembers that we already went through this. I nod in approval and watch him again. I'm betting myself that he falls back asleep. This time, he lays back down on his own. I smile and shake my head and continue reading.

Again, about fifteen minutes later, he sits up and says, "I need to brush my teeth." I fight back a laugh. How could I be laughing at him in this state? This time, he stands. He rocks unsteadily for a moment, then seemingly remembers that brushing is not going to be a pleasant experience and he pushes the morphine button. I am tempted to start counting backwards from 15 to see if he will be back in bed before I'm done. I refrain, but I think I would have been accurate. Again he's sitting on the bed. "I'm going to do it... I just have to get ready." I nod, "I know. You'll do it." Seconds pass. He's out again, lying uncomfortably on his bed.

At this point, I have made up my mind.

He wakes again. Same routine. "I need to brush my teeth," he tells me as I watch him with a half-smile.

"You already did, honey." I lied. I couldn't watch him keep doing this to himself.

"I did?" He sounded almost relieved. "Oh good..."

He lies back down and falls into another fitful sleep.

I smile, and continue to read my book.

Virtual Loneliness

I've started reading. It passes the time while I sit virtually alone at the hospital.

Andrew is sleeping a lot these days. I'm not really sure how much time he spends awake and coherent during the day. I'm sure it's not more than a couple hours or so.

Today is no different. I sit by his bed with my hand on his leg. It's about 7:30 p.m. I have worked all day. When I got to the hospital one of his family members was there doing the same thing-- reading. They understood my need for some sort of normalcy and would leave when I arrived. It was our time now. Our time that he spent sleeping and I spent reading.

This time, he woke up and looked somewhat confused.

"Good morning, sunshine," I joked with him. Perhaps not the best choice of words on my part.

He stirs a bit, grimaces in pain, and looks at me, "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"Almost 7:30," I answer. I see confusion on his face and then he sleepily asks, "Aren't you going to work today?" I smile. "I already did. It's 7:30 p.m. I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

I think I see a hint of color in his face as he panics and sits up. His IV cords jolt with his sudden movement. His eyes scan the room quickly as he asks, "You let me sleep all day!?"

My heart melts. I know he hates sleeping late. He hates feeling lazy. I stand up and put down my book. "It's okay... it's okay. You need to sleep. Just lay back down. I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes stop darting about the room and he tentatively lays back down. His breathing slows again, and within seconds, he is again deep in sleep.

Again, I'm virtually alone.

I only need a Moment.

I don't sleep well at the hospital. The nurses are constantly bustling in and out of the room, the IV tower acting as a lifeline is constantly alerting the nurses or this or that, and Andrew would have fits of fevers or chills. I spent the nights staring the ceiling only pretending to sleep as the nurses would enter the room.

By the time light was shining through the hospital room window and I could hear the activities of a shift change outside the room, I would be aching to get up. I would gather my belongings, kiss Andrew's forehead and assure him I would be back later and to call if he needed anything. Usually, he barely stirred.

His face was gray and swollen, his eyes sunken. His hair had long been gone. No more blonde locks, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. He looked emaciated and pained. I'd smile at the nurses as I passed their station. Sometimes one would ask when I'd be back. The answer was usually the same. I would be back after work. To call me if they need me.

I never worried about him while he was up at the hospital. Chances were good that I would pass another willing "babysitter" in the parking lot coming to sit in with him. I stopped in the lobby and bought my coffee. "Right on time," the man would remark. I would force a smile, thank him, and head for my car.

Once my car started, I would stare blankly at the dashboard. Taking a deep breath, I would back out and head down the winding hill towards our house. The traffic was all headed the opposite direction as everyone rushed to start their days. Like clockwork, the tears start. First, one tear sliding out the side of my eye. I brush it away quickly. I lecture myself and try to concentrate on my drive. Silently, the tears fall freely down my face. I rarely remember the drive. Sitting in the driveway, I check my face to make sure it's not too red, gather my belongings, then pull myself from the car.

My neighbor says good morning. I feign the most cheerful voice I can muster and return the greeting. "How's Andrew?" I smile. "He's good..." It's not a lie. For his condition and what they've done to him, he really is good. She doesn't need the details of his emaciated body, his sunken eyes, his graying face, and his comatosed state of being. I let myself inside, strip down and turn on the water to the shower.

The water is refreshing. The heat is comforting and cleansing. It brings more tears. I have to get them out before facing the world again. Before going to work. Before calling and reporting to the family. Before heading back to the hospital. This is my moment.

I take it, turn off the water, and start another day.

Big Brother

Jerry was an older brother to me. My sister had been dating him for a couple years. He was a big fun-loving Samoan man. Usually, he was slightly reserved at family gatherings. He and my brother-in-law Kenny stuck together and brought out the personality in each other.

One day we were all hanging out in the front yard. Jerry started joking around with me, playfully punching my arm, and teasing me about my recent scrapings with the parents and the law over my use of marijuana. I was taking it in stride, blowing it off. Then, he tosses me a pack of zigzag rolling papers. I looked at him with a questioning glance. "What's this?" I inquired with raised eyebrows. I smiled as he burst into a deep belly laugh.

