The Fault in Our Stars

CHAPTER SEVEN
I
screamed to wake up my parents, and they burst into the room, but there was nothing
they could do to dim the supernovae exploding inside my brain, an endless chain of
intracranial firecrackers that made me think that I was once and for all going, and I told
myself—as I’ve told myself before—that the body shuts down when the pain gets too bad,
that consciousness is temporary, that this will pass. But just like always, I didn’t slip away.
I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown.
Dad drove, talking on the phone with the hospital, while I lay in the back with my
head in Mom’s lap. There was nothing to do: Screaming made it worse. All stimuli made
it worse, actually.
The only solution was to try to unmake the world, to make it black and silent and
uninhabited again, to return to the moment before the Big Bang, in the beginning when
there was the Word, and to live in that vacuous uncreated space alone with the Word.
People talk about the courage of cancer patients, and I do not deny that courage. I had
been poked and stabbed and poisoned for years, and still I trod on. But make no mistake:
In that moment, I would have been very, very happy to die.
I woke up in the ICU. I could tell I was in the ICU because I didn’t have my own room,
and because there was so much beeping, and because I was alone: They don’t let your
family stay with you 24/7 in the ICU at Children’s because it’s an infection risk. There
was wailing down the hall. Somebody’s kid had died. I was alone. I hit the red call button.
A nurse came in seconds later. “Hi,” I said.
“Hello, Hazel. I’m Alison, your nurse,” she said.
“Hi, Alison My Nurse,” I said.
Whereupon I started to feel pretty tired again. But I woke up a bit when my parents
came in, crying and kissing my face repeatedly, and I reached up for them and tried to
squeeze, but my everything hurt when I squeezed, and Mom and Dad told me that I did
not have a brain tumor, but that my headache was caused by poor oxygenation, which was
caused by my lungs swimming in fluid, a liter and a half (!!!!) of which had been
successfully drained from my chest, which was why I might feel a slight discomfort in my
side, where there was, hey look at that, a tube that went from my chest into a plastic
bladder half full of liquid that for all the world resembled my dad’s favorite amber ale.
Mom told me I was going to go home, that I really was, that I would just have to get this
drained every now and again and get back on the BiPAP, this nighttime machine that
forces air in and out of my crap lungs. But I’d had a total body PET scan on the first night
in the hospital, they told me, and the news was good: no tumor growth. No new tumors.
My shoulder pain had been lack-of-oxygen pain. Heart-working-too-hard pain.
“Dr. Maria said this morning that she remains optimistic,” Dad said. I liked Dr.

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Maria, and she didn’t bullshit you, so that felt good to hear.
“This is just a thing, Hazel,” my mom said. “It’s a thing we can live with.”
I nodded, and then Alison My Nurse kind of politely made them leave. She asked me
if I wanted some ice chips, and I nodded, and then she sat at the bed with me and spooned
them into my mouth.
“So you’ve been gone a couple days,” Alison said. “Hmm, what’d you miss . . . A
celebrity did drugs. Politicians disagreed. A different celebrity wore a bikini that revealed
a bodily imperfection. A team won a sporting event, but another team lost.” I smiled. “You
can’t go disappearing on everybody like this, Hazel. You miss too much.”
“More?” I asked, nodding toward the white Styrofoam cup in her hand.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, “but I’m a rebel.” She gave me another plastic spoonful of
crushed ice. I mumbled a thank-you. Praise God for good nurses. “Getting tired?” she
asked. I nodded. “Sleep for a while,” she said. “I’ll try to run interference and give you a
couple hours before somebody comes in to check vitals and the like.” I said Thanks again.
You say thanks a lot in a hospital. I tried to settle into the bed. “You’re not gonna ask
about your boyfriend?” she asked.
“Don’t have one,” I told her.
“Well, there’s a kid who has hardly left the waiting room since you got here,” she
said.
“He hasn’t seen me like this, has he?”
“No. Family only.”
I nodded and sank into an aqueous sleep.
It would take me six days to get home, six undays of staring at acoustic ceiling tile and
watching television and sleeping and pain and wishing for time to pass. I did not see
Augustus or anyone other than my parents. My hair looked like a bird’s nest; my shuffling
gait like a dementia patient’s. I felt a little better each day, though: Each sleep ended to
reveal a person who seemed a bit more like me. Sleep fights cancer, Regular Dr. Jim said
for the thousandth time as he hovered over me one morning surrounded by a coterie of
medical students.
“Then I am a cancer-fighting machine,” I told him.
“That you are, Hazel. Keep resting, and hopefully we’ll get you home soon.”
On Tuesday, they told me I’d go home on Wednesday. On Wednesday, two minimally
supervised medical students removed my chest tube, which felt like getting stabbed in
reverse and generally didn’t go very well, so they decided I’d have to stay until Thursday.
I was beginning to think that I was the subject of some existentialist experiment in
permanently delayed gratification when Dr. Maria showed up on Friday morning, sniffed
around me for a minute, and told me I was good to go.

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So Mom opened her oversize purse to reveal that she’d had my Go Home Clothes
with her all along. A nurse came in and took out my IV. I felt untethered even though I still
had the oxygen tank to carry around with me. I went into the bathroom, took my first
shower in a week, got dressed, and when I got out, I was so tired I had to lie down and get
my breath. Mom asked, “Do you want to see Augustus?”
“I guess,” I said after a minute. I stood up and shuffled over to one of the molded
plastic chairs against the wall, tucking my tank beneath the chair. It wore me out.
Dad came back with Augustus a few minutes later. His hair was messy, sweeping
down over his forehead. He lit up with a real Augustus Waters Goofy Smile when he saw
me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He sat down in the blue faux-leather recliner next
to my chair. He leaned in toward me, seemingly incapable of stifling the smile.
Mom and Dad left us alone, which felt awkward. I worked hard to meet his eyes,
even though they were the kind of pretty that’s hard to look at. “I missed you,” Augustus
said.
My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. “Thanks for not trying to see me when I
looked like hell.”
“To be fair, you still look pretty bad.”
I laughed. “I missed you, too. I just don’t want you to see . . . all this. I just want,
like . . . It doesn’t matter. You don’t always get what you want.”
“Is that so?” he asked. “I’d always thought the world was a wish-granting factory.”
“Turns out that is not the case,” I said. He was so beautiful. He reached for my hand
but I shook my head. “No,” I said quietly. “If we’re gonna hang out, it has to be, like, not
that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, I have good news and bad news on the wish-granting front.”
“Okay?” I said.
“The bad news is that we obviously can’t go to Amsterdam until you’re better. The
Genies will, however, work their famous magic when you’re well enough.”
“That’s the good news?”
“No, the good news is that while you were sleeping, Peter Van Houten shared a bit
more of his brilliant brain with us.”
He reached for my hand again, but this time to slip into it a heavily folded sheet of
stationery on the letterhead of Peter Van Houten, Novelist Emeritus.
I didn’t read it until I got home, situated in my own huge and empty bed with no chance of
medical interruption. It took me forever to decode Van Houten’s sloped, scratchy script.
Dear Mr. Waters,

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I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by
the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy. Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid