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By dee_ayy

Disclaimer: Oh, please. They're not mine. You know that. They belong to 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. Even the silly storyline I'm playing with here is all theirs. I'm just goofing around, and I didn't hurt them. Honest. Marie, however, is all mine, and I kinda like her.

Rating: A for Angst. Lots of it. Nothing more, really. Just a couple of swear words.

Archive: Sure. Spread it far and wide. Go for it.

Feedback: Is what I live for. dee_ayy@yahoo.com This is unlike anything I have ever written, so I'm counting on hearing from you.

Thanks: Have to go out to Keryn, who was with me every step of the way, and to Kristina, who gave me an international perspective!

Spoilers: Redux II, mostly. Sort of. Not until the end, though.

Author's note: If you're like me, you hated the way Scully's cancer and miraculous remission were handled on the show. Anyone whose life has been touched by a loved one with terminal cancer knows that a few nosebleeds and a swoon isn't the way it usually happens. I was especially annoyed because I remember Chris Carter promising that he wouldn't treat it lightly. Well, I think he did. This is my little "fill in the blank" suggestion of what life might have been like for Dana and those close to her if they had wanted to be a little more realistic. But in the end I still gave her that miracle cure--character death just ain't my thing. For those who may not know, "hospice" refers to a medical philosophy of making the final days of terminally ill patients as pain- and worry-free as possible, and often entails allowing them to die at home. Most American hospitals and cities have hospice programs by now.

Summary: A third person recounts her experiences helping Dana and Fox come to terms with Dana's cancer. Written in journal form.
_________________________________________________________________
I Know

By dee_ayy
 

Friday August 1, 1997
Got my new assignment today. Her name is Dana. "Nasopharangyal tumor with mets to the blood" they told me, as if I care. I thought the whole point of hospice was to help the person, not worry about the disease. Still, it's good to know, I suppose. Good to know what to expect. But we never know what to expect. I'll make my first visit tomorrow. The home care coordinator comes with me-it's a first visit, after all. Gotta explain what we home aides can and can't, will and won't do. I never pay any attention. You do what you can. You do anything you can. That's why you're there. I bet the coordinator knows it, too. But they have to lay the ground rules.

Saturday August 2, 1997
Wow, is she beautiful. But so small and fragile, and looking so much older than her years. Her years. She's my age! Why do I find it so much more difficult with young people. I know, because it could be me. Mr. Hoffman was 82 when he died. He was a sweet old man, but he wasn't me. This could be me. This will be hard.

Anyway, Dana's eyes are so beautiful. So blue. And so tired. I meet these people and my first thought is always "What were they like when they were healthy, when they were full of life?" Was Dana outspoken? Was she raunchy? Did she like to laugh?

Was.

Look at that. Past tense already. I swore I'd never do that. But I swore I'd never delete anything from this journal, either-that would be cheating, revising my feelings. So I leave it, and I vow not to do it again.

Maybe she still is raunchy. Maybe she still is outspoken. Hopefully I'll have time to find out. Hopefully she'll still laugh. Today she was just tired. So tired. But she was just out of the hospital, just moved into her mom's house. How hard that must be, to be independent and then have to move back in with your mom. Hard to admit you can't take care of yourself. But at the same time, to be able to go home must be a wonderful thing. To have a home to return to. She's lucky that way.

I spent all afternoon there. Dana's mom, Maggie, would not leave her for a second. I told her that was why I was there. To help, so she wouldn't have to be so vigilant. But she wouldn't leave. I know why. I've been there. She's afraid. Afraid of missing something. An important moment, something Dana needs to say. When the clock is ticking, every moment has heightened importance. I know that.

I'll convince her that it's not ticking that quickly. That she needs to take care of herself so she can take care of her daughter. And that Dana needs time for herself, too.

Sunday August 3
When I arrived today Maggie told me to go upstairs and meet Fox, Dana's partner. Did I mention Dana was an FBI agent?

No, she IS an FBI agent. Dammit. Why am I doing this? Why so soon? If I went to the counselor at the hospice she'd probably tell me I am building this wall between me and her because we are the same age, because circumstances are so similar, because I could so easily identify with her and her pain if I let myself. Distancing myself. But that's unfair to Dana. So unfair. I hope I don't use the past tense in front of her family. I'll have to be careful.

I went upstairs and stood in the doorway, but didn't enter. Dana was asleep, and her partner was just sitting there, by her side, softly stroking the back of her hand, not saying a word. I watched him for a little while, but didn't say anything. When I turned to leave he looked up and saw me. I know he did. But he didn't say anything, didn't call me back. So I went back down and left them alone. I felt like I was eavesdropping on a personal conversation, even though the room was utterly silent. Strange.

I was helping Maggie fold laundry when he came downstairs. Maggie introduced me as "the woman from the hospice." I saw it in his face. It closed off completely when he heard the word "hospice." He hasn't accepted the inevitable yet. That's not uncommon. He was cordial, but that's all. Spent five minutes with us-long enough for him, when Maggie was out of earshot, to ask me to call him "Mulder" and not "Fox"-getting more fidgety with each moment until he had to go back upstairs. Back to her. By way of explanation Maggie simply said "they're very close." No kidding.

Wednesday August 6
We're trying to figure it out. The proper mix of drugs so Dana is comfortable, but not out of it. She'd rather be in pain than be in a stupor. That's easy to tell. But her headaches can be so horrible. Blinding. Literally. The doctors are trying to find a mix that prevents them altogether. But she doesn't want to be out of it. She'd lie about the pain before she'd let anyone knock her out. I know why. She's afraid to miss something, too. Just like her mom. Afraid to not be there if someone has something important to say to her. Afraid she won't be able to communicate if she has something to say. They're adjusting. Trying to figure out the proper protocol-not just for the drugs, but for the rest of her life as well. They will.

Fox (I call him Mulder to his face, as he asked, but he's Fox in my mind. Wonder why.) is there all the time. He's odd. Dana tries hardest when he's around. He calls her by her last name, too, Scully. It's kind of sweet. She sits herself up in bed, works hard at keeping her eyes open, no matter how badly she wants to close them. She asks him about work. He tells her bizarre tales of crazy people and bizarre things happening. Took me a while to realize that a lot of what they are talking about actually happened! Fox caught me listening wide-eyed once, and smiled. "Your tax dollars at work," is all he said. Then he returned to his normal routine-pretending I'm not there.

You see, if I'm not there, then it's easier to pretend that she's not dying.

Friday August 8
Dana had another good day today. No headaches. She convinced her mom to go out to lunch with her friends. So it was just the two of us. She wanted to talk. That happens. It's as if by talking nonstop you give weight, meaning, sense to your life. Or as if by sharing it with someone else, someone new, you don't really take it all with you when you go. She pretty much gave me her life story. Told me all about growing up a Navy brat, her brothers, her sister who died, about becoming a doctor, then deciding to join the FBI. But she stopped short. Stopped short of telling me about Fox. So I asked how long they've worked together.