"We're going to go pick up some tickets to Fiji, wanna come?" His sisters and some cousins were with him. Fiji is a Polynesian band that happened to be coming to town. I knew the invitation was a cover for what was really going on. I ran in and told my mom I was running an errand with Jerry. In the car, it all came out. We were going to meet some guy to pick up a sack then he was going to smoke me out. It was a truce, he said. He had been the one recruited to search my room for my naive parents when they suspected I was using drugs. According to my family, and as far as they knew, he had smoked weed, but had quit and was now a good church-going guy. I had assumed the same. Only now did I know this was not the case. Only now did I know that he was the one that had been snooping through my room. Pieces were falling into place.

We met his guy, then drove in search of a place to partake in our goods. We settled with behind a grocery store near my parents house. It was late and we were sure no one would see us. We parked the car and head for the shadows created by the building.

I had a new alliance now. I had a new go-to guy.

Over the next few weeks, I began spending much more time with Jerry. He would drop my sister off late at night and drive down the street and call me. I would sneak out and go out with him until the early morning hours. When he wasn't with Kara, he was with me. He introduced me to all his friends as his little sister.

I was untouchable. I was Jerry's little sister.

I was in.

Laced

I held my fingers into the slats of the picnic table and laughed-- letting my head fly back carelessly. The only thing keeping me from flying backwards off the bench were my fingers, gripping the slats.

It was summer. And we were alone. Work was done and Megan and I came back to my house to enjoy some breadsticks we had made special just for us. My parents were gone again, leaving the entire house to Megan and me.

I'm not sure why we were laughing.

Tim had only barely come by work to "check on us." He pulls up, walks inside the backdoor and peaks his head around the corner. He surveys today's crew and then asks, "what time you guys off?" We have only recently begun to work on Sundays, and they are excruciatingly slow days. We step outside to have a smoke break with him. This was not an ordinary smoke break-- this was one of our "Tim" smoke breaks, taking place in his car behind the dumpster. He was always taking care of us.

I take another bite of breadstick. Megan and I are conversing in our heads through looks and smiles and nods of approval. Words are rarely spoken during such times. Then, we catch eyes and laugh hysterically. This time, I throw my head back, and it rolls around at the neck for a few minutes. Megan is laughing at my inability to control my head. I am laughing, too, but I'm terrified. Something wasn't right. Not this time.

"Dude.... are you alright?" Megan is still laughing uncontrollably.
"I don't feel right...." My head is still spinning on the inside, I can only assume the outside is spinning, too.
"Your face is white.... you look like a ghost!" Still laughter. But this time, there is somewhat of a panic in it. "You should look at it."
"I think I need to go inside."

I somehow connect my brain to my legs and stumble off the bench. Staggering inside, I feel Megan on my heels. I stumble through the back door and towards the front room. I stopped only briefly to look in the mirror, trying to see if, indeed, my face was white. What I saw terrified me. There was no face. I could not see anything. I moved to the couch and collapsed.

"Krista, you're scaring me." Megan has finally stopped laughing.

I sat curled in a fetal position on the couch rocking. Her voice was distant. I was distant. I couldn't control my body, but could only watch from outside myself as the scenes unfolded. The voices started and I became frantic. I covered my ears. I could only faintly hear Megan's voice mixed in with the others and I was terrified.

"Fucking call someone!" I managed to get away from my hysteria long enough to suggest what seemed like a rational thought.

Megan sat by me and pulled me to her. She was not calling anyone. It was a bad idea. I needed to calm down. If only she could realize it was so much easier said than done. Something was definitely not right.

I began to think, "Oh my god, I'm going to die." This unleashed a new hysteria and a new sense of urgency and I began begging her. I'm going to die, Megan... this is it... I can't die... I can't die like this... call someone... call someone please... call 911... I begged and begged. Then, figured if she couldn't call an authoritative figure, Jerry was the next best thing. "Call Jerry."

She reached for my phone.

I could only hear parts of the conversation. Jerry was on his way to church with his family. He couldn't come. He asked to talk to me. He told me I'd be okay. He told me to drink some water and just breathe and relax. I told him there was something in that shit. I told him there had to be. There had to be. That just wasn't right. I had probably smoked through ounces and ounces of weed... possibly even pounds. And never, had such a horrific high occurred.

I felt the color return to my face.

"Let's get out of here," I felt the urge to leave.

We left the smell of stale smoke behind us and walked to Megan's house.

** Another couple of people had a similar experience from the same batch of marijuana. One of those experienced occurred at my house with us present. I never bought from that dealer again.

Color me red

I was intrigued by Noah. Everything about him drew me nearer to him. From the minute I saw him, I wanted to know his story and thought he might be a person worth speaking with. I had transformed over the school years to a more creative outcast than a rebellious punk.

My junior year, I finally had a class with Noah. It was Creative Writing with Ms. Beck. The first part of the semester I observed from a distance. I had developed in somewhat of the comic relief in a classroom with such serious (by choice) topics. Noah had been conversing a lot with a girl in the class that had the same sort of appeal he did. It made sense to me, so I watched from a distance. The semester was relatively uneventful, and I eventually figured that he would never notice me or pay interest to me, so I moved on to playfully enjoying the class.

