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Chronically ill reader! x Clark Kent

It’s hard to describe the feeling of losing yourself to illness.

Being forced to let go of the person you were. Who you thought you were going to become. That vision board you spend your entire life adding to in your head is broken in two. You can see the wood split into shards that are too sharp for your mind to follow.

It’s better to throw it out entirely. Accept the fact it's no longer yours.

I often wonder who I would’ve been if I wasn’t sick. If I hadn’t woken up with arthritis at the ripe age of thirteen: blissfully unaware of the nightmare that would follow. If I hadn’t spent the entirety of my teenage years in waiting rooms, thrown medications that weren’t meant for my body, and given a literal stack of diagnoses that made me sound like a terminally ill patient.

I’ve worked hard for the life I have. I finished high school. Got into a good college and graduated. I hadn’t really expected anything else out of life except, hopefully, a decently paid job with health insurance.

So, never in a million years would I have imagined I would meet someone like Clark. The only “relationships” I had were deeply unfortunate talking stages. The type that ended long before we stopped talking. They pursue first, eventually lose interest, and expect me to get the hint. That was the life I was used to. I accepted it, like I did with everything else in my life.

When he told me he wanted to go out with me, a part of me wanted to say no immediately. He doesn’t understand what he’s getting himself into. But, I couldn’t. That part of my heart I thought I buried six feet under managed to crawl its way out of the dirt every time he looked at me. So, I went on a date with him. And then two. Then three. You get the picture.

We’ve been seeing each other for about six months. At this point, there are some parts of my life I can’t hide: the fatigue, the brain fog, memory problems, and when he started sleeping over, my cart of medications and overflowed pill box. He never tried to pry. He would always rub my back after I choked down those pills and shivered from the nausea about to storm in. He listens patiently as I complain about my doctors being unresponsive and unhelpful. But, he’s never seen me at my worst. Those moments that creep in when I’m flaring up or the days I’m in remission and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s a truth I’ve been forced to bear over and over: what goes up must come down.

I had gotten used to that routine I created with him. Clark…hadn’t.

It all came to a halt one night after work. I fell asleep in the middle of writing an article for work, which happened right as Perry walked by my desk. When I suddenly woke up to find him staring at me, I tried to get back to work, but my hands were too weak to type. I watched him walk away, shaking his head, much to my dismay. And, I went out on an interview with Lois, but was standing and walking around for too long. I started to stutter asking questions and lose the ability to continue a conversation with our interviewee. Lois, I’d like to believe, was more concerned than anything. But, that might be wishful thinking.

I like to pretend there’s nothing wrong with me at work. Because, as far as they know, there isn’t. I take pride in being able to accomplish everything with no pitiful stares or artificial praise only given because I could despite my circumstances. Everyone has high expectations of me and I worked hard to earn those. But, there are costs that come with that. These days are one of them.

I swallowed my feelings as I felt the back of my throat tighten. I refused to look at Clark. There were already tears building up in my eyes and if I looked at him, the dams might just break.

At 5 PM, I pack up my things and Clark walks me home. Our apartments aren’t that far from each other and I always tell him we can split off halfway there, but he always passes up on the offer. As we walk, we fall into the same routine: he asks if I’m okay, I brush it off and say it happens, and change the topic at the right moment and hope he forgets what we were talking about. I thought I was getting away with it, until I tried unlocking my door. His hand stops me, fingers gently brushing my wrist. He looks at me like I’ve swam too far from shore, desperately yelling at me to find my way back.

“...You know you can talk to me right?” He says quietly. Slowly.

I furrow my brow, feigning confusion, but nod quickly.

“I know.”

He grimaces. “...Do you?”

I let out an awkward laugh, almost painfully.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He sighs, grabbing my keys from my hand to open the door and gently guiding me in, taking my bag off my shoulder and leaving both of ours near the door.

I feel my chest tighten as he walks in front of me, crossing his arms and staring me down.

“Honey, I saw you nearly crying at your desk today. It’s okay, you don't have to hide it. Everybody has bad days.”

Yeah, well I’m not everybody, am I? I just shrug and scoff.

“I mean, yeah I was upset, but I’m fine now. It happens.”