She told me-over five years-but she didn't elaborate. Not at all. It's like they have a secret they won't share with anyone. I could be in the room when they are together, and they'd never know I was there. I remember that feeling. They hold hands, they look at each other. They talk sometimes, often they don't. I'm uncomfortable when they are together like that. Like I shouldn't be there.

I probably shouldn't be.

Monday August 11
She's feeling better. Stronger. She has come downstairs for parts of the day the last two. Yesterday when Fox walked in and found her curled up on the living room sofa, the look on his face was so bright, so hopeful. He smiled the first real smile I've seen from him, I think.

It broke my heart.

It ebbs and flows, there are good days and bad. These are good days. But the bad are coming. I know it. Dana knows it. She's a doctor. I think Fox knows it, too. But he's still pretending. Denial? That first stage? I suppose the textbooks would call it that. To a degree it is. But I think he knows, deep inside. It's behind his eyes. I can see it. Despair. But he's willing, so willing, to grasp at any sign of hope.

When the end is near, and the bereavement counselor comes, I'll have to make sure she doesn't forget Fox. They are technically only supposed to deal with immediate family. I'll convince her that this is exactly what he is.

Tuesday August 12
A friend told me today that she thought what I do all day is morbid. "They're DYING people, Marie! How can you spend all day with dying people? It's so depressing!" But it isn't. She thinks I'm still wallowing in my own pain. But I'm not. She doesn't understand that this is how I cope. This makes me feel better. Makes me feel like my experiences weren't just meaningless pain and sorrow-that they had a purpose, that I can take what I now know and help people through it, too. She's never lost someone this way. She's never lived through the pain. She's never watched someone she loves more than life itself slowly waste away before her eyes. She's never prayed to God to help her take their pain away, and make the end easier. For everyone. I'd have died right next to Daniel if not for hospice. They saved me. They showed me that the end of life doesn't need to be filled with fear and pain and trepidation. Not for me, and not for him. The least I can do is try to help other people facing this realize it too. It matters. But no one can understand, truly, unless they have been there themselves.

I look at Fox, and I want to tell him that I know. I DO know. Maggie already knows that I do. She guessed on the second day that I walk in shoes filled with experience. She just asked me if she could ask me a personal question. When I said yes, she asked "Who did you lose?" When I asked her how she knew, she said "There's a difference between sympathy and empathy. I can see it in your face."

Is it so obvious? Do I still, two years later, wear Daniel's death like a badge on my sleeve?

Maybe today, but in general I don't think so. Maybe it's only there when I'm here. When I'm working. When I'm with those who know. Or who will know soon enough.

I wonder if Fox sees it. I wonder if maybe that's why he steers clear of me. Maybe I scare him. Maybe I can't hide the sadness I still feel, and he sees himself two years down the road in me. No, that's nuts. He's too busy, struggling to accept this within himself, to be watching me.

Happy birthday, Daniel. I miss you.

Friday August 15
Dana is making plans. Putting her ducks in a row. I remember this like it was yesterday. It was so horrifying. The hospice people once told me it was healthy, it was to be expected, it was part of the process. So I told Maggie that. I found her sobbing in the kitchen when I arrived today. Dana had started telling her what she wanted her funeral to be like. I've only known her two weeks, but this is Dana for you. Organized, methodical. A funeral needs to be planned, so she should take care of it.

But really, Maggie is coping well. She has lost before-her husband, a daughter. But both were sudden, unexpected. Her daughter Melissa had actually been murdered. But this is something else entirely. No one really wants to plan a death. But that is exactly what Dana needs to do now. She needs to do it, for her peace of mind. It is part of "a good death" that hospice strives for. Dana needs to release the concerns and worries of her life, and if planning her own funeral is how she needs to do that, then that is what she needs to do. And we need to let her. And to help her. This is exactly what someone told me once, and it is exactly what I told Maggie. She told me she knows. I think she does.

But it doesn't make it any easier.

Dana was upstairs with a legal pad, making notes. She had lists for people. When I asked her if I could help her at all, she was sort of surprised. Her mom had tried to talk her out of doing this. I told her I wouldn't do that. That I understood she had stuff to take care of. But she wouldn't let me help her. She said she has to do this for herself.

Saturday August 16
Fox is out of town. Forced away for work. I heard him cursing their boss when he was here two nights ago. Dana just told him she'd be fine, and to go, and not worry about her. I wonder if this flurry of activity during his absence is a coincidence. I doubt it.

She was having trouble with double vision today. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, Dana has to keep her eyes closed until it passes, or she gets a headache that nothing can touch. Breakthrough pain, they call that. But she wanted to keep working. She wanted to get something finished before Mulder (that's what she calls him-I still don't know why I think of him as "Fox." Must be Maggie's influence.) gets back tomorrow. Her list for him. She asked me to write it down for her. It's long. Things he needs to know, like the passwords for her computers. Things to do now, like switch her sick leave to permanent disability at work. Things to do after, like where her lease for her apartment is, and how to properly sublet it until the lease was up; requests to donate her belongings to charity. Basically, she's asking him to do everything. I was surprised. She seems so protective of him, why would she ask him, of all people, to be the one to handle her affairs? She has three living immediate family members after all.

It wasn't my place-or was it? But I asked her why. Why she has so much for him to do. She told me it's his way. That when things are at their worst it is best for him if he has something to do. She said it would give him something to put his back up against, whatever that means. She then said that she thinks it will help him come to terms with the fact that she will be gone.

It was the first time I ever heard her actually say, in any terms, that she was going to die. She said it easily. I always feel a sigh of relief when they can speak of their own deaths easily. It is such a high hurdle to overcome. No one wants to do it, because it almost seems like you are giving up on life if you talk about your death. But it isn't. It's just pragmatism.

She's sure this is the right thing for Fox. She knows him. Better than anyone, I suspect.

I don't know him at all, so I wrote the list.

Sunday August 17
Days like this make me wonder why I do this. But then, days like this are WHY I do this.

When Fox arrived I cleared out fast. I didn't know if Dana was going to give him his list or not, but I didn't want to be there if she did. He was so happy to see her. So relieved. I think he was afraid she'd go while he was away, or that she'd have gotten worse, and wouldn't be the same person when he got back. But she is still her. She's still holding on.

I suspect that she would have held on until he got back no matter what. I can't figure them out. Sometimes they seem so formal with each other, so detached, so professional. And sometimes there is an intimacy that is almost unbearable for me to be around.