One slow day in class we were having a free-write / free-for-all day. I sat on the back counter unaware that I was being watched while I scribbled away in my notebook. Throughout the class time that day, I changed positions and locations frequently, sometimes stopping to talk with friends. The bell rang and I was met with a stack of white papers on my desk. I looked up with confusion, and there he was. He smiled at me, then walked away.

On my desk were page after page of sketches. Each one had me, in one position or another. They were drawn crudely, but accurately. It was obvious that the girl in the picture was me. And then, there were the pictures that were so obvious, I blushed as I looked at them.

There was me, straddling a desk and bent forward scribbling furiously in my book. A red triangle of fabric peeking above my pants and contrasting with my bare skin.

I later learned this was the first time he had taken a keen interest in me. It was a door opening to one of the most fruitful relationships I have ever had.

Extreme Dating

High School was a very interesting time in my life. Particularly the time that began after my initial experimentation with illegal substances.

I was drawn to the dark, the mysterious, and the forbidden. My first high school boyfriend was just that. Some hindsight would have been nice back then.

Jace* was in my high school studies class. High school studies was the school's attempt to keep student's occupied for the remaining half of the semester after driver's education. It was a lame attempt at that. For me (and for many others, I'm sure) it ended up being more of a cheerleaders/dancers-flirting-with-Mr. Collins type of class. Mr. Collin's was a basketball coach-- young, clean shaven, and not a bad looking guy. All the girls saw this and clung to him. In my rebellious adolescents the only good this did me was to further distance myself from my classmates and make me dread that class. I sat near the door and Jace sad dangerously close to me. We talked a few times, and eventually hit it off. He had long dark hair and wore dark clothes. He reeked of cigarette smoke and frequently sat with the same disgusted and distant gaze on his face.

He asked for my number, and I gave it to him freely. We spoke on the phone a few times, then it was decided that we should hang out. His neighbor (a friend of his) and he came to pick me up and we headed to Little Mexico (a.k.a. Old Town Midvale). I had never crossed those train tracks before now, and this first crossing assured me why I prefer the east side of town. The homes were decrepit and unappealing, the streets were dark, and there were people outside everywhere. It was a leap out of my comfort zone. But, I was rebelling and decided that location could fit into that realm. Of course, I hit it off with his mom. She was certain that I was a good thing. (Now, I can see why.)

For some reason, we ended up "babysitting" his neighbors little kid while she went and ran some errands. We walked to the end of the street to a small forgotten park and talked and flirted. We talked, and smoked, and talked, and smoked... and eventually did much more. It was official-- we were "together."

Jace's long hair transformed into a jet black 8 inch mohalk when he wanted it to. Of course, this intrigued me, but only distanced him from the rest of the school. Things were somewhat awkward for awhile, as if in an elementary school relationship. Finally, he shaved his head and began wearing combat boots and camouflage pants to school, and I decided that his "punk" look had disintegrated into a "skin-head" look that I didn't appreciate.

Jace taught me more about high school and high school studies in the method of extreme dating than the pretty-boy Mr. Collins ever could have imagined doing. But alas, I was not cut out for 8 inch mohalks or skin-head appeal. I went back to being a lonely punk girl without any sexual side effects.



*name changed to protect identity.

The Runaway

After a long day at school in ISS (incidentally after a long day high on drugs) I got home that night and got in an argument with my mom. I can't remember what about, but I'm sure it was the usual. Finally, she had had enough of my talking back and lunged for my bed, putting her hands around my neck and nearly choking me. She said the only thing keeping her from killing me right then was that she didn't want to go to jail-- I wasn't worth it. She moved from my bed to the doorway and pointed her finger towards the stairs. "Get out!" She said. At first, I was tentative. I looked at her as if she was a madwoman. At this point, I was quite sure she had gone mad. "Are you serious?" I asked. "Get out." she replied more firmly. She was now standing in my door way and I shuffled past her, so as to avoid the swift kick in the ass, and then I left... running. Suddenly, I was running away. I wasn't nonchalantly walking down the street. I wasn't just cooling off. I was absolutely running. I'm not sure why. Perhaps, I was afraid she would change her mind and come after me. Perhaps I was afraid she was already on the phone with my Officer Friendly (Ish)... I just had to run.

My little brother chased me down the street as fast and far as he could, screaming my name. I couldn't help but turn around to see him. He had tears running down his face and was struggling to keep up with me. It hurt me to see, but I had different priorities now. I had never been close to my brother. I told him to go home, then turned and kept running.

I ran up to the main street until I got to an unfamiliar residential street that led me to the top of the gravel pit. I sat at the top of the hill catching my breath and taking in the scenery. It was surprisingly peaceful that night. It was such a stark contrast to what I was feeling inside. After resting for a few minutes, I headed down into the pit and just wandered aimlessly for a bit.

I wanted to talk to Megan. I was sure that the phone tree had begun by now. I was sure that her mother had already heard the entire story... but I needed to talk to her, to have an ally. When I dialed our work number, my boss answered the phone. She must have sensed the urgency in my voice when I asked for Megan. She asked if everything was okay, and I ended up explaining the short story of what had happened to her. She put Megan on the phone. With nowhere to go and no one to turn to, I got on the TRAX and aimlessly rode north and south a few times just trying to pass the time while I thought things through. I called Megan back at work and my boss once again answered the phone. She was worried about me and wondered what I was going to do. She said my parents had been calling there to see if I went there and were looking for me. She gave me a co-worker's phone number and told me to call her-- that she wasn’t working that day. I called her, NIcki, and explained the situation. She asked where I was and immediately came and picked me up at the TRAX stop.

I went over to her house and hung out there. It was the usual activity at her house. Tim and Jamie were there smoking endless amounts of weed. As much as I wanted to partake and to ease my troubled mind, I restrained, thinking it was probably better. I know the next day would be a shitty one regardless, and decided that the least amount of drugs I had in me at the time, the better. I knew that Ish would definitely be in the picture, but I wasn't sure when or how. It was an uneasy night of sleeping.

**Part 2**

The next morning, we were all slow to recover. We slowly got up. We spent most of the morning talking and hanging out in her backyard, smoking cigarettes and passing time. Nicki asked what my plans were and I told her I honestly didn't know. I didn't want to stay with them much longer because I didn't want them to get in trouble for "harboring a runaway" or something like that. It just didn't seem very fair. I told them that I needed to talk to Megan. I asked if they could drop me off at school during the lunch hour so I could find her and also retrieve some clean clothes from our locker.

At around noon, we headed towards the school. She dropped me off by the park, so as not to be seen dropping me off. I headed for school and immediately found Megan. As we were walking and talking trying to catch up on the eventful night/day, it was clear the rumors had already started. People I didn't even know knew my name were coming up to me and asking if I was okay and what was going on. Apparently, there was a note in all the teachers boxes telling them that if I showed up I needed to be immediately escorted to Quarnberg's office. Quarnberg was one of the Vice Principals. For some reason, he had taken quite the interest in me that school year and I became his own personal crusade. Rather than meeting with Breen, my assigned VP, I was always brought to Q. With this new information saying that I was in hot pursuit at the moment, we decided to be quick about retrieving goods from the locker. We hurried over there and that's when it happened.
We were immediately cornered from all angles. The school police officer, Radley, came down the hallway in the middle of the school, and LeAnn and Renee, the two hall-monitors, came up the perpendicular hallway, one from each end, until they met at the intersection where we were. They came marching down the hall with walkie-talkies in hand. They had purpose.

"Come with me."

"You need to come with us now."

I was escorted down the hall, one on each side of me, and one trailing a few feet behind us. We were on our way to Quarnberg's office. I got in his office, took a seat on his couch and he sat across from me with those almost concerned eyes and said flat out, "What's going on?"

Of course, my sixteen year old attitude factored in and I answered cooley, "What do you mean?"

"This morning, I got a phone call from an Officer Marquez saying that if you were to show up, you were to be escorted to a secure place and held there until he could pick you up. It's not everyday a police officer is demanding to be contacted when someone shows up at school. So again, what's going on?"

I sat dumbly for a few minutes. "I got kicked out."

"That's not what I hear," he retorted.

"Then why are you asking me what happened? My mom and I got in a fight last night and she kicked me out of her house. I show up here to get some clothes from Megan and now I am here."

He seemed unconvinced. He got up and walked across the room to his desk. He picked up the phone and said he had some phone calls to make and for me to sit tight. I heard him talking to what I assumed were my parents. He told them I was here, and then, no, he hadn't called Officer Marquez yet. Then, he hung up. The next call was Officer Marquez. The call was short and simple. "Yes, she's here. Yes, she's in my office. We're not going anywhere. See you soon."

Then, completely shifting gears, he turns to me and says, "What are we going to do about your grades and attendance, missy. We need you playing volleyball next year. I'm not sure what is going on, but you can talk to me, you know that, right?" There was a long period of awkward silence while Q did some paperwork and small-talked with me.

Suddenly, the buzzer in his office. "Todd, there is an Officer Ishmael Marquez here to see you." Next thing I know, the door is flying open and Ish comes storming up to me, fury in his eyes. Wow... what did Mom tell him this time? He gets right up in my face and demands me to get up. After searching my body, searching my bag, and thanking Quarnberg, he handcuffs me, and leads me out through the foyer to his squad car. Quarnberg sat there kind of shocked by the brutality of the situation. Due to a previous similar encounter we had had once before, he undid my handcuffs and moved them to the front and opened the front passenger door for me. I got in and we were off. It seemed like much less of a spectacle than the previous time and I was thankful for that. I'm sure the rumor mill really got going, though.

As we were driving, I tried to small-talk so as to ease into my side of the story. He immediately told me to shut up. He said he was so angry with me and he didn't want to talk to me yet. No problem, I thought. I can sit here. I had gotten good with awkward silences over the past few months. Then, not a minute later, he pulls out his cell phone and says, "I have to call your parents."

"Sure," I respond heartlessly, staring out the window.

