Author's Notes: KURT’S POV

Apparently, I woke up twice yesterday evening, initially at 6 pm, then again at 7pm when Blaine knew I had woken up.

I didn’t remember much at all even when I woke up this morning when the nurse came in to check things. My dad was there to help me piece things together.

He had stayed during the night, Carole leaving to be with Finn at the house, Blaine going back to Dalton.

It almost felt normal to spend the early morning hours with my dad already having turned the TV on. However, I felt tense at the thought of having to explain myself to him. I was so tired and felt sort of buzzy. There was a tingling sensation in my fingers. I explored the feeding tube a bit but was stopped almost immediately.

“Don’t touch that,” Dad admonished. Oops. I toyed with the wrong thing, so I put on my “innocent” eyes. He laughed and stroked my hair. God, it must’ve been a mess.

“How are you feeling?” Tired. Wasn’t that obvious? Well, also nauseous. Apparently, there were tons of drugs in my system.

“Will you try to say something?” Dad asked. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t talking, but now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if I could. The ventilator had hurt, and there was literally a tube in the back of my throat.

“Mmm,” I tried for him and cleared my throat to try harder. My brain was so hazy from the medicines.

“Mmoh… Moh… Mm,” I kept stammering. He waited patiently, a bit of joy sparkling in his eyes.

“Moh… Mom… Mom,” I finally got out, sort of panting. My dad’s face changed to devastation.

“Kurt, she’s not here,” he informed me, thinking I was calling out for her. I shook my head.

“Mom s-s-says… she l-loves you,” I successfully said, very proud of myself.

But my father began to sob loudly. He laid his head on my bed next to my hip. With the hand without the IV, I pat his bald head to comfort him as well as I could. His cries frightened me.

“What’s going on in here?” a very concerned Carole asked by way of greeting. She rushed to my dad’s side, but he turned to me again.

“You saw her?” he asked me to clarify. Tired of speaking, I shook my head and motioned to my ears slowly.

“What else did she say?” I was so glad I remembered, glad that it made my dad this happy.

“She-she made me p-promise,” I stopped because I was out of breath again. Carole smiled at hearing me talk. “To get better for you. She said,” I breathed deeply, ignoring the ache in my chest, “she’s p-proud of who I’ve b-become.”

My father dissolved into sobs again, Carole patting his back with tears in her eyes as well.

“Hey, Kurt?” she asked after a minute or two. I raised an eyebrow. “Finn is here, but we haven’t told him what’s wrong. He hasn’t even seen you since your weight’s dropped. Would you still want him here?”

At this point, I didn’t care who would see me. I hadn’t talked to some of my friends in months. I knew the situation was only temporary, so I nodded my head in allowance. She left the room for a split second, returning with my gentle, giant brother whose eyes widened at me.

“Why is he so skinny?” was the first thing out of his mouth. Burt and Carole looked to me for permission as Finn took his place on my bed by my feet.

“Finn, Kurt has anorexia,” Carole explained.

“You don’t eat?” he asked me now. I hesitated before shaking my head.

“How are you even alive?” he wondered aloud. The room went silent.

“Kurt had a seizure yesterday followed by a heart attack. These wires and tubes and machines are keeping him alive,” Dad spoke up.

“Why?” Finn questioned.

“Why are the tubes there?” Carole asked for clarification.

“No. Why are you anorexic?” he asked me directly.

“That’s not something you can ask him,” she chided.

“Do you think you’re fat or something?” Finn continued.

“FINN!” Dad bellowed. It startled and upset me because how would Finn have known? Eating disorders are not a high school football player’s expertise.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Finn asked quietly.

“…”

Slowly, he got up and moved to my immediate left, replacing Carole’s spot. He took his arms and wrapped them around me so gently that I teared up a bit. Awkwardly patting his back, I cleared my throat to speak.

“It’ll be okay,” I rasped. He pulled away from me and nodded.

“Are you going to eat?”

“Finn,” Carole began to admonish. I just tapped the feeding tube taped onto my cheek.

