Michael Aaron Hart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justalittlecrush) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamlikenewyork2016-10-15 08:55 pm
justalittlecrush) wrote in dreamlikenewyork2016-10-15 08:55 pm
"I'm everything I am because you loved me."
Who: Michael with Paris, and a side order of Beau
What: Progressing slowly
Where: Oncology HDU, Mount Sinai
When: Few days after Paris' operation
No matter how tired Michael was, he wouldn't leave Paris for anything length of time that wasn't absolutely vital. That meant to go home and shower, change his clothes, and to get food. There were perks to having married a millionaire. Paris' was paying for the absolute top healthcare and treatment here, which meant he had a private room (of course), and it meant Michael had leeway on visiting. They hadn't asked him to leave at all, which meant he was pretty much sleeping every night in a leather recliner by the window of Paris' room.
In the wake of the brain tumour biopsy, Tara ordered immediate surgery to go in and remove it. Not only were Paris' cancer markers showing that it was aggressive, but from the rapid progression of his symptoms and how the tumour was affecting basic functioning, they had to get it out before it caused any permanent damage. Even then, she couldn't promise that there weren't serious risks of any sort of brain surgery. They had to be prepared that there might be complications.
Those complications would likely be in the areas he was having symptoms, meaning the area of the brain controlling those functions was where the tumour was growing. From what Paris reported, it had been dizziness and light-headedness, loss of balance, vision disruption and speech issues. He had specifically told Michael that right before he passed out at the party in London, he hadn't been able to feel his legs or talk. That had fucking terrified Michael, so he could only imagine how much it scared Paris.
And Paris didn't easily scare. Michael knew that. He was tough as fucking balls. He let very little bring him down. But he had seen the fear in Paris' eyes with this. Not just that night in London after he told Michael he thought he had a brain tumour, but ever since then. Every time he had another symptom. Yet, he still tried to push on. He tried to go to work, and again passed out. After losing consciousness at work, he didn't get back on top of it. He had a vertigo that kept him mostly bedridden. Tara pushed the appointment forward, marking him as urgent. She said it was vital to do the surgery ASAP because it was clear the tumour was aggressive. It wouldn't wait. It would keep growing and affecting more and more of his functioning. Without removing it, it would kill him.
After receiving that new, Michael had walked out of the Oncology Clinic and into the nearest bathroom to throw up because he panicked. He had been trying to hard to hold it together, but he wasn't. How could he? How the hell were you supposed to hold it together when someone was warning the person you loved more than life might die? Though, so far, Paris was proving to be every bit the fucking trooper he was. The surgery had gone without a hitch, not a single complication. However, he did have a seizure in recover, which again, freaked Michael out. Tara came to sit with him and explain that when you dug around in someone's brain where all the neurological nerve-endings were, these sort of hitches weren't uncommon. Paris would have inflammation on the brain where the tumour was removed. It could be a rough road for a few weeks, or even months. It was all a matter of waiting and seeing how he held up. What she was 100% adamant about was that, no matter how headstrong and proud Paris was, he was going to need help, and a lot of it.
So, they waited. It was hard knowing that was all they could do, but Michael would wait forever. The first few days were really rough. Paris couldn't open his eyes without severe vertigo making him extremely sick. So, they knocked him out with sedatives, because apparently vomiting inflamed the blood vessels in the head, and they couldn't risk bursting the sensitive clamping of the tumour op site. It wasn't life support, thank fuck, but it was still scary. All Michael could do was sit there and watch every breath Paris took, counting the beeps of the cardiac monitor. Then there were three more seizures. By the third, Michael was ashamed to admit he had a complete meltdown, demanding to know why they weren't caring for him. Again, Tara came and sat with him for a long time, longer than she needed to, and sat holding his hand while she explained that they couldn't count any chickens yet. Paris' brain had to have time to heal from the evasive surgery. It took time.