He breathes through his nose. “It’s not just today. I’ve been patient about this and trying to give you space to come to me, but I’m reaching a limit here. You know, part of this,” he points between us, “is you being able to talk to me. About anything! I’d never judge you for any of it.”

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my eyes and letting out a sigh. “It’s not about that, Clark.”

His hands move up into the air and forcefully rest on his hips. “What is it then? Tell me!”

“It’s nothing!” I say, my voice reaching a new pitch.

“It’s not nothing; you were crying! Gosh,” he pinches his nose before looking up, “did I say or do something to make you not wanna trust me?”

I feel a pang in my heart. My chest gets tighter. “It’s…it’s not you, okay? Of course, I trust you. This isn’t about you,” My voice breaks.

“Then, what is it?!” He says desperately, voice slightly raised.

My mouth opens and closes. I stand there frozen, looking down at the ground and hoping it would swallow me whole. He stands there as his eyes burn holes on my head, waiting for me to speak, but to no avail. He nods resignedly and grabs his bag to leave. I hear him grab the doorknob and the creak that follows as it turns, the sound reverberating in my body. I think I hear him walk out when that chest pain turns into mounting nausea. My eyes go wide as I run to the bathroom, tie up my hair, and violently vomit into the toilet.

All I can hear are the sounds of retching: the bile burning my throat. I don’t hear Clark drop his bag and rush back in. I don’t hear him slowly walk into the bathroom. I don’t hear him quietly sit behind me. I feel him gently brush the hair that fell from my tie out of my face. I feel him soothingly rub my back with his fingertips, not wanting to startle me too much.

The retches turn to sobs. All the crying I wouldn’t allow myself to indulge in is suddenly coming out: the dam finally breaking loose. My breathing turns into hiccups and he tries guiding me through it by taking deep breaths, his hand on my back following them. In. Out. Up. Down.

Once I’ve calmed down enough, he stands up and takes me with him with one hand on my waist. I feel him guide me over to the sink and, out of the corner of my eye, grab a towel off the hanger. He wets it and wipes my mouth, gently taking my hand and letting me grip it. As I clean myself off he wordlessly goes into my medicine cabinet and grabs my mouthwash, filling up the cap and handing it to me. I take it without question.

After I gargle and spit it out, the bathroom falls silent. Clark is still rubbing my back. I’m looking down at the sink basin, not able to look at him with how disgusting I feel. He clears his throat guiltily.

“I’m sorry.”

I turn towards him slightly at the sound of his voice.

“I shouldn’t have tried walking out like that. I get…uncomfortable with conflict and instead of staying and handling it I chose not to deal with it and that wasn’t okay. I also,” he pauses and takes a breath, “I was short with you going into the conversation and I-I just got worse from there. I know that there’s something deeper going on and I shouldn’t have approached you that way.”

He takes one of my hands and holds it in both of his, kissing it. “I’m sorry I stressed you out that much, honey. That wasn’t okay.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head: the sound of his voice like sand on concrete, trying to hide the disappointment he feels in himself.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, fidgeting with my fingers.

I nod and turn towards him now, still not quite looking at him, but I fidget with his while I figure out what I’m going to say. He lets me.

“Did you know I used to be an Astrophysics major?” I croak out.

I see his eyebrows raise out of the corners of my eyes in awe. I give him a tight smile and nod.

“At my sixth grade graduation, we had to all get up on stage and tell them what we wanted to be when we grew up. I said an astronomer. I lost interest a year later, but I found it again when I got older. I was actually accepted to college as an Astrophysics major. But, after my first year…everything went downhill.” I swallow and clear my throat. If I stop talking, I’m never gonna say it.

“I was undiagnosed until the end of my first year. Before then they were just giving me autoimmune medications they thought would work. After that, I changed to a stronger medication and I thought that was the end of it. But…the diagnoses just kept coming. I couldn’t keep up with the classes. I mean, I didn’t care about the classes either in comparison to everything else, so my grades dropped and I had to drop the major.”

I feel Clark slowly caress my hands, silently encouraging me even as I feel my throat get tighter.