Apparently he was expecting more from me. He went on to explain that my parents had wanted me drug tested, but that he didn't so much want to do that. I asked him why not. He gave me an idiot's look and said that if he drug tested me, he would have to report it to them, and would also have to make a police report and charge me with whatever he found. "Oh," was all I could muster. I wasn't sure if I believed him or not. Changing from his tough-guy demeanor to his officer-friendly demeanor, he asked, "Why don't you just tell me what I would find... that way we can bypass this entire situation." I looked at him untrustingly, with raised eyebrows. He knew I was sizing him up and wondering why it was that I should trust him. "I promise," he said.

Figuring I had nothing to lose either way, I confessed. I told him that he would find the usual-- THC. He didn't look convinced. "Is that all?" he asked. "No, I did acid on Monday, too." He shook his head, told me what an idiot I was and how bad that was for my body. He told me that it would stay in my spinal fluid forever. All this, I already knew. Then, he dropped it. "That's all?" he asked again. "That's all," I confirmed. He picked up his phone and dialed my mom. "Yes, I have her here. We're on our way to Youth Services. No, I can't do that. No, I'm sorry. No, I'm sorry, I can't do that. I'll call you later and let you know the plan." I looked at him confused. "I promised. I won't drug test you now." He had kept his word. I smiled to myself. A small victory for me over my parents.

Rather than heading for the usual Youth Services building to the west of the freeway in South Salt Lake, we headed south towards the mall. Noting the confusion on my face, he told me that we had some errands we had to run first. We pulled up to the Sandy City Police Station and he removed my handcuffs. "This is my work. I have some paperwork to take care of. I'll introduce you to some people." I followed him in to his office where he proceeded to introduce me to some of his coworkers and give me a quick tour of the facility. Weird, I was thinking. I could almost sense a sort of satisfaction or arrogance about being able to show me around. Then he instructed me to sit quietly in a little corner of his office while he put together his report. I wish I could have seen that report. He complained to me that he hated having to do paperwork and I was pushing more than his fair share in his direction. I smiled sarcastically. After what seemed like entirely too long, he got up from his computer and motioned for me to follow. We were leaving.

We headed to a small Youth Services building by the mall. It was like a miniature holding place for delinquent kids and teens. There were little thug-wannabes all over, sitting at small desks and working on papers. I was put into a desk and told to be quiet. Ish talked to the people there, then talked to me. He explained that he had to leave, but that my parents would be coming by later and they would figure out what to do with me. That was the only information I was given. I had a strange flash-back to when I lost at Lagoon when I was little. (**Lagoon**)

I sat stubbornly staring at the wall for what may have been hours. There were only a few of us in the building now. We weren't allowed to talk. Finally, I saw my parents pull up outside. I began to dread what would happen next. Immediately, my "tough kid" ice came over my eyes and I refused to look in their direction. They entered another area and went directly into a small room out of my direct line of sight. After a few minutes, I was summoned. They brought me into the room with my parents. I can't recall the fruit of the conversation, but the end of it included comments about "my bad attitude" and my parents not wanting to take me home. They had refused to bring me clothes (at my request), yet still would not take me home. They left, and I grew angrier as I returned to the small "classroom" of waiting children/teens. One of the social workers informed me that I would not be going home and would have to wait for transport. Here we go again, I thought.

Naivety

I was such a naive person. I didn't think so then, but looking back, I was incredibly naive.

That Friday was like any other. Especially any other recent Friday. Andrew had been seeing doctor after doctor to try to figure out where the impressive rash came from. Earlier that day, he was sent for a CT scan. I got off work to go sit with him and keep him company while he drank his contrast. We just hung out in the waiting room until it was his turn. I was disappointed when they made me continue to wait in the lobby. Then, it was over. I went back to work. He went home to rest.

When I got home from work, Andrew was sitting in the dark on the couch with his phone in his hand. The mood in the room was somber and eery. I sat next to him on the couch, let out my usual "glad to be home" sigh, and waited for some sort of action on his part. My boss had bought us Harry Potter tickets for opening night and the show was in a few hours. I had been busy during the day coordinating with my parents since we had given my dad 2 extra tickets for his birthday. But something wasn't right. Then it came out.

"The doctor called."

"Oh? What did she say?"

He was hardly audible. He mumbled something about them finding out what was wrong. CT Scan. Lymph nodes. Oncologist. Lymphoma. Huntsman. These words popped out at me. I could hardly hear anything else Andrew said while I studied the key words in my head. He said that I needed to call the doctor. Apparently the doctor had explained things to Andrew, but Andrew wanted her to explain them to me, too.

As I dialed the number, my heart was pounding. For so long now, we had just wanted to know what this was... and now, I wasn't so sure I ever wanted to know. I wanted to hang up the phone, hug my husband, and go to the movie. Not tonight. I didn't want to know. The phone rang. Huntsman Cancer Hospital. That word sent a shudder through my body. I asked for the oncologist on-call, as instructed.