Now, Michael was still sitting by Paris side. He was holding his hand while he watched this charity video of Paris dancing in his underwear to Lady GaGa for testicular cancer awareness. It felt ironic now. It reminded him of how Paris was normally, and it made him laugh, because Paris had a wicked sense of humour. He had been watching it over and over with an earbud in one ears, probably to keep reminding himself how alive Paris could be. He didn't so much look it right now. In between watching, he was texting with Marty. He really appreciated people asking how Paris was doing. It meant they cared. It meant he wasn't alone.
He could hardly keep his eyes open. His head was propped up on his hand and he was using the side of the hospital bed to lean heavily on. He couldn't remember ever being this tired in his whole life, which was saying something considering how far deadlines were pushed at the magazine some months. He needed a shave too. Paris wasn't really a fan of his scruffy look because he hated the thought of beard rash. Paris was definitely the very-clean shaven type, and it had always been Marty who preferred the five o'clock shadow anyway. His eyes were crossing staring at the screen and he was just about to gift himself with a stretch when he felt Paris' hand weakly shift in his fingers.
Michael looked up and found Paris had woken... sort of. His eyes were only open a little, probably all he could manage. They were red-rimmed, swollen and bloodshot. He was so pale. Normally, he was fair as it was, but it was a sickly pasty pallor now. No way would Michael let him get near a mirror right now or he would be wanted stylists, and stat. He knew his husband. He would have to literally be dead before he quit on grooming, and even then, he'd come back as a ghost to make sure he looked fabulous in the casket. "Try not to move, baby. What's hurting?" That was a better question than 'How are you feeling?'. Asking someone that in the condition Paris was was sheer stupidity.
Still, even as sick as he was, Paris managed the faintest of bitchglares at the question. "M'balls are hurting. What d'you think?" was the hoarse mumble. "Need water."
Michael couldn't deter a hint of a smile at the response. He deserved that. Paris communicating with him was excellent progress. Tara warned his speech could be affected. "You can't, sweetheart. Nil by mouth. They can bring you ice chips to suck on if you want them. Even then, only at a time because you nearly choked on them last time they offered them."
"'kay."
Michael moved from the chair tot he sit on the side of the bed so Paris didn't need to move his head or strain to see him. He had closed his eyes again, so Michael didn't push him. He didn't interrogate him. He just made sure he could feel he was close if he was awake and conscious to his surroundings. All around them, Michael had bouquets and bouquets of roses delivered by Lorenzo, five every day. Paris loved roses. Pink ones, they reminded him of his mom. There were numerous shades of pink Lorenzo had come up with, and that wasn't even counting the flowers other people had sent Paris as well-wishes. No one but their immediate family knew it was a brain tumour yet, though. Michael had put his foot down that no one was to know until Paris woke up and gave the green light on it.
He rung the nurses' buzzer to get some ice chips. It was the last offering of them that Paris had a seizure and choked, nearly going into respiratory arrest. Tara ordered ice shavings only if Paris wanted them. They couldn't give him anything else by mouth until they knew he could tolerate it.
It wasn't a nurse who came, it was Beau. "He's awake? I told you, Mikey, no fucking snogging behind my back. We can't have this place turning into a strip show on my watch," he was joking in true Beau style. "Sleeping Beauty looked way better than you did, bud. You want your man here to give you a sponge bath?"
Miraculously, at Beau's joking, Paris smirked and weakly flipped Beau off. "H'was sucking my dick right b'fore y'came, y'know."
Michael shook his head, also smirking now. "He wants water," he explained.
Beau was making some notes in Paris' chart. It was still amusing to Michael how Beau wrote in those charts. He was left-handed, so he kind of hooked his arm over the top of it so he didn't smudge his writing. All the little things Michael had noticed being super-conscious of everything happening in the wake of Paris' surgery. "No can do, bud. You'll be Linda Blairing all over the place, and then your brains might explode out of your ears and your nose. Then we'll have less porno, more B-grade horror movie. Your gut's still sleeping from the anesthetic. You try to swallow, it will come right back up again and that causes all sort of pressure on your brain we don't want."