When I went downstairs to give the pair some time alone together I worked up the courage to ask Maggie about them. About Fox. "They've been through so much together" was all she said at first. All she wanted to say, I think. But as she washed vegetables from her garden she just started to talk. About her daughter. About him. About them. She admitted that she doesn't think she knows Fox that well. She doesn't think anyone does, except Dana. She told me about a time, years ago, when Dana had been missing. Kidnapped. She and Fox hadn't been working together that long then, only about a year. But he took it hard. He kept looking for her, day and night. He didn't sleep, he didn't do anything else. He was consumed with finding her. He was lost. But then Dana came back to them. Maggie said she'd always thought he was so consumed with finding Dana because he felt responsible. The man who had taken her was a man whose life Fox had saved. She didn't realize then what was happening between them. She'd thought it was just his guilt that had fueled him. She was quiet for a minute-thinking. Then she said she always hoped that her two daughters would find wonderful men to spend the rest of their lives with. It wasn't to be with her oldest daughter, Melissa. But it wasn't until just recently, when Dana got sick, that Maggie fully realized the extent to which it HAS happened for Dana. She thinks that by now her daughter and Fox are inseparable. Two halves that make a whole, but "not in the way people would expect." (I took that to mean no sex.) She said again that she doesn't know Fox at all, really, but the one thing she does know about him, though she's quite sure he's never said it out loud, is that he loves her daughter very much.

Then she cried--for both her daughters, I think; maybe a little for Fox. And I held her. Until the door slammed.

It was the back door, into the garden. It was loud. We both looked out the kitchen window and saw Fox pacing the yard in a fury. Then he stopped, with his back to us, and doubled over, as if in pain. After a minute he stood up and slowly walked to the back of the yard, leaned against the big maple back there, and sank to the ground.

Dana must have given him her list.

Maggie wanted to go out to him. I didn't think it was a good idea. I remember what it's like to actually be faced with the person you love telling you "I am dying. Face it. Help me face it." No one can help you. Not at first. I told her to let him have some time alone. Instead we went upstairs to check on Dana.

She was curled up, in the fetal position, with her back to the door. Maggie entered, I stayed in the doorway. I could see the pages of the list, in my handwriting, lying on the floor. Maggie was almost afraid to touch her daughter, I think. Afraid she'd somehow become even more fragile than before. She almost whispered "Honey, are you all right? What happened?"

I thought she'd be crying, that she'd be shattered. But she wasn't. She was calm. She sat up and let her mother gather her into a hug. Dana looked at me and asked "Where did he go? Is he all right?" I told her he was in the back yard.

"Go to him." She was talking to me. I could feel the fear rising in my body, from my feet up to my heart. I didn't WANT to go to him. I shook my head.

"You know what he's going through. You can help him. Go talk to him. Please." How did she know I knew? I hadn't told her about what happened to me with Daniel. I hadn't told anyone here the whole story. All I'd told Maggie was that my husband had died. That's all.

I refused again. I told her that I was here to make sure SHE was okay. That SHE was comfortable. Lame excuse-making.

She asked her mom to leave, said she wanted to talk to me alone. When Maggie left she asked me to close the door. My apprehension was enormous. I was scared to death of what she was asking me to do.

Why? I've helped lots of loved ones this way before. Why did the prospect of facing Fox at this moment, of helping him through this crisis, scare me so much? Am I identifying too much? Am I losing my objectivity? Did I EVER have any objectivity? Should I get out?

Those are questions for now. I didn't have time to ponder them earlier tonight. I had to decide. I asked her how she knew about me. She told me that her mom had told her. "But I didn't tell your mom much," I pointed out. "The rest I can see in your eyes," she said. Great. Guess I don't hide it well. Then she asked me again to help him. She told me that in order for HER to be okay, she needed to know that HE was. I went outside.

He was still sitting under the tree. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, and his head was buried in his arms, which were resting on his knees. When he heard me approach he looked up just long enough to identify who it was, and then put his head back down in his arms.

I asked him "Is there anything I can do?"

He didn't pick his head up. He spoke into his lap, and his voice was dead. "That was your handwriting, wasn't it?" I told him it was.

He looked at me then. There was anger-almost hate-in his eyes. I've seen it before. Blame the hospice worker. Blame the harbinger of death. But this time it cut me to the quick. "How can you do this?" he asked. He almost hissed it.

I misunderstood. I answered "Because Dana asked me to." But he wasn't asking about how I could write down a list. He wanted to know how I could be a hospice worker. He hadn't noticed about me. He didn't know. Not like Maggie and Dana knew. "How can you spend all your time with people who are... are... ddd... dy...." He almost said it. I watched him struggle with the word. In the end, he couldn't get it past his lips, and settled for "...so sick?"

I pointed out that I don't. I spend time with Maggie, with him, with the other friends and family who come through the door. Not just with Dana. He shot me a look. It was a helluva a look. I can't describe it, but it said "Bullshit." He doesn't understand yet. I was still standing over him, so I asked if I could sit. I took his silence as a yes, and sat down in the grass, facing him, but close. It was hot. But I don't think that's why I was sweating.

"I know what you are going through" I offered. I got that look again, then he down at his hands.

I took a deep breath and continued. It's still hard to say out loud sometimes. It hadn't been this hard in a long time. "I do," I told him. "My husband died over two years ago, of pancreatic cancer. He would have turned 36 years old last week. We'd only been married for seven months."

He looked up at me, sort of surprised. Then he said "Scully and I.... Dana and I.... We're not...." He stopped and looked far off into the distance. I told him that didn't matter. I asked him if she was the most important person in his life.

He looked at me for a long time. A really long time. Then his face softened. And he whispered. "Yes."

"Then it's the same thing," I told him. I told him he could do this. Could make it through this. That he had to-for her. His head had returned to his arms, but I heard him ask "How?"

I went to put my hand on his shoulder. A mistake. He recoiled, so I pulled it back. "How will you? I don't know. But you can, and you will-because you love her, don't you?"

When he looked at me, he saw tears in my eyes. He grinned ever so slightly, but it was a grin filled with sadness. He knew it was a rhetorical question. His eyes were full, but he didn't cry. I don't think he trusts me yet. But he did ask me "How did you do it?"

I told him I couldn't answer that. Everyone is different. You just do. But I did it because Daniel needed me, like Dana needs him. Never more than at the end of life. I watched the horror pass quickly across his eyes when I said the phrase "end of life." That's when I knew for sure that he hasn't accepted it yet. I continued by telling him I survived it by letting people help me. It's not easy, but it gets easier. And that's why I do what I do. To repay the favor, so to speak.

He called me a masochist. It made me laugh. Him too, a little.

I told him "Look, she needs you to be strong. She needs you to help her. If that means by subletting her apartment for her, then so be it. She knows what she needs from everyone, including you. But she also needs you to face what is happening here. You won't help her by pretending everything is fine, you know. That's a big mistake. I know."

He looked at me, then looked away and said "But I can't. I can't give up hope. I won't." He sounded so desperate. I remember what that's like. I wish I could forget.

When I touched his hand he didn't recoil this time. "I know," I told him. "It's okay. As long as you are there for her." The last thing I said before going inside was "and if you need someone to talk to, I'm always available. I can help, if you'll let me." It scared me to offer myself up like that. But you do what you can. You do anything you can. I can do this. I can.

He stayed in the yard for another hour, by himself. Maggie went out there for a few minutes. I saw her kiss the top of his head through the window. When he came inside he went straight back upstairs to Dana. When he left he had the list with him.

Monday August 18
A day off. But I made Maggie promise to call me if I was needed-for anything, by anyone. She knew I meant her and Fox as well as Dana. I know she did.