The oncologist went through the explanation. The CT scans got in her hands after the dermatologist was skeptical about what she was seeing. We needed to get up there now. Andrew looked like he had Hodgkin's Disease. This was not near as scary as before. The word disease was a much nicer word than cancer. I tried to calm my fears by asking questions. I told her that he was a full-time student-- we both were-- and that we had finals coming up shortly. I told her it was important for us to not miss classes this close to the end of the semester. I asked her if we could get treatment started right away so he could get back to school for finals. She must have realized my naivety at that moment.

"Honey, he won't be going back to school this semester."

Virginity

Virginity is overrated.

I have that opinion now, and I had it at 16.

Once I decided I was ready to jump into sex, it was all a matter of timing. Everyone knows that one's first time is not necessarily a pleasant experience, nor are they any good at the deed. But most insist on making it at least a meaningful experience.

The only meaning I was looking for was to get it done. Break that ice; tear out the stitches; rip the bandage. I wanted it done, and I wanted it simple. So then, it comes to no surprise that when the timing was right, I had just met the guy and I would never see him again. I couldn't have planned it better. Perhaps this would act as a set up for the remainder of my sexual life. Perhaps it was only fitting to happen this way.

I was on vacation with my family. The school year and early summer had left me burnt out but enjoying the time away and with my friends. This was the one vacation I took that year. All other family vacations I had opted out of for lame reasons-- usually claiming I had to "work." Truth be told, I enjoyed having free reign of the house and having people over without having someone there to supervise. The vacation was to Boise, Idaho to visit family there. My cousin, Shea is about my age. We have always gotten along great and are great friends.

One day we got into the truth talk. She admitted that her downfall with morality and "sin" was boys. She is an attractive girl and it was no surprise to me that the boys would be all over her. Mine, of course, was marijuana. One night, a few of her friends came by the house to hang out. We were across the street in her friend's truck, smoking a bowl until we got called in for the night. Everyone watched a movie while Shea and I hung out in her room just talking and laughing. We decided that we should sneak out that night. She called some of her older friends and they agreed to come pick us up. When it got late enough that we were sure everyone had gone off to bed, we climbed through her bedroom window, met the boys down the street and were off.

At first, it was relatively dull. We drove around, unsure of what to do or where to go. We just aimlessly drove around and talked. Truth be told, the boys were actually pretty rude with us and irritating. Finally, it was decided to go to a house and hang out. One of the boys was particularly interested in Shea and had been for some time. Apparently, she had slept with him before, and he was obviously hopeful that it would happen again. We sat on dude's couch and all talked for awhile, then Shea and the other boy left into a bedroom. I sat on the couch with the remaining male for a few more minutes talking. Finally, he said, "You know... it is your last night here... what do you say we make it a fun one?" That was all the pushing I needed. I couldn't have said it better myself.

20 minutes later, we emerged from the room. Him, probably a little disappointed, and me, relieved. It was over. I had taken care of that little nagging problem, and now I could move on to good sex with people I cared about, or in the least, good sex.

Sure, maybe my "first time" could have been more meaningful and would have been a special moment in my life to treasure. I don't have a need to get the butterflies and the flushed face talking about losing my virginity. Besides-- most people don't even talk about these things! Having a first time is just that step you have to take... it sucks sometimes. But, there is a first for everything.

Photo Shoot

Amidst the troubles with high school and just generally being teenage girls in an oppressive community with the weight of religion bearing down on our shoulders, Megan's mom announced that maybe it would be better if Megan went to live with her dad. We were a couple of wild teenage girls... addicted to highs and lows, namely, marijuana and alcohol. We rarely attended classes, had disruptive behavior, and caused hell at home.

The arranged (or talked about) move to California was supposed to be a cure for our adolescents. In talking about the move, Megan and I became petrified that we didn't have any pictures of us with each other. We were, after all, connected at the hip through most of high school. After what should have been school that day, we made our way back to Megan's house with a camera. It started out innocent. We did our hair, tried on some different clothes an just generally played around with the camera.

Soon, the clothes were coming off the poses more provocative. It was chaos. There were sheets in the background with props. Some pictures together, some separately. It was all innocent fun, and we could never have guessed what would come next...

t the time, we were taking pictures quite frequently and had mastered the art of developed photograph theft. We would walk in to the store (Wal-Mart), pick up the pictures, then aimlessly walk around the store, looking at our pictures, pointing and laughing at them, then that aimless walk would take us right out the front door. Worked like a charm... and the guilt factor wasn't there because it was fucking Wal-Mart for god's sake.

Picking up those pictures was a little different, however. We could nearly see the smirks behind the counter from the little developer boys. I'm sure we were blushing (or at least I was blushing). We repeated our usual performance, and that landed us at our car where we hightailed out of there. We picked up double exposures so we could each keep a set. There were some... interesting pictures.

Some people at school found out about "the pictures" and made some jokes and provocative comments... we didn't mind so much. But then, the ultimate kicker came. Her mother got her hands on the pictures. We went from best friends to lesbian lovers. Just like that. It was a devastating possibility for a single Mormon mother of eight. Of course, the phone tree started and we were forbidden to see each other. It was more comical for the two of us than anything else. How on earth would our mothers be able to keep us from seeing each other when we attended school together. Somehow word got out... and we were constantly being asked, "Isn't it like illegal for you two to be around each other??"