A joke, and then the medical explanation. Michael watched Paris' responses to Beau. Beau and Tara were a dream time. He could tell Paris trusted them. Beau stepped out to the corridor briefly, flagging a nurse to get some ice. He handed the cup to Michael. "One at a time. Wait until the first is melted before the next. These are smaller, they won't obstruct anything if there's another seizure."
Michael waited while Beau took Paris' obs. Paris was still reporting nausea and severe head pain. He had pins and needles in his legs and hands. He couldn't handle the lights, hence why he was hardly managing to get his eyes open. Beau asked Michael if he had sunglasses, and put them on Paris. He said Paris might need sunglasses even in the softest light until he healed more. Photosensitivity wasn't anything to be concerned about yet, especially in hospital full of artificial lights. Beau left, telling Paris that Michael could give him a sponge down if he wanted it. Paris didn't. He didn't want to be moved or touched to much just yet. That, in itself, showed how ill Paris was feeling because normally he would have jumped at that.
"Seizure?" Paris finally asked when Beau was gone.
"Seizures," Michael corrected softly. "You've had three."
"Seizures, a hole in my head, a'now I look like Stevie Wonder."
Paris' eyes were hidden by the mirrors of Michael's Raybans. "Still beautiful."
The sounds from the machines were the only sounds filling the room when Paris didn't respond straight away. It stayed like that for so long, Michael thought Paris had gone back to sleep. As soon as he reached to tenderly brush Paris' blonde curls back from his damp forehead, Paris spoke. "I'm scared."
"You're not leaving me," Michael murmured.
"Did they get it all?"
Michael was the silent one then. "No. You need radiation."
"Fuck."
Michael didn't reply. He just leaned over and rested his head so gently down on Paris' chest, careful not to disrupt the wires feeding into the top of his hospital gown. He brought fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I'm here with you, baby. I'm not going anywhere."
NARRATIVE, COMPLETE
What: Progressing slowly
Where: Oncology HDU, Mount Sinai
When: Few days after Paris' operation
No matter how tired Michael was, he wouldn't leave Paris for anything length of time that wasn't absolutely vital. That meant to go home and shower, change his clothes, and to get food. There were perks to having married a millionaire. Paris' was paying for the absolute top healthcare and treatment here, which meant he had a private room (of course), and it meant Michael had leeway on visiting. They hadn't asked him to leave at all, which meant he was pretty much sleeping every night in a leather recliner by the window of Paris' room.
In the wake of the brain tumour biopsy, Tara ordered immediate surgery to go in and remove it. Not only were Paris' cancer markers showing that it was aggressive, but from the rapid progression of his symptoms and how the tumour was affecting basic functioning, they had to get it out before it caused any permanent damage. Even then, she couldn't promise that there weren't serious risks of any sort of brain surgery. They had to be prepared that there might be complications.
Those complications would likely be in the areas he was having symptoms, meaning the area of the brain controlling those functions was where the tumour was growing. From what Paris reported, it had been dizziness and light-headedness, loss of balance, vision disruption and speech issues. He had specifically told Michael that right before he passed out at the party in London, he hadn't been able to feel his legs or talk. That had fucking terrified Michael, so he could only imagine how much it scared Paris.
And Paris didn't easily scare. Michael knew that. He was tough as fucking balls. He let very little bring him down. But he had seen the fear in Paris' eyes with this. Not just that night in London after he told Michael he thought he had a brain tumour, but ever since then. Every time he had another symptom. Yet, he still tried to push on. He tried to go to work, and again passed out. After losing consciousness at work, he didn't get back on top of it. He had a vertigo that kept him mostly bedridden. Tara pushed the appointment forward, marking him as urgent. She said it was vital to do the surgery ASAP because it was clear the tumour was aggressive. It wouldn't wait. It would keep growing and affecting more and more of his functioning. Without removing it, it would kill him.