So, am I identifying too much? Am I losing my objectivity? Yes and yes, I think. I can't help it. Maggie said they are two halves that make a whole. I know that feeling. It hurts me all over again, watching these two people, about the same age as me and Daniel, walk the same path we did.

So should I get out? Probably.

But just as Fox said to me yesterday, I can't. I won't.

Tuesday August 19
Actually, it's Wednesday morning, August 20. I just got home. Is the journal entry for the day that I'm writing ABOUT, or the day that I'm actually writing? It's never come up before. I'm so tired. I can't remember feeling this tired since he died.

Breakthrough pain. Nose bleeds. Sensitivity to light. Nausea. Vomiting. And so much pain. Up until today Dana's physical condition had been general weakness. She was often like one of those infirm Victorian ladies, reclining in bed, suffering from a general-though in her case debilitating-malaise. Today it changed.

I don't know what it was that started it. Who knows. It started as a headache. We doubled her pain meds, as instructed. It kept getting worse. We added analgesics to the narcotics. Nothing. It kept getting worse. Dana is so strong, but she couldn't even hold out. By noon she was weeping, in the dark, curled in a tight little ball in the middle of the bed. Maggie sat with her, wiping her brow with a cool cloth, cooing to her.

When it was at its worst, Fox called. Maggie answered the phone. He must have heard Dana crying in the background. Maggie barely said a word to him before she had hung up. He was there less than an hour later.

When he walked in the bedroom Dana was begging me to give her another pill. I couldn't do it. He was confrontational immediately. "She's a doctor," he told me. "Give it to her. She's in pain."

"She's not talking as a doctor right now, Fox. I can't give her more pills yet. I'll overdose her." I called him Fox. To his face. I was momentarily mortified, but he didn't seem to notice.

What the hell did he care what I was calling him. What the hell was I doing caring what I was calling him?

We'd been on the phone with her doctor, with the pain management team at the hospice. We were doing everything we could. This happens sometimes. Maggie was frantic. Fox was beside himself. Dana was in agony.

He tried talking to her. He sat on the edge of the bed, stroked her forehead and he reminded her how many times she had made him feel better with the sound of her voice and the feel of her touch. "Let me help you now," he said to her. He was begging her.

It's not that easy. I know that, too. If he could, Fox would have taken every bit of her pain upon himself. I could tell, I remember. But it's not that easy. If only it was.

Dana just whimpered. Cried. Begged us to make it stop.

In the dark. It all played out in the dark. She couldn't stand the light. We realized she had a nose bleed when Maggie stroked her cheek and she felt the sticky wetness. We had to turn on a light to see, and Dana tried to shield her eyes. But it made her scream in agony. Maggie and I cleaned her up as best we could-as fast as we could, and returned the room to darkness. That's when we noticed that he was gone.

He'd fled. I was surprised it had taken this long, actually. Maggie told me to go check on him.

He wasn't hard to find. He was raving. In the kitchen. Pacing back and forth, talking to himself. Then to me, when he saw me in the doorway.

"I can't do this. I can't. You can't make me do this."

"You can't do what, Mulder?"

"You know. You told me that you know."

"Say it, Fox, say it. What can't you do?" I was replaying, almost word-for-word, a scene from my own life, two and a half years ago. Except that time I was in Fox's shoes.

"I can't stand this. I can't watch her like this."

"Like what?"

"In pain. Like that. It's killing me."

"No, it isn't, Mulder. It's not killing YOU."

"I know what you want me to say. I can't say it."

"You can say it. You have to say it eventually. You have to accept it, and you can't accept it until you say it out loud. Dana needs you to accept it. She needs you right now. What can't you do?"

He slumped back against the refrigerator door, and slowly slid to the floor. The tears started streaming down his face, and he finally said it, to the floor.

"I can't watch her die."

I went and knelt down next to him. I took his hands in mine, and forced him to look at me, and I told him what I had been told.

"Yes, you can. And it will be alright." What a glorious lie that is. It won't be ALL right, not ever again. It can't be. Especially not if it's your soul mate you are watching die.

I didn't know what to do while he cried. I wanted to gather him in my arms as someone had once gathered me, but I sensed that wasn't right. So I put my hand on the back of his neck; just enough contact so he'd know he wasn't alone. I don't know how long he cried, but eventually he became aware of what had just happened, and self-consciousness set in. I could tell he needed to regain his dignity. He stood up, straightened his jacket and tie, and retreated to the bathroom. He didn't look back at me. But that was alright. I understood. I went upstairs.

Maggie was on the bed, next to her daughter, rocking her in her arms. Still in the dark. Dana was whimpering, still in pain, though not as bad as before. Maggie looked up when she heard me come in and asked if he was okay. I told her I thought he would be.

He was only five minutes behind me. In the dark we couldn't see his face. He had taken off his jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Symbolic, I thought. He kicked off his shoes, and climbed onto the bed on the other side of his partner. "It's okay, Maggie," he said. "I have her." He folded Dana into his arms, almost like a doll, and rocked her and stroked her hair.

Dana was now complaining of being hot. It's a side effect of the drugs sometimes. I checked her for fever, there was none. We got a basin of ice water, and Fox started wiping her face and her arms with it, drenching himself in the process. I know he didn't even notice. You don't notice your own comfort at times like this.

It seemed to work for a while, but then she started complaining of burning up again. And then she got sick. I don't know if the pain, or the medicine, or the cancer made her sick. She was too weak, too tired, in too much pain to give us any warning. She just vomited all over herself, all over Fox, all over her bed.

I was just about to peel Fox off of her so I could get to work cleaning her and the bed, when he did the most amazing thing. "Go turn off the lights in the hall and the bathroom. Put the shower on. Cool." When I tried to protest, telling him she didn't have the strength to stand in the shower, he told me "I know. Just do it."

I did. He picked her up like she weighed nothing. And with her cradled in his arms, covered in vomit, he took her to the bathroom. Once there, he stepped into the shower, and held her, letting the water clean them both, and cool her, fully clothed.

He CAN do this. He found that out today.

Around midnight we had the doctor come in and give Dana an IV shot. No one wanted to resort to that, because it can mess her up for days, weeks even, and who knows if she has that kind of time. Who knows if we'll get her back. But we had no choice, we couldn't let her suffer like that. We took turns sitting with her, making sure she was okay, was sleeping comfortably, was still breathing-though none of us dare say that out loud. I just got home. It's 6am. I promised I'd be back by noon.

I think I may be getting too involved in this one.

Wednesday August 20, 2pm
It's quiet. Dana is sleeping. Everyone is sleeping except me. I brought my journal with me, because I didn't know when I'd get home, and because trying to remember everything that happened last night was difficult when I got home this morning. So I'll keep it with me, and try to jot things down when I can, so my thoughts and feelings remain fresh, and I can think about them later.

When I got back here I found everyone asleep. No surprise after last night. Maggie was dozing lightly on the sofa. I left her there. Fox was asleep in the chair by Dana's bed. He'd changed clothes-now he's in jeans and a black tee shirt instead of his messed-up suit. I presume he went home. I don't know.