We would just laugh.

Fuck them.

Photographs shown are "cropped" versions of the originals.

Playing with fire...

** This particular post is intended to be split up into 3, maybe 4 parts. **

Monday morning, as usual, I met up with Duncan and Megan before class. Duncan handed me a SweetTart candy wrapped in foil. As previously planned (the day before) we were going to give acid a shot. It sounded like a good idea at the time...

We both ate our respective candies before our 5^th period (1^st class of the day) class. The class went as usual, save for the anticipation building up towards the end of my hour and a half class of Honors English. Come the end of the class, I was feeling very fidgety, and it was obvious that my drugged candy was taking effect. After class, Duncan and I met up. Our classes were right down the hall from each other. We caught eyes from down the hall and the look in both of our eyes told the other that it was time to go. We happened to have the next class together, AP Biology with one of our favorite teachers, Mr. Demond. We headed off to find Megan, then subsequently left to head to the Park.

The park was the place where all the other stoners hung out. There were a few remnants from the first period stoners still at the park, and more coming for the second period stoners. About this time, the acid started playing with our brains and was getting stronger and stronger. Time slowed down, yet spet up at the same time. I don’t know how much time elapsed while we were there…. It was probably about 9:15 a.m. when we walked over there…

We sat at the picnic tables and people started fucking with us hardcore. Megan, no doubt strangely jealous that she was being left out of the fry-fest, decided it woudl be funny to tell the other occupants of hte park that we were frying. Thus, the games began. The most notable and obviosly entertaining for the group of stoners was the snapping. Two kids took turns bouncing their "snap" and throwing it back and forth to each other. One threw it into their soda, at which point, the snapping stopped, then took a drink from the straw and "spit" it back out... at which point the snapping continued. Duncan and I followed the trail of the invisible snap back and forth between the two, and before the game ended, more people joined in and there was an invisible dodgeball game taking place, so to say.

After the snapping lost its fun, Megan and many of the kids were just talking to each other while Duncan and I continued our trip. Duncan was sitting on one of the picnic tables, seemingly staring off into space, when he threw literally picked up his one hand, and threw it with the other hand. He jumped up in a panic, drawing everyone's attention. "My hand!!!" he yelled, "It's blue!!" Everyone starts laughing hysterically at his distress, telling him he was crazy. Sure enough, when I looked down at it, it was blue. We determined that they were the crazy ones. It was time to leave the park. Megan gave me a piggy-back ride. It was like a demented version of childhood, all over again.

**Part 2**

We sat in the seminary building in a vacant room during what was Megan’s seminary period (8^th period). Megan put Pink Floyd The Wall on in the background on their sound system and then drew on the board while we sat at opposite ends of the room doing god knows what. I had a paper in front of me and drew squiggly lines of sorts, I think. We both watched Megan sing to herself and draw on the white board. She appeared to be drawing some “evolution” picture—half chimpanzee, half human… though their were debates about what it was—if it was half man, half women, etc. She laughed at us for being so enthralled by it.

All of a sudden, Megan's seminary teacher found us and came into our sanctuary. She went to the back of the room to talk to him and we remained sitting and doing our own thing, only partially aware of the magnitude of his presence. He told her that we needed to turn off the music and that we should come join her class. Megan adamantly disagreed but you and I seemed to be kind of enthralled by the idea and as if in a trance followed him to the room.

When we entered it was like entering a circus or game show or something of the sort. He directed Megan to the front of the room to keep score, and Megan grabbed on to me and told me I was keeping score with her. He shoved a book of mormon or something into Duncan's hands and told him to have a seat. They were having a scripture chase. Our eyes must have been lit up or had some sort of child-like intrigue in them because EVERYONE was staring at us. Immediately, the teacher called out something and everyone started frantically flipping through their books. Duncan looked around like a lost child at everyone and started trying to mimic their actions by tossing your pages around. He never once looked at his book, only at the other people. Then, as hands started being thrown up, he blindly threw his up, too. He was skeptical of this game, and obvious didn't know what was going on. He'd put it up, then pull it down, then flip more pages, then put it up, pull it down, etc. I was at the front of the room laughing hysterically. Megan, being the quick thinker that she is, pulled me in for a hug and told me to pretend like I was crying. I laughed at her, telling her I felt silly. She patted my back and reassured me, as if I was crying, "It's okay... don't cry..." She pushed me towards the door while trying to catch Duncan's attention. Duncan never came. Shortly after we exited the circus, the ball rang, informing all that the school day was finally over.

**Part 3?**

Duncan remained in the seminary classroom. Megan peeked through the sliver of a window in the door to find out where you had gone. Duncan was cornered by the seminary teacher with a confused, yet intrigued look on his face. He was getting the god talk.

Eventually, he made it out of the room, still with a stuplified look on his face. We made our way out of the seminary building and found ourselves staring at an empty school parking lot. Apparently we had been in that building for awhile. All the buses were gone. Most of the cars were gone. Unsure of what to do or how to get home, and plagued by the realization that I had to work that night, we concluded to walk to Duncan's grandma’s house, probably about a mile away from the school. Once we got there, Duncan decided that he'd be okay to drive (not to mention, we had few other options) and dropped me off at work.