After receiving that new, Michael had walked out of the Oncology Clinic and into the nearest bathroom to throw up because he panicked. He had been trying to hard to hold it together, but he wasn't. How could he? How the hell were you supposed to hold it together when someone was warning the person you loved more than life might die? Though, so far, Paris was proving to be every bit the fucking trooper he was. The surgery had gone without a hitch, not a single complication. However, he did have a seizure in recover, which again, freaked Michael out. Tara came to sit with him and explain that when you dug around in someone's brain where all the neurological nerve-endings were, these sort of hitches weren't uncommon. Paris would have inflammation on the brain where the tumour was removed. It could be a rough road for a few weeks, or even months. It was all a matter of waiting and seeing how he held up. What she was 100% adamant about was that, no matter how headstrong and proud Paris was, he was going to need help, and a lot of it.
So, they waited. It was hard knowing that was all they could do, but Michael would wait forever. The first few days were really rough. Paris couldn't open his eyes without severe vertigo making him extremely sick. So, they knocked him out with sedatives, because apparently vomiting inflamed the blood vessels in the head, and they couldn't risk bursting the sensitive clamping of the tumour op site. It wasn't life support, thank fuck, but it was still scary. All Michael could do was sit there and watch every breath Paris took, counting the beeps of the cardiac monitor. Then there were three more seizures. By the third, Michael was ashamed to admit he had a complete meltdown, demanding to know why they weren't caring for him. Again, Tara came and sat with him for a long time, longer than she needed to, and sat holding his hand while she explained that they couldn't count any chickens yet. Paris' brain had to have time to heal from the evasive surgery. It took time.
Now, Michael was still sitting by Paris side. He was holding his hand while he watched this charity video of Paris dancing in his underwear to Lady GaGa for testicular cancer awareness. It felt ironic now. It reminded him of how Paris was normally, and it made him laugh, because Paris had a wicked sense of humour. He had been watching it over and over with an earbud in one ears, probably to keep reminding himself how alive Paris could be. He didn't so much look it right now. In between watching, he was texting with Marty. He really appreciated people asking how Paris was doing. It meant they cared. It meant he wasn't alone.
He could hardly keep his eyes open. His head was propped up on his hand and he was using the side of the hospital bed to lean heavily on. He couldn't remember ever being this tired in his whole life, which was saying something considering how far deadlines were pushed at the magazine some months. He needed a shave too. Paris wasn't really a fan of his scruffy look because he hated the thought of beard rash. Paris was definitely the very-clean shaven type, and it had always been Marty who preferred the five o'clock shadow anyway. His eyes were crossing staring at the screen and he was just about to gift himself with a stretch when he felt Paris' hand weakly shift in his fingers.
Michael looked up and found Paris had woken... sort of. His eyes were only open a little, probably all he could manage. They were red-rimmed, swollen and bloodshot. He was so pale. Normally, he was fair as it was, but it was a sickly pasty pallor now. No way would Michael let him get near a mirror right now or he would be wanted stylists, and stat. He knew his husband. He would have to literally be dead before he quit on grooming, and even then, he'd come back as a ghost to make sure he looked fabulous in the casket. "Try not to move, baby. What's hurting?" That was a better question than 'How are you feeling?'. Asking someone that in the condition Paris was was sheer stupidity.
Still, even as sick as he was, Paris managed the faintest of bitchglares at the question. "M'balls are hurting. What d'you think?" was the hoarse mumble. "Need water."
Michael couldn't deter a hint of a smile at the response. He deserved that. Paris communicating with him was excellent progress. Tara warned his speech could be affected. "You can't, sweetheart. Nil by mouth. They can bring you ice chips to suck on if you want them. Even then, only at a time because you nearly choked on them last time they offered them."