I woke him. He jumped and got that look of momentary panic that you get when you are waiting for the inevitable and someone startles you. I told her she was fine, she was asleep. I told him he was exhausted and to go find somewhere to get some sleep. When I asked him why he chuckled at that, he just said, sadly, "Someone I know tells me to do that all the time." I know who. He didn't need to say it was Dana. He was looking at her the whole time he spoke to me.

I promised I wouldn't leave her. I think he's across the hall now, in one of Dana's brother's rooms. I haven't gone looking. I promised I wouldn't leave her.

The last thing Fox said to me before he left the room was "Sometimes, when she's asleep like this, it's almost easy to forget."

He's right. She looks almost fine. With her eyes closed you can't see the hollowness, the pain in them. I suspect she always had the fine bone structure she shows now, and therefore isn't looking gaunt compared to how she used to look. I don't know that for sure, though. But right now, as I look at her, she looks like anyone who is sleeping peacefully.

But you can't forget, not ever, not for a second. It's like a pin constantly jabbing you, a pain that is always there, and even though you can function with it, it won't go away. That's why he said "almost easy." And nights like last night make sure you never forget. It's like the disease needed to rear his head, to exert his will and remind everyone who is in control.

Wow, look what I just did. Personalized the disease. WHO is in control? No, WHAT. Made it male, too. Wonder what THAT means! But sometimes it's easier to deal with if you assign human characteristics to it. But that's something loved ones do, not hospice workers. We're not supposed to. I'm doing all the things we aren't supposed to do. I know that.

I don't care.

Wednesday August 20, 9pm
I never did get back to my journal at the Scully house. Too busy. Dana woke up around 3. She was okay. Weak, tired, but lucid and not in pain. That was a relief. I hadn't had the heart to tell Maggie and Fox that she might not be herself after being so heavily medicated, or that we might have to keep her heavily medicated from now on. But she lucked out. The visiting nurse came by, and the decision was to put her back on the palliative pain medications she had been on, and hope for the best. So far so good.

When she first woke up it was still just me. Maggie and Fox still slept. She asked where her mom was, and I asked her if she wanted me to get her. She said no. Then she asked if Mulder was still here. She smiled when I told her he was asleep. "No kidding?" she asked. I said he was, as far as I knew. She told me she'd bet he wasn't sleeping.

Then she asked me if it was starting. Actually, she said "It's starting, isn't it." I thought I knew what she meant, but I didn't want to presume. So I asked "What?"

"The end."

It's all she said. I don't know the answer to that question, and I told her so. Everyone is different. Every cancer is different. And frankly, I have no experience with this one. I left the door open. I knew it the minute I said it.

She asked me about Daniel. What he died of. She asked me if I minded talking about it.

I do mind. A lot. But I couldn't say that to her, not now. So I answered her questions. She wasn't very interested in the specifics of his disease-she knows them; she's a doctor. She wanted to know about us. About how I felt when he died. I couldn't answer her questions. Not to her satisfaction, anyway. Then it hit me.

"Why are you asking me these things?" I asked.

"I need to know," she said. "I need to know what it will be like for the people I leave behind."

"For Mulder?" I asked.

"For Mulder." She answered. "Can you help him?" she asked. "Will you?"

"I don't understand you two," I told her.

"Neither do I, half the time," she said. "But it won't be easy for him, I know. He'll need help even if he says he doesn't. I need to know there will be people looking out for him after I'm gone."

"There will be," I promised. "I'll make sure of it." What the hell kind of promise was that to make? How can I make sure of something like that? I don't know if he has family. I don't know anything about him. I don't know if he'll ever want to lay eyes on me again after this is over.

And as if possibly making hollow promises to a dying person isn't enough, I heard a door close. I got up and looked, and the door to Mulder's room was open, and he was nowhere to be found. What did he hear?

When he entered the room a few minutes later, he wasn't surprised to see her awake, that much I could tell. But I couldn't tell if he'd heard. His face didn't give anything away. Nonetheless, the smile was one of pure relief. I hadn't told him that we might not have gotten Dana back, but he must have known. He knew enough to be thrilled that she was back. He told me I could go. That he'd sit with Dana.

I went downstairs and woke Maggie, She went up to be with Dana, too. I left the three alone, and went to make some dinner for them. I'm no cook, so it was just soup and sandwiches. Mulder wouldn't eat, despite the chiding from Maggie and me. Told us he'd eaten something earlier in the day. But he sat with us. Watched us eat, yet nary a bite crossed his own lips.

Thursday August 22
I knew it. I knew I should have forced him to eat. This afternoon Fox was lost in another world, staring off into space while sitting by a sleeping Dana. I came in and told him to take a break, I'd sit with her. I must have startled him, and he stood up quickly.

And went down just as quickly. He just crumpled back into the chair. Before I could get to him, he had put his own head down between his knees-like he was well-versed in what to do. I knelt by his side, and when I touched his shoulder he just whispered "I'm okay. Just a head rush." He picked his head up, took a deep breath, and said "I stood up too quickly."

I felt for his pulse, which seemed fine, maybe a little fast. But when I did this, he leaned his head back against the back of the chair, and sighed. I saw the sadness pass across his face, and he said, almost whispered, "I'm fine." He said it wistfully, sadly. He wasn't saying it to convince me of anything. He was a million miles away.

"Tell me the truth. When is the last time you ate anything?"

He grinned at me. More resignation, though. "I don't remember," he said.

"Have you eaten anything since you got here?"

"I don't think so." That was two days. Two days since he'd eaten anything. No wonder he was passing out. I made him get up and go downstairs with me, into the kitchen. Maggie was in there, and I watched Fox go into "save face" mode. He asked Maggie to go upstairs and sit with Dana. He needed a break and he thought she might be waking up, he said. When she left he sank into a chair at the table.

I raided the cupboards, trying to find something he'd eat. Toast, He wanted toast. Not exactly bursting with nutrition, but it was something, anyway. But I wouldn't make him any coffee. ("What do you want, and ulcer?")

As he ate I spent a minute pondering whether or not to give him the "You have to take care of yourself" speech. Turns out I didn't have to.

"I know what you want to say," he said. "Oh do you?" I asked.

"I know. I have to take care of myself. I know. But it's not like I do it on purpose. I eat when I'm hungry. I wasn't hungry."

"You lied, Mulder. You lied yesterday when you said you'd eaten something."

 He sighed. "It was easier than trying to pretend to eat when I didn't want to."

I know all about this, too. I remember being so consumed with what is happening that you don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't bathe. Nothing about yourself matters any more, you are too consumed with what is happening. At least that's what happened to me, and that's what I told him. He didn't want to hear it.

"Why do you tell me these things about yourself?" he asked me.

"Because you need to hear them, I think," I said.

"HOW can you tell me these things about yourself? You don't even know me."

"I don't know, Mulder," I told him. "Maybe because I think you need to hear them. You're right, I don't know you. But I know what you are going through."