**Part 4**

I got to work feeling pretty normal. Duncan's "ability" to drive must have reassured me to a certain degree. It must be wearing off, I thought. I walked in through the front door of Papa Murphy's, saying hello to a few of my co-workers on the way back to the employee area where I could change. When I got back there, I was immediately sidetracked by a huge ass bright fluorescent pink sign in the back. It was definitely a new addition to the employee area and contained the Papa Murphy's drug policy written in big black threatening letters with permanent marker. Oh my god, they know, I thought. I sat in the back studying that bright sign for what must have been about thirty minutes. It was my boss's day off, and I was the "shift manager" for the evening. I tried to put on my sober face and headed up front to start working.

I felt like I was in my own bubble. Everyone there was on the outside of that bubble and had no idea what was going on in my zone. I watched them, and they watched me, but nothing could be seen. Then, for no apparent reason, they started fucking with me…. People would come in to the store, then immediately walked out without saying/doing anything. I would greet them as usual, then when they would just look at me and walk out, I would be like, "What the hell?" to my co-workers. They would innocently ask, "What?" Leading me to that insecure question of, "Did you just see those people? They just came in and then left." And then, leading to more insecurity, "No... no one is there. You're seeing shit."

Finally, I hid in the back and did dishes all night. I figured it would be best if I just stayed out of sight and let them take care of the customers. The night seemed to go fairly well after that. The store closed at 8:00 p.m., and on a good night, we were usually out of there by about 8:30 p.m. (On a good night.) That night, was obviously not a "good" night for me. We were still at the store, finishing up our closing duties when my boss, Annette, came in to do inventory. Great. I tried to small talk with Annette and pretend to be okay for awhile. I had this brilliant plan during those days that so long as I did not avoid confrontation and instead instigated it, people would not think anything was off with me... my attempt with Annette that night was pathetic. Finally, I gave up and went home. (I don't even recall how I got home, or what happened at home once I got home.)

**The Consequences, Part 5**

The next day brought an unexpected surprise. During my first period class, I was retrieved by one of the hallmoniters. What now? I thought. They took me out of class and asked me where I had been all day yesterday. I told them I was "around." They brought me into a small room, and declared that I was to remain in ISS all day long. I was never to leave their sight. If I had to use the bathroom, I had to ask permission and then I was escorted to the nearest restroom while they waited outside the door. Then I was brought back. They had already been around to my teachers to collect work for me to do. They “babysat” me while I caught up on homework for all my classes. I think it was Quarnberg’s attempt to get me caught up on my classes to he could more easily convince my teachers to pass me with decent grades for the purpose of volleyball the next year. The day was long and boring and hard to stay awake for as I'm coming down from an acid trip the day before.

"Potty Dance"

Andrew had been out pretty solidly for about a week. With the exception of a couple of hours during the day, he slept soundly. His body barely moved. His face had pain etched into it. His eyes were sunken and exhausted. At this point in time, his body was being nourished through an IV and he stirred only to go to the bathroom. Even this brief stir was hard work for him. He frequently fell back asleep while still sitting up in his bed, or even standing.

One day, I sat near his bed and read while he rested. Suddenly, Andrew jolts up. Alarmed, and somewhat amused, I looked in his direction. He had a complete look of panic on his face as he quickly gathered all the IV tubing around him and threw his legs over the side of the bed to feel out his slippers. Somewhat alarmed, I asked, "Can I help you with something?" He continued on with his bizarre new burst of energy and I quickly got up to assist however I could. He suddenly blurts out, "I have to go...!"

A little bit confused, I tried to get more information. "Go.... where?" He shot me a look that said where the hell are you from?! then responded, "TO THE BATHROOM!!" I stood corrected and a bit baffled for a minute, then frantically joined in the task of untangling his numerous IV life lines from the bed. He hadn't gotten up or moved in days, so the IVs were starting to grow around his bed frame.

Andrew danced around like a child trying to tell his parent he had to go to the bathroom. After about 15 seconds of frantic untangling, Andrew lost patience and just started pulling his IV tower behind him. I kept at the task, trying to free him before it was too late. It was already too late. With one swift and desperate pull on the tower, he became unhooked. He plopped down on the toilet-- not a minute too soon-- while blood is squirting everywhere from his IV. He calmly reached up to his port, clamped the tube and the blood flow stopped as quickly as it had started. Relief was pouring from him.

I was on the verge of frantic from the very beginning just given the drama of the situation. I hadn't been accustomed to such action in that 10' x 15' hospital room we called home for 40 days. Rarely did anything of excitement happen in that room. I opened the door. The nurses station was a few feet from our door, and the only word I had to say was "Blood." And they were there. One of them cleaned up the blood all over the floor while the other one stopped the IV pump and changed the tubing. I plopped myself down on the little couch and just started laughing uncontrollably.

By the time Andrew emerged from the bathroom, the nurses were ready to hook him back up and put him back to bed. He came out with a look of pure relief on his face-- oblivious to the humor in his entire performance.