Justin

I hate Vancouver – from the busy streets to the tall buildings to the smog that dusts the mountains, there's nothing to like about it.

Minus the Vancouver Canucks, which I am a fan of.

Ironic, hey?

But it's not like my mom and I are in Vancouver for a hockey game. That never happens.

We're here to visit BC Children's Hospital to get my stupid meds sorted out, along with a psych test to make sure my brain is working correctly. Which, undoubtedly, is not. If it were, I wouldn't be on any medication or be going to some stupid hospital.

I hate the fact that I'm missing school for something like this; I'd rather be in English with Addie than doing mental exercises that involve exhausting my brain and testing which hand has better motor functionalities: my left or my right.

Monday was the drive down and a late dinner. Tuesday was a physical checkup that involved a meeting with the surgeon, neurologists, and other people whose statuses are void to me. We discussed the option of medication, my mom being open-minded and me mumbling incoherent words just to piss them all off. Wednesday was a day off. I stayed in the hotel and worked on the homework Addie sent me via e-mail while Mom did some shopping. She invited me, but what son wants to spend the day going to stores like Victoria's Secret with their mom? I did, however, ask her to buy me a new sweater from Roots. Gotta love that store.

Friday is the upcoming psych test.

Thursday is another meeting that will either make or break me. Thursday is today.

And, right now, I'm sitting on one of the squishy red chairs, tapping my foot to a nonexistent metronome. Hospitals don't necessarily make me nervous, but that doesn't mean I like them. The smell, the scenery, the atmosphere – it's all shit. And while the nurses are nice, I find that the neurologists have no personality whatsoever. No bedside manners. They just say it like they mean it and that's that.

Oh, and did I mention I'm in a hospital that's meant for children. I guess, technically, I am still a child, but I'm not the kind of child that needs faded pastel colours and fucking freaky stuffed animals to keep me at ease.

The only positive outcome of visiting the hospital are the heated blankets.

Which makes this visitation shitter than usual is the fact that I don't get one of those blankets this time around. Never thought I'd miss getting into a hospital gown and having an IV inserted into my arm so I could have a heated blanket.

Ten minutes of wallowing in my own thoughts and occasionally texting Addie, we're called in.

The room my mom and I enter is small, crowded with five chairs, three people, a desk and a computer. There's a shelf of medical books to the left, positioned above the computer.

Already, the air feels like it's smothering me. I fucking hate these meetings. All these people do is talk like I'm not there, barely acknowledging what I want for myself.

A better life.

Independency.

A girlfriend that has blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

"It's good to see you, Justin," Dr. Casaceli says, adjusting his half-moon glasses. Dr. Casaceli has been with me since the beginning of all this – he's the neurologist that's basically mapped out my brain and its abilities. Some shit like that. I don't have the energy to care about what he really does. Or the other two people that sit next to him – one being the surgeon, the other being an assistant of Dr. Casaceli's.

Just for my mom, I try to act civilized, pasting on my best fake smile and lightening my tone. "You too, Dr. Casaceli. It's been a while."

It's fake. So fake. My voice sounds hollow, I can't make eye contact, and as soon as those words come out, my heart longs for Addie. It's been a while since I've seen her. Since someone other than my mom has brightened my day – even if only by a fraction. I love everything about her, from her geekiness to her realness to her smile. I sure as hell know what my voice would sound like if I were telling Addie it was good to see her and that it's been too long.

For the next twenty minutes, Mom updates the team on what's happened. I tune out as best I can. I know Mom's not trying to throw jabs at me, but any time I hear the words "disability" or "seizure" or "epilepsy" it feels like I've been punched in the gut with brass knuckles.

Any words that make me feel different act as a label that I don't deserve. Because of all this, I've been labelled as odd, a lost cause, useless, and indifferent.

I slump down further in my chair just as I hear Dr. Casaceli mention adding in another medication to the one I'm already taking, the other two nodding their heads.

The medication I'm currently on, Lamotrigine, has been the best one out of the ones that have failed to have any impact, though it barely does anything. If a medication were to work to its full potential, I wouldn't be having any seizures at all. Aside from partially working – no pun intended – there are certain side effects that annoy me: increased fatigue, nausea, and headaches. No big deal.