He was eating his toast quietly, resentfully, and I just couldn't let it go. I had to say one more thing. Stupid. "Mulder, you HAVE to take care of yourself. You won't be of any help to anyone if" is as far as I got. He interrupted me.

His voice was pleading, almost panicked. "Please, please, I know. Please stop, Marie. You sound too much like. . . ." His voice trailed off as he spoke, and his head dropped. He sighed and didn't finish. Didn't need to. Shit. I should have known. He'd told me yesterday, in so many words, that Dana looked after his wellbeing. I'd made my point, I didn't have to make it again.

I suggested he go outside and get some fresh air. He went. More to get away from me than anything, I think.

But he said my name. For the first time.

He was still outside when the visiting nurse showed up. I asked her to go out and check on Mulder for me, just to make sure it was nothing more than not eating. I watched the drama unfold through the kitchen window. He protested. A lot. I don't know what Alice said to him, but the next thing you know they were coming inside. He sat at the table, and rolled up his sleeve, and let her take his blood pressure. He glared at me the whole time, and finally said "I'm humoring you, you know." I knew.

His blood pressure was low. Alice bet his blood sugar was, too. She made him drink a glass of orange juice in her presence. We were treated to a few choice words about being treated like a child. He swore he wasn't having trouble sleeping, but Alice obviously didn't believe him and said "If you are, you can get a prescription for a mild tranquilizer from your doctor."

"No, I can't," he said. "My doctor is upstairs." Christ, we're all saying the wrong things lately.

Oh, man, look at this. Didn't even mention Dana. But frankly, I was more concerned with Fox today. That happens sometimes. Dana was okay. Her pain is under control, it seems, but her energy is low, and light continues to bother her eyes, so she stays in dimness, with the shades drawn, and the lights low.

This afternoon she told me that she misses the sunshine.

Friday August 23
Dana sent Fox to the office today. He most definitely did not want to go. I think she wanted him to get away from her, from this, for a while. What she doesn't understand is that there IS no getting away. Fox takes it with him everywhere he goes, all the time. I know. I remember. But it makes her feel better to think that she's restoring some semblance of normalcy to his life, I think.

She tried to get her mom to go out, too, but that was a futile battle. Maggie won't be going anywhere, that's for sure. She told her daughter "This is my home, you are my life. Why would I go anywhere now?"

That started the inevitable "I'm sorry I'm such a burden" speech from Dana. In every home I have ever come to, the patient (God, I hate that word, but what else do you say?) goes through the phase where they feel like a horrible burden ruining everyone's lives. Maggie protested, but Dana wouldn't hear it. She was convinced she was nothing but a weight around everyone's necks, pulling them down.

Maggie couldn't get her to see it differently. She finally left the room in tears of frustration.

I told Dana she was wrong. That this is a precious time, for both her and her loved ones. It's a chance for the people who love her to show her how much. A chance to say the things that might otherwise go unspoken. This time is no burden, it's a gift.

Maggie had been in the doorway. She'd been listening. She came in and sat down, with tears streaming down her face, took Dana's hand and said "She's right. I didn't get this chance with Melissa. Or with your dad. This is the most precious time in my life, Dana. If I could take this away from you, you know I would. But since I can't, I can't think of a single place on earth I'd rather be than here with you now."

Maggie Scully is an amazing woman.

I finally met Dana's boss today, too. Walter Skinner. Or "Sir," as Dana still calls him. He's been here a few other times, but at night, after I've gone home. He's an imposing guy. Big, forceful. But I could tell that he's kind. And that he cares for Dana. I could see the concern and sadness in his face when he entered her room.

Dana apologized for the dim light, and he said "Think nothing of it, agent." Agent. Old habits die hard, obviously.

I didn't stay in the room with them, but I think he came today because he knew Fox was in the office. I think he came to talk about Fox. I think everyone is worried about him, not just me.

Saturday August 24
I have the weekend off. Hospice forced me to take it. I almost went over there anyway today, but I know they sent a replacement, and if I showed up I risked getting pulled from the house permanently. Someone ratted on me, probably Alice. Those visiting nurses are a pain sometimes. Yesterday she asked me "Honey, don't you ever go home?"

I should have known right then that I was in trouble. I know I'm over there much more than I should be, than I technically need to be. But I don't want to be anywhere else. I like them. They need me.

And frankly, it's nice to be needed.

Sunday August 25
This weekend was supposed to be good for me? This was supposed to be restful? All I have done all weekend is worry about Dana and Fox and Maggie. I finally broke down and called to check on them this afternoon. Thank God Maggie answered the phone and not my stand-in.

"We miss you, sweetheart," she said.

And I miss them. I AM in trouble.

Monday August 26
Fox is acting strange. In the middle of the day he bounded in the door and raced to Dana's room with some news. I have no idea what it was, they huddled together and whispered for some time. I don't have the slightest idea what is going on. I presume it has something to do with their work, since that's apparently where he had been (I can tell by what he's wearing. His work and casual clothes are light years apart!). He left almost as quickly as he came.

I'd wanted to gauge how he was feeling, how he was coping-if he was eating. But I barely got a look at him. I'm obsessing over him, I know. When I first got here I feared I was going to identify too heavily with Dana. Nope. It's Fox. I feel as though I have traveled his path, so we have something special in common. Is this healthy? What am I doing, really? Do I have a crush on him? Am I suffering from some sort of God complex, trying to "save" him? Could I possibly? Is it my business? Why am I doing it-for him or for me?
Does it matter, as long as he benefits? But is he benefiting? I don't know the answers to any of these questions. I don't know what I'm doing. But it feels right, and no one has thrown me out.

So I won't worry about it today.

Tuesday August 27, 4am
Maggie just called from the hospital. She took Dana there because of a nosebleed that would not stop. She's lost a lot of blood, and probably needs a transfusion.

Dana doesn't want to die in the hospital. She told me that. I hope she told her mom that, too. I hope it was on someone's list. I know it wasn't on Fox's.

Tuesday August 27, 10pm
When I called work to tell them of Dana's "change in status," they tried to assign me elsewhere. I asked that they hold off for a day or two, so we see what happens with Dana. They agreed, but if she stays hospitalized more than a day or two, they told me, I'd have to move on. It's the rule, and I know it. I do know it, but I also know that I have to see the Scullys-and Fox--through to the end. I floated the "this has been a tough one, I might need some time off" balloon. If I need to finish this on my own time, I will.

I went to the hospital. Dana was pale and weak and tired. They'd removed the packing from her nose, so at least she could breathe easier, and the bleeding had stopped.

I guess they hadn't been able to reach Fox during the night, because he came racing around the corner and practically doubled over with pain when he saw her. I started to go to him, but Mr. Skinner was there, and took him away. Dana didn't see any of it. He came back later, composed and upbeat, making smalltalk. And I could see right through it.

Why do people do that? He was openly warm and affectionate with Dana at home. But here, in front of strangers, he returned to the forced professionalism that is so ridiculous given the circumstances. But it wasn't just Fox. Dana did it too. It was bizarre to watch, since I knew it was all bogus.