The morning was spent with my family. I didn’t speak much (at all). I didn’t want to. Everybody watched TV, talked with the nurses whenever they came in, and let me doze in and out of consciousness. Carole had let me know that Blaine was visiting later, which made me happy. However, the nausea and tiredness simply would not pass. Around noon, the doctor came in to examine me.

“So, Kurt,” he began. “How are you feelings? I hear that you’re talking now, so tell me how that is. Any pain anywhere?”

Burt, Carole, and Finn all looked at me expectantly. I wiggled my fingers and cleared my throat.

“Mmmy f-fingers haven’t,” I gasped for breath, “stopped tingling, and-“ I breathe, “the nausea won’t g-go away.”

“I’m not sure what your dad or the nurses have told you about your current situation, but, when we did the CT scan on your brain to check for damage by the seizure or heart attack, we noticed a problem with the part of your brain dealing with speech,” the doctor explained, making gestures to my head.

“A speech impairment?” Carole piped up. My eyes widened. What about singing? Holy shit. What?

“It’s very possible that his brain is just overwhelmed right now what with trying to heal his body. We will wait a week before a speech therapist should be brought in.

“Now,” he continued, “Tingling in your fingers?” he asked for clarification. I nodded. “And how bad would you say the nausea is?”

“Well, I-I haven’t thrown up y-yet,” I remarked with a small smile.

“That’s still a concern. Would you mind if we took more blood? I would like to run a few specialized tests.” I just shrugged. They had probably done more tests that I was told when I was asleep.

“What else are you checking for?” Dad questioned the doctor, alluding to the diagnosis of iron-deficiency anemia I was aware of.

“Signs of kidney failure. It’s not an uncommon problem with anorexia,” the doctor replied.

My God. I’ve really fucked everything up. Death would be… better.



Wait, what? Am I really allowing myself to go there?
Yes.
Death would be better than having to pay a shitload of money to fix a problem I caused in the first place.
I’d be with my mom.
Who told me it wasn’t my time.



“I’ll send a phlebotomist in shortly,” the doctor said back in reality. “As for the tingling, it may be an after-effect of the seizure or heart attack, but it also could be nerve damage from the anorexia,” he went on to say. Fucked up. Everything. “I have to ask, so that I can pinpoint your exact diagnoses: Did you engage in any other eating disorder behaviours like over-exercising or vomiting your food, Kurt?”

“…”

“Kurt?” Dad pushed me on.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“I’m sorry to be prying this information from you. What is that a ‘yes’ to?” the doctor asked.

“I th-throw up f-food,” I confessed, looking at my hands covered in tubes and shit.

“Thank you, Kurt. You’re being so brave. We’ll get that blood and see what’s going on.” He left the room, which remained silent as my family took in the new information.

“You must really hate food,” Finn said almost with a laugh. I sort of appreciated the lighthearted reaction and shrugged.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with my family though Finn had to leave at one for something. I dozed in and out of consciousness somewhat purposefully because I sure as hell didn’t want to face my parents still. Because I was constantly napping, I didn’t remember a nurse coming in to draw blood twice, but my dad had told me about it. They apparently had a hard time with my veins again. Finally, Blaine arrived.

“I come bearing gifts!” he announced himself to the room. He appeared carrying a huge white teddy bear and a mix of red and yellow flowers.

“Hi, Kurtie,” he smiled so widely at me. It was contagious. When we gave each other a greeting kiss, I didn’t want to pull away, but I didn’t have enough strength to keep it up.

“Ahem,” Dad interrupted.

“Burt!” Carol admonished, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. We all chuckled. Blaine had tucked the bear into my side. It was very comfortable to lean up against. My arms were thinner than its arms.



And I just compared myself to an inanimate object.



“How are you?” he asked, holding my hand and sitting by my hip on the bed. My parents had moved over to the corner of the private hospital room with the TV.

I raised my IV-clad hand in a “so-so” gesture. He saw the bruises from where they tried and failed again and again to get the needle in my vein.

“Ouch,” he empathized. I shrugged then motioned for him to sit closer, which he did.

And I fell asleep again.