"No," I say sitting up and glaring at the three people across from me. I hear mom sharply inhale. "I am not adding in another medication." I've been through almost every single medication and none have done their job. So I seriously doubt combining two would make a difference. Plus, I bet the side effects would become worse. And that is the last thing I need right now. "Just up this one again."

Great. There's that look I get on a daily basis when visiting this hospital.

It's the Oh, what do you know, Justin McCallister? You're just a child.

I supress the urge to sigh dramatically and revert to picking at the tear in my jeans. "Look," I say. "I hate taking meds. I don't believe in taking meds when they're doing nothing for me. But these ones are the best I've tried and they have the least amount of side effects." What I'm saying isn't true. This medication has a lot of effects, but the one it doesn't cause is dizziness – I'm capable of walking about without looking like a drunken fool and that's good enough for me. "So up it."

By now, I'm sure warning bells are going off in everyone's heads. I'm never this cooperative. I always try to find a way to argue even though I know I'm not going to win. I don't control my life. The doctors and medications do. That's just the way it is. But arguing gives me a sense of independence; the feeling that I'm fighting for something. I honestly don't know why the hell I do it, but it's almost like I need to. If I can't push away that constant sense of vulnerability and dependency for a moment, I'll lose my mind.

"Justin might be right," Mom says. "Maybe the seizures are getting worse because he's built up an immunity to the current dosage of medication."

I fucking love my mom. It's in situations like these that she takes my side because she wants what's best for me. She knows just as well as I do that, although the seizures have gotten worse, my body isn't taking a beating from these meds.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "We could give that a go." She glances at me. "And if it doesn't work, then we could consider our options."

The look Mom is giving me is her Please cooperate with me, Justin look. So I nod my head, marginalizing my inner stubbornness.

With Mom's statement and my agreement, the neurologist pulls out his pad of paper and begins writing me a new prescription. I cringe at the thought of how many pills I'll have to force down my throat every morning and night, but I'm satisfied that I won't have to add another medication to my daily life, so it evens out in the end. Barely.

Dr. Casaceli hands me the thin piece of paper. It's chalky between my fingers and makes my skin feel as though any hydration has been extracted from it.

I hate that one little piece of paper with writing I can't even read can control my life. It's the independent variable and I'm the dependent variable.

I shove the vomit-coloured paper into the pocket of my hoodie. My fingers skim the cords of my ear buds, and I suddenly want to stuff those in my ear, pull my hood up, and crank the music until I can't hear anything around me.

Mom would kill me if I did that, though.

For the remainder of the appointment, I try to not let my dampened mood shine through. It's hard, considering how much I hate this hospital. Sure, it pulls miracles for some kids, but not for me. While other people are cured and granted the lives they deserve, I just keep tumbling, tripping over my own malfunctioning body and falling deeper and deeper into this hell I have to call reality; it's frustrating watching everyone around you enjoy the life they want while yours seems to be slipping further and further away as the days pass by.

When the appointment is over and Mom and I are on our way back to the car, walking through the bone-chilling, damp coldness of Vancouver, she tells me how good I did, how I acted my age, and how she hopes this step we're taking will be the right one.

I know Mom is trying to support me the best way she can. I know I push her away – this is my burden to bear, not hers. But it still pisses me off. I know what I'm going through affects her. I am her son, after all. It's just that the term "we" doesn't really fit.

We're not going through medications that don't work – I am.

We're not stuck with a permanent scar that has the ability to make shivers violently harass our spines – I am.

We can't remember the questions the surgeon asked when they woke us up mid-surgery – I can.

I don't tell her any of this, though. Why should I? It would just worry her. And after all Mom's been through, I can't throw this at her.

"Thanks, Mom," I say. "I hope so too."

Mom looks up at me. It's hard to understand why I feel so small compared to her when I've got several inches on her. "If you want to talk about it, Justin, I'm here."

I give her a weak smile. She is and I know she always will be, but I want someone that's my age that can understand what I'm going through.

As soon as that thought runs through my head, I begin to think about Addie and what she said on Halloween.

I wish I was brave and strong enough to tell her everything.

But I'm afraid.

What if she leaves me behind like all the other people have? Like family members and best friends have? Like my own father has?

I want Addie to be the one I confide in; to be the best friend that accepts me for who I am. To be the best friend I fall hopelessly and desperately in love with. That one person I can't go a day without thinking about.

But I'm too scared.

I can't give up what we have.

I've been alone for too long.

I just can't tell her.