But I suppose they needed to do that. Is that their secret-the fact that the level of their devotion to each other IS a secret? But who are they trying to hide it from, anyway? Especially now? Who cares?

Or are they hiding it from themselves? I still don't understand them. And we're running out of time, so I doubt I will. I wonder if they themselves understand.

Wednesday August 28
Met Dana's brother Bill today. He flew in from California to be with her. He's in the Navy, just got in from a cruise, and leaves on another in a matter of days, so this is probably his only chance to say goodbye. He's gruff, no-nonsense. A soldier. But he loves his sister, that's plain to see.

I think this is the first time Fox met him, too. There is the formality of strangers between them. I don't think Bill likes Fox. In fact, I'm sure he doesn't. There's a vibe. A mistrust or something. I'm sure there's stuff I don't know.

Thursday August 29
Dana's still in the hospital, and I am officially on vacation. I didn't tell Dana or Maggie that. They don't need to know I'm on my own clock now. I just can't leave them. I don't spend all day with them like at home. I'm not needed like that. But I pop in a couple of times a day. I call. And I'm always thinking about them, it seems.

I ran into Fox coming out of Dana's room as I was going in, and he told me not to go in now, because someone was with her. I looked through the window and saw a priest, and they were praying together. It's the first time Dana has shown any interest or need for spiritual guidance at all. I'm glad. It helps a lot of people. Not me, though. When Daniel was dying I wished I believed. I tried to believe. So many people told me it would help that I tried really hard. I thought it would ease my own suffering if I did. But I couldn't. It's hard to believe in God when you are so mad at him.

I started to go, but at the end of the hall I turned around and looked back. Fox was sitting in a chair outside Dana's room. He had his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. He looked lost. Before I knew what I was doing, before I could think better of it, I went back. I asked him if he was okay.

He looked up at me with a sort of dazed look for a second, and then it turned incredulous as my question sank in. It WAS a dumb one. Of course he wasn't okay. I knew he wasn't okay. Nevertheless, he said "Yeah."

I asked him if he wanted to get a cup of coffee. He sort of smiled and said "Aren't you worried about ulcers?" He made a joke. I guess that's a good sign. I said "A bowl of Jell-O, then." He looked at Dana's door, thought for a second, and then said "Yeah, okay" and got up. As we walked to the cafeteria, I started to panic. We'd never talked before. Not really. We talked about Dana's health. We shared a couple of really intense moments of crisis. But a conversation? Not one.

Fox tried to only get a coke. When he caught me staring at him, he added a bagel to his tray. No butter, no cream cheese, nothing. Just a plain bagel. The guy is going to waste away. At least it wasn't a diet coke. I asked him if that's all he was going to eat, and he said "I DID eat breakfast this morning. Honest." I don't know if I believe him.

When we sat down he said "You aren't a nurse, are you?" It wasn't accusatory, it wasn't a sudden realization, it was asked as if he genuinely wanted to know. It's when I realized that he really hadn't been paying any attention to what I've been doing the last four weeks. It kind of disappointed me. I don't know why, but it did. I shouldn't have been surprised, of course. He's been focused on only one thing-one person. I told him I wasn't. I pointed out that if I was a nurse I would have taken his blood pressure myself the other day. He didn't like being reminded of that, I could tell. Duh.

Then he surprised me. He said "You're good at what you do. So why aren't you a nurse?" Well hell, the last thing I expected was to talk about myself. I told him that hospice nurses don't get to know the people and families the way home care workers do. I pointed out that Alice only came by for an hour every other day or so. It's the personal contact I like. I said "like." I probably should have said "need."

Then he asked "So what happens next for you? You just move on to someone else?" We skirt around the issue, he never says it out loud, not since that one time in the kitchen when he said Dana was going to die. Here he was, referring to the time after her death as "next." I told him yup, I would start with another homecare assignment. Of course, I don't say the "D" word, either. I didn't say "another dying person." I said "homecare assignment." How personal!

"I don't know how you do it," he said. We'd been here already. And I'm always explaining myself. Why is is so hard to understand? All I said this time was "It's not for everyone." I didn't want to talk about myself. So I asked him "So how are you doing? Really?"

He must have known I'd ask that, right? He stared at his plate and said "I'm okay. I'll be okay, I think." He didn't look at me. He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

God, how I wanted to touch him, to take his hand. With so many other family members I've been with, I would have. But I knew it wouldn't be right; I knew it would make him more uncomfortable. So I just said "I meant what I said, you know. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm available. Not only have I been there, but I have a great sympathetic ear." He let out one slight snort of laughter, but never looked up. I decided to let him off the hook. I looked at his plate and he'd ripped his bagel to shreds. "Aren't you going to eat that?"

I swore he looked grateful when he looked up. "This," he said, "is not a bagel. Whenever we're in New York I drag Scully to this great bagel place on the Lower East Side. Do you go to New York?"

Nice one, Mulder, veer the conversation toward smalltalk. But I cringed when he talked about himself and Scully in the present future tense. But he didn't seem to notice that he'd done it. It's hard not to, I know. I told him that I did, that I liked to go to Broadway musicals. I laughed when he grimaced like he'd been given a mouthful of castor oil.

"Good for you," he said. "But I'll take a Knicks game at the Garden any day."

I told him that I used to go to Bullets games all the time. The minute I said it I wished I hadn't. I knew he'd ask. And he did.

"Used to?" To his credit, the minute that came out of his mouth he realized the mistake. But he couldn't take his words back, either.

I suppose I could have just not answered, and just let the obvious explanation float unspoken between us. But what kind of example would that be for Fox? I'd be proof that years later, it is still too painful to talk about sometimes. "Yeah. I haven't been to a game since my husband died. He had season tickets. He loved to go."

All he said was "Oh." Talk about a conversation killer. He didn't want to hear about how my life had changed since Daniel died, about the things I used to love but hold no joy for me any more. It would be like looking into the future for him. I knew he wanted none of that, and who could blame him. It will come soon enough, and then he'll know.

I could have kissed whoever it was on the other end of Fox's cellular when it rang. He was called away somewhere, and as he left he just said "Tell Scully I'll be by later." I was relieved when he was gone.

Friday August 30
Today there was talk of an experimental treatment. I'm stunned. I'm confused. Something about an experimental drug protocol, and something about an implant. Quite frankly, I didn't pay much attention. This is ludicrous. They are setting themselves up for a huge fall. It's too late for miracles. Too late for hope. It's a dangerous thing this late in the game. I know this.

I was outside Dana's room while some sort of decision-making was going on inside. Bill Scully was there, Fox, Maggie, and the doctor. Voices were raised. I couldn't hear the words, but I knew it was Fox and Bill. I recognized the voices. Things apparently calmed, then Bill left, apparently angry. Then the doctor. I was contemplating leaving when Fox came out, and he told me that Dana was hoping I'd be here, and told me to go on in. He looked victorious, and hopeful. It scared me.

Dana and Maggie both smiled when I walked in. It's smiles like that that keep me coming back, I think. Smiles like that make me know I make a difference. "What's going on?" I asked.

