2.30 am. ‘Call an ambulance.’

She’d seen me in some states before, but she knew it was serious if I was asking her to do that. What was that song? I was sure I’d heard it before, but couldn’t pinpoint where. The closing sequence of a film was my best guess. Which film? Was I remembering correctly? The confusion alone was enough to make me feel sick.

It didn’t really matter anyway, because the song wasn’t actually playing. I knew that. I also didn’t want to admit it. That it was on a loop without finishing was the most frustrating part.

The stabbing pain in my left hamstring was excruciating. No positioning of my body could alleviate it. It wasn’t a cramp, I was used to those, used to pain in general. This was something different, something new. I’d had plenty of injuries over the years and physical labour had left my young body feeling far older than it should. When the nausea set in, so did the real panic.

I must’ve told Rosie I loved her a hundred times in those ten minutes. I was sure this was it, the end. I didn’t know any other way to say sorry for all the fuck-ups I’d made. 

‘How long till the ambos are here?’ I asked her, as a metallic taste crept into my mouth. She turned to me with worried eyes and said, ‘It’ll be quicker for us to drive.’ 

My senses kicked into hyper-drive. The music, the stabbing pain, the panic. We had to get moving.

The fresh night air hit my skin and was instantly relieving. The nausea subsided, but the panic did not. The serenity of the apartment complex carpark made sense at 3 am on a Monday morning, but nothing else did. The short drive to the hospital was a godsend; if we’d lived any further away, I’d hate to think what the outcome may have been. I probably wouldn’t have to.

When I regained consciousness, the physical pain of the seizure was far less immense than what I would hear next from the doctor. 

‘You’ve got a tumour about the size of a lemon in your brain.’