Dolly

misty checks the clock at exactly 8:57. you’re three minutes early. perfect. she likes it when the evening follows the rhythm she’s put in place, like the way a metronome guides a song; soft tick, soft tock. predictable and safe. 

the room smells faintly of lavender scented detergent and something sugary from that night’s dessert -- the ‘worm in dirt’ cup of pudding you’d made earlier that afternoon. the night light hums. it’s a gentle, amber glow in the corner. it’s already perfect, but misty fuses with it anyway, muttering something about it being ‘too bright’.

you’re already tucked in, knees curled beneath the quilt she folded at exact ninety-degree angles. misty smoothes a wrinkle from the edge even if she doesn’t need to. you know why everything has to be perfect; or at least, you know it makes mama feel good which is a good enough answer for you. 

“comfy?” mama asks. it’s not really a question so you don’t extend the energy to answer verbally; instead, you just nod. misty knew it already, though, she could tell. you always give yourself away with the way your shoulders drop. misty catalogues the habit like data. 

it’s affection disguised as observation. 

misty sits on the edge of your bed, that night’s story in hand. the cover is worn, the kind of story she’s read to you a million times. you never mind though. just like her, she knows your find comfort in patterns. in the safety of knowing what comes next.

her voice starts steady, almost clinical, before it softens without her permission. “and the rabbit said, ‘what is real?’” she reads, her eyes flicking up to watch your expression. you blink slowly, heavy-lidded, and misty feels something warm and small twist in her chest. 

halfway through the story, you shift. a quiet sound escapes, a wordless little noise that makes her pause. “you’re fine,” she says, far too quickly, before her voice softens again. “you’re okay, bug.” her hand hesitates above the blanket before settling. her fingertips brush your arm, and that’s it, but the small contact grounds the both of you.

she keeps reading. the rhythm steadies her pulse. by the final paragraph, your breathing has gone soft and even. misty closes the book softly, tracing the spine with her thumb. she should leave now, switch off the lamp, log the time in her notepad, but she doesn’t.

instead, she sits there and watches you sleep. not in the frightening way people think when they talk about her, but in the way she wants people to see her: attentive, present, needed.

you murmur something indecipherable, drowsy. misty leans in close enough to hear the sound, then whispers back, “sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

she smooths the blanket one last time, stands, and checks the night light before slipping out. in the hallway, she exhales, just once, quiet and satisfied. her checklist cycles through in her mind - diner, bath, story, sleep. all done. perfect order.

𑣲 jackie decorates her pumps to make them feel less medical. her room is already overtaken by medical supplies, she needs to find the joy where she can

𑣲 similarly, jackie loves having doodles on her feed bags. often times nat will draw on them for her or write an encouraging messages. often some variation of “i can do hard things” when jackie is struggling with tube feed intolerance

𑣲 jackie has beads of courage to symbolize her journey. each color represents something different - a night spent in the hospital, IV/blood draw, tube exchange, surgery, etc. jackie hangs them her IV pole with pride

𑣲 it’s often very therapeutic for her to string the beads and organize them into piles. it helps jackie put into perspective what she’s overcome and how far she’s come. sometimes it can be hard for her to look at - the ever growing reminder of the trauma. but nat says it shows her strength. she has made it this far, she has it in her to keep going.

𑣲 jackie has so many fun tubie pads, port covers, and clips. they help keep her tubing organized and her stoma clean. and just as important - they’re fun! jackie loves matching them to her outfit or finding ones in fun shapes. it makes her tube feel more like an accessory and less like a medical device.

𑣲 laura lee, who has always been very crafty, learns how to sew them for her. she also makes organizational cases for jackie’s syringes, as jackie is always losing them.

image credits- https://pin.it/1sPLcnUPi