“I chose journalism because I didn’t hate it and I didn’t love it,” I let out a strained laugh, “I like writing enough and I wanted to make a difference, so it seemed like a good call. I’d be able to find a steady job eventually. I was just…trying to find a way to survive. Not really… living. I’ve had to give up so much to get here and to be who I am now, but it doesn’t stop in college. It just keeps going.”

My voice cracks. I feel the burn of my tears scar my face before Clark wipes them off one by one. I sniffle and let out a hoarse sigh.

“I’m sorry I didn’t want to tell you about any of this. Honestly, I still don’t. You’re like…the embodiment of sunshine and my life is a giant gloomy cloud that’s just gonna get bigger. And, you might not realize it now, or even think this is a possibility. But, at some point, you’re gonna get tired of it. God knows I am.” I laugh self-deprecatingly. Clark, unfortunately for me, does not think this is funny.

“You deserve to have a life where you don’t have to worry about hospital bills or health problems that aren’t yours or…giving up parts of your life that you wanted to meet my needs. Cause I’m gonna need you more than you’re ever gonna need me,” I choke on a sob, “And it’s not fair to you.”

My shoulders sag and my head side-leans onto his chest. He shushes me as I cry, holding me tightly and rocking side to side. I get frustrated with the hair falling onto my face and I try moving it myself, but he takes the hand strangling my hair and holds it instead, brushing the strands out himself.

I breathe with him, remembering what he was trying to get me to do earlier, until I stop hiccuping and my stomach is no longer in knots. We still sway together: our hips gently hitting the sink counter every other second. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of his heartbeat, steady under my ear. He kisses my forehead and gently tilts my face up to meet his, softly smiling now that I’m finally looking at him.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to listen to me, alright?” He asks quietly.

“I love you. Loving you doesn’t mean a cost-benefit analysis on our relationship. You’re not a product: you’re a person… A really wonderful and beautiful person,” His voice cracks at the end, “Gosh, I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

“But, it isn’t about that Clark-” I start.

“I want you to rely on me,” he interrupts, “Just like I do with you. Even when I come in through the window at the worst hours of the night, and you’re dead tired, you still get up. You listen. Even when I can see you fighting sleep, because you care and you want me to be okay. You don’t even think about it in the moment. You do it because you love me. And, if you love someone that much, you choose to be strong for them. You carry their weight too… Not literally; I might shatter you.”

That gets a small laugh out of me and he breaks out into a smile, his eyes adorably crinkling at the edges.

“What I’m trying to say is…this isn’t as hard for me to accept as you think it is. I love you more than anything in the world, so I don’t have to do much thinking here. I want you in my life in any way I can have you and I’d really like it to be this,” he gives me a quick kiss, “for a while. A long while, actually, if you’re up for it - wait I-I’m sorry, that’s a different conversation-”

I really laugh this time and he smiles again, somehow more brightly, and leans down to kiss me again. I gently lean myself up towards him and softly press his lips to mine. I feel him exhale against me, letting one hand holding mine go to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me closer to him. When we pull apart, our eyes are still closed until they slowly open and find each other. I get lost in his for a moment, forgetting where I am and daydreaming about the oceans trapped in them.

“Do you get it now?” He says, breaking the silence. I tentatively nod.

He gives me a small smile. “It’s okay if you don’t. But, can you let me show you? Let me prove to you I’m in it for the long run?”

I let out a small sigh. “I mean, I don’t even know what this is gonna look like in a few months from now, let alone, like, years from now. Your life is already crazy enough as it is and I’m just gonna keep adding more stuff to it.”

“You keep talking about this like you’re burdening me. You’re not, honey. I choose this. I want you. That’s it. You can ask me again in another few months or years, I will give you the same answer. Just watch. I’ll show you…let me show you,” He speaks in a way that feels like he’s trying to challenge me, but I can see the lingering hope in his stare. He just wants me to trust him.

It takes the air out of my lungs, giving myself over to another person like that. Trusting him not to leave a life I didn’t even want in the first place. Not to leave me stranded or resent me for what’s to come. But, I want to believe that, after everything I’ve been through, perhaps I’m meant for something good. That maybe, instead of surviving, I can choose to live. I can choose to love him instead.