Page 42 of Ship Happens

“Here, try some lotion,” was his mother’s advice until, eventually, she’d relented. But only when Owen couldn’t physically get out of bed without her help, leaving behind the tear-stained pillowcase from lying awake in bed all night in such severe pain that Owen almost felt like each breath was being pushed forcibly out of his lungs.

He’d never told anyone before how he thought he might die that night, no one except for Jacob—years into their relationship—when the memories felt more like some half-forgotten nightmare he was recalling.

The doctors at urgent care had given him something for the pain but could only recommend Owen go to a specialist to figure out what was wrong after his X-rays came back showing signs of juvenile arthritis. Owen remembers staring at the way his bones almost looked wrong on the radiograph, listening to the conversation between the doctor and his mother, talking about him like he wasn’t in the room, dread settling in his stomach as he prayed that his mother would take the referral to a specialist seriously.

“Are we going to go to the doctor?” Owen asked from the back seat of their car, feeling droopy from the medication they’d given him.

His mother eyed him in the rearview mirror. “If we get there and they tell me you’re faking . . .” She didn’t finish the thought, just shook her head.

“It really hurts, Mom.” Owen felt an ache in his jaw as he said the words. He didn’t want to keep back the tears anymore; it was taking too much out of him.

She’d ignored her son, and they’d driven in silence to a pediatrician who specialized in diagnosing and treating juvenile arthritis. All the signs were there: the pain, the inflammation, the breaks of his skin.

“Is this something we can fix with surgery?” his mother had asked. “Or diet?”

“Well, diet can certainly help.” The doctor didn’t look at Owen’s mother, though. Instead, she looked directly at Owen, as if knowing somehow that Owen’s mother wouldn’t take her advice seriously. “There are certain things you’ll want to try and avoid. Gluten can cause flare-ups, dairy, lots of sugar. Sometimes they’re random. Everyone is different.”

“Will it go away?” Owen asked.

The look on the doctor’s face answered his question before she even opened her mouth. “I’m afraid not. We’ll explore treatment options, things that’ll help you deal with the pain, keep the swelling down. But this isn’t the kind of thing that goes away.”

Testing had taken months. Months of being poked and prodded, needles stuck into Owen’s skin, blood drawn, but he told himself that none of that mattered to him. His parents had finally believed his pain.

Then the doctors had started treatment, starting with prescription NSAIDs that would work for a few months before Owen’s body eventually grew to tolerate them. After that, they moved on to Trexall and Arava, DMARDs that Owen’s doctors hoped would slow the progression of his arthritis. But just like the NSAIDs, they’d stopped working after a while. His doctors had told him this was a possibility, that part of finding the right treatment involved a lot of trial and error.

Then, at seventeen, Owen’s doctor finally approved him for a trial of biologics, injections done every few weeks that would target Owen’s immune system and hopefully help him manage the pain.

It didn’t eliminate the discomfort, not entirely, but he could finally get a full night of comfortable sleep and pay attention in class. Not that he had time to improve his GPA.

But what really mattered was that he finally got the chance to live. He could participate in PE, could go out after school and not be left exhausted after just half an hour. It meant that he finally got to feel like an actual teenager for the first time in his life.

Keeping his grip on the railing tight, Owen twists his body in just the right way until he hears an audible pop.

“There we go.” Owen tosses his head back in relief, letting out a guttural groan before doing the same thing to the other side. There’s still a dull ache in the small of his back that he’s hoping isn’t anything serious. His arthritis mostly affects his joints, but occasionally the inflammation can spread to his spine as well.

Owen hears the kettle click, the water bubbling loudly. With his coffee ready, he sneaks back into his room just long enough to grab his shoulder bag and the heating pad from his suitcase, shaking his head and stifling his laughter at the noises that Kevin is letting out.

Making himself comfortable back on the balcony, coffee in hand as he gets his iPad out, Owen opens Procreate to the last sheet of flash pieces that he’s been working on for the past month now. He decided to go a little more produce-heavy than he usually does with his botanical pieces.

He’d been struck by inspiration at Safeway of all places, while out grocery shopping with Abigail. She’d asked him to go grab cherry tomatoes for a salad. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the fruits—there’d just been something about the colors of a few of them, the blend of yellow into orange into red in the skin, and it made him wonder if he could get the color mixture of his inks just right. Abigail found him nearly ten minutes later, just staring at the tomatoes.

Afterward, Owen built a whole flash sheet of fruits and vegetables. Onions, peaches, peppers, strawberries, and mushrooms. He hadn’t expected the first sheet to be as popular with his clients as it had been.

The fruits were all claimed first, of course. The vegetables had been a tougher sell—not that many people want a clove of garlic permanently inked on their body. But slowly, over the course of about two or three months, each piece was swiped up.

For a while, Owen’s able to lose himself in his drawing. Despite having to bounce back and forth between the reference photos he’d taken at the last farmers market he’d gone to, he maintains his focus as he tries to get the shading of an artichoke just right. The green will already be tough to mix, and he’ll have to be careful with the blooms of red closer to the stem. If he’s not, the ink will blend into an ugly mucky brown on some poor soul’s skin.

Still, with the rhythmic and familiar scratching of his Apple Pencil against the screen protector of his iPad, the gulls cawing as they fly overhead, the sound of the ship cutting through the waves so far down below, Owen finds himself basking in the solitude of the moment, what feels like the first real time he’s had to himself for days now.

If only that peace could last.

“Morning, twink!” Kaitlyn’s voice is still tired from sleep. She pads out onto the balcony, her oversized pajama pants pooling around her feet, covering them entirely. “Oh holy shit! It’s cold!” she yelps, wrapping her arms around herself as she jumps back into the suite.

“Yeah, I think we’re getting closer to Canada,” Owen says, eyeing the skies like he can discern anything about where the ship is. “How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough. Abby got drunker than I thought, so she kept showing me baby videos she found online.”

Owen shakes his head, laughing softly. “Sounds like her.”