Dana told me they were going to try. She said she certainly had nothing to lose. There is an experimental drug that the doctor was willing to try on her. Landing in the hospital was actually a blessing, because her case came under consideration for the protocol. And then there's some sort of implant; they are going to put it in the back of her neck. She didn't give me details, I didn't want them. The look on my face must have been different than the look of support I was hoping I had mustered. It must have given me away. Maggie said "You think it's a bad idea?"

I couldn't believe they were asking me what I thought. And I didn't know what to say. Be honest? Be supportive? Say what they want to hear, or what I think they should hear? It's amazing how many thoughts you can have in a few seconds.

Finally I told them that I thought that it was great. As long as they didn't get their hopes up. Maggie promised me that they were being realistic. I don't believe her. I could see the glimmer of hope in her eyes. It wasn't as bright as in Fox's, but it was there all the same.

"Can you go through this again, and start all over again, if this doesn't work?" I asked. God, that was harsh now that I think about it. But those Scully women didn't flinch, so I continued. "Hope takes up a lot of energy," I said. "And when it's dashed-especially a second time-it can be devastating. As long as you know that." I said "when." If they caught that then they know I think this is a waste of time. Still, I probably should have said "if."

"Maybe it won't be dashed," Dana said. And she turned her back to me.

I left, and Fox was still outside, pacing. He seemed almost giddy. I don't know what got into me. I jut felt compelled to play Ms. Doom, I guess. "You shouldn't get your hopes up, Mulder." I said.

He actually looked shocked. "Why not?" he asked. "You don't have a clue what's going on here, you know."

"I think I do," I said.

"NO, you DON'T. You have NO IDEA," he said. Actually, he almost shouted. He caught his breath and then said, quietly, "Trust me on this one," and he went into Dana's room. That's typical. I know what it's like to think you are totally alone in this, that no one could possibly understand what is happening, what you're going through. Every night I wish I didn't understand, that I didn't know. But I do.

As far as I know, they put that implant thing in this evening.

Friday August 30 11pm
What the hell was I doing today? Why did I feel compelled to run around wreaking havoc? Since when did I make it my place to be their devil's advocate? What was I hoping to accomplish? Sure it will hurt them when this all fails. But am I protecting them by trying to dash their hopes? Am I doing them a favor, really? Or am I just being cruel? What's wrong with a couple of days of renewed hope, even if it turns out that's ALL they are? Isn't that better than no hope at all?

What's wrong with me?

I'll have to apologize tomorrow.

Saturday August 31
I tried to apologize to Dana and her mom. They wouldn't let me. They both told me they understood, and that I was probably right, and to forget all about it. I apologized anyway.

Fox, however, wouldn't speak to me. He brushed right by me like I wasn't even there. Didn't even look at me. Great.

Sunday September 1
One month. When I met Dana Scully one month ago she was dying. It was all over but the waiting. And today I learned that she's in remission.

Just like that? That quickly? That completely? Just LIKE THAT? It's not that easy. It's not that simple. It's not supposed to be, anyway. And it's not fair.

Okay, start at the beginning.

I showed up for a quick visit around noon. When I saw Fox leaning against the wall outside her door I thought the news would be bad. But when he turned, I could see that I had never seen the man looking at me before. He was, quite honestly, a different person. There was a light in his eyes that had never been there. A playfulness, almost. He stood taller. Was it possible that in a month I hadn't realized that he's that tall? And when he saw me he smiled a smile I had never seen. This news had to be good.

He actually walked toward me and met me half way down the corridor.

"Remission." It's all he said.

"WHAT?" That's all I said.

"That's what the doctor said this morning. She's in remission. It's going away."

"I don't believe it." I didn't.

"It's true."

"That's unbelievable." I didn't know what to say.

"But it's true. Go see for yourself."

We entered Dana's room, and the mood in there was celebratory. Everyone was smiling. If there had been a bottle of champagne, it would have been sprayed around the room. Laughing, smiling. Even Dana's oncologist was there and was smiling. I hugged her. I plastered a smile on my face. But I was shellshocked.

Two years I have been doing this. Almost two years. Miracles don't happen. I spend all my time helping people to accept same thing that I had been forced to accept-that miracles DON'T HAPPEN. Except today, it looks like they got themselves one. An implant? A drug? What the hell. Looks like a miracle to me.

And it's so fucking unfair. I know that's petty. I know it's awful. I'm happy for them. OF COURSE I'm happy for them.

But why the hell couldn't it have happened for me?

Monday September 2
I stopped in at the hospital again, to see what was going on, before Dana goes home tomorrow. I had to see it again, with my own eyes. Just Maggie was in Dana's room when I got there. I could tell they were happy to see me. But happy in a different way. It wasn't a gladness borne out of need. They don't need me any more, that's for sure.

They both thanked me for everything I had done in the past month. I did the "aw shucks, it was nothing" thing. I do this all the time. But I've never done it for the patient before-usually it's for the widow or the grieving children. Normally I'm sincere. I could tell this time I was not. I know I should be thrilled for them. But I'm not. I just can't be, and I can't help it.

I'm jealous. There, I said it.

Dana started talking about how lucky she was, how thankful she was. I didn't want to hear it. I couldn't hear it. Every word was like a tiny cut from a knife. It must have shown on my face, because Maggie saw it.

"Dana, honey," is all that she said, and Dana saw my face and stopped.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she said.

"No, no, it's okay. You are lucky. You should be thankful. Not everyone is so lucky. I know that."

Maggie came and put her arms around me, and squeezed. "We never would have gotten this far without you, you know.""

She let go, and I said "Thanks." They both told me that they wanted me to stay in touch. Maggie went so far as to call me family. I couldn't look them in the face. I told them I'd stay in touch, and I hugged them again, and I left.

I know I can't see these people again. I already know that. And in a week or so, they won't want to see me, either. To them, I will become nothing more than a constant reminder of a time in their lives that they will work very hard to forget, to shut away in the deepest recesses of their memories, because it is just too painful.

And to me, they already are a glaring example of how fucking unfair life is. It infuriates me. Daniel was my life, my world, just like I can tell Dana is Fox's. So how come he gets her back? It's petty of me. It's petulant. It's immature. It's all those things. And I can't help it.

The last time I saw Fox was in that hallway outside Dana's room. I was making my escape when he came around the corner and almost ran into me.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's fine," I said.

He started to walk past me, and then turned around and called my name. When I turned he came back up to me, and lightly put his hand on my shoulder. It's the first time he ever touched me, I think. His touch was light, gentle, sincere. "Thanks," he said. "For everything. You really were a big help."

"You're welcome," I said, and I started to go. But then I called him back. And I called him Fox. He didn't protest.

"You've been given an amazing gift, Fox Mulder," I told him. "A second chance. Don't waste it." Then I ran.

It needed to be said. I needed to say it. I needed him to hear it. He's a lucky man. Far luckier than me. I know.

<END>

Does Marie ever see any of them again? Yup. Read all about it in Maybe (Merry Christmas).
 

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