"'kay."
Michael moved from the chair tot he sit on the side of the bed so Paris didn't need to move his head or strain to see him. He had closed his eyes again, so Michael didn't push him. He didn't interrogate him. He just made sure he could feel he was close if he was awake and conscious to his surroundings. All around them, Michael had bouquets and bouquets of roses delivered by Lorenzo, five every day. Paris loved roses. Pink ones, they reminded him of his mom. There were numerous shades of pink Lorenzo had come up with, and that wasn't even counting the flowers other people had sent Paris as well-wishes. No one but their immediate family knew it was a brain tumour yet, though. Michael had put his foot down that no one was to know until Paris woke up and gave the green light on it.
He rung the nurses' buzzer to get some ice chips. It was the last offering of them that Paris had a seizure and choked, nearly going into respiratory arrest. Tara ordered ice shavings only if Paris wanted them. They couldn't give him anything else by mouth until they knew he could tolerate it.
It wasn't a nurse who came, it was Beau. "He's awake? I told you, Mikey, no fucking snogging behind my back. We can't have this place turning into a strip show on my watch," he was joking in true Beau style. "Sleeping Beauty looked way better than you did, bud. You want your man here to give you a sponge bath?"
Miraculously, at Beau's joking, Paris smirked and weakly flipped Beau off. "H'was sucking my dick right b'fore y'came, y'know."
Michael shook his head, also smirking now. "He wants water," he explained.
Beau was making some notes in Paris' chart. It was still amusing to Michael how Beau wrote in those charts. He was left-handed, so he kind of hooked his arm over the top of it so he didn't smudge his writing. All the little things Michael had noticed being super-conscious of everything happening in the wake of Paris' surgery. "No can do, bud. You'll be Linda Blairing all over the place, and then your brains might explode out of your ears and your nose. Then we'll have less porno, more B-grade horror movie. Your gut's still sleeping from the anesthetic. You try to swallow, it will come right back up again and that causes all sort of pressure on your brain we don't want."
A joke, and then the medical explanation. Michael watched Paris' responses to Beau. Beau and Tara were a dream time. He could tell Paris trusted them. Beau stepped out to the corridor briefly, flagging a nurse to get some ice. He handed the cup to Michael. "One at a time. Wait until the first is melted before the next. These are smaller, they won't obstruct anything if there's another seizure."
Michael waited while Beau took Paris' obs. Paris was still reporting nausea and severe head pain. He had pins and needles in his legs and hands. He couldn't handle the lights, hence why he was hardly managing to get his eyes open. Beau asked Michael if he had sunglasses, and put them on Paris. He said Paris might need sunglasses even in the softest light until he healed more. Photosensitivity wasn't anything to be concerned about yet, especially in hospital full of artificial lights. Beau left, telling Paris that Michael could give him a sponge down if he wanted it. Paris didn't. He didn't want to be moved or touched to much just yet. That, in itself, showed how ill Paris was feeling because normally he would have jumped at that.
"Seizure?" Paris finally asked when Beau was gone.
"Seizures," Michael corrected softly. "You've had three."
"Seizures, a hole in my head, a'now I look like Stevie Wonder."
Paris' eyes were hidden by the mirrors of Michael's Raybans. "Still beautiful."
The sounds from the machines were the only sounds filling the room when Paris didn't respond straight away. It stayed like that for so long, Michael thought Paris had gone back to sleep. As soon as he reached to tenderly brush Paris' blonde curls back from his damp forehead, Paris spoke. "I'm scared."
"You're not leaving me," Michael murmured.
"Did they get it all?"
Michael was the silent one then. "No. You need radiation."
"Fuck."
Michael didn't reply. He just leaned over and rested his head so gently down on Paris' chest, careful not to disrupt the wires feeding into the top of his hospital gown. He brought fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I'm here with you, baby. I'm not going anywhere."
NARRATIVE, COMPLETE