36 37 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW ABVE-PC by Sophia J. Camillone Mustard gas is an agent of chemical warfare that causes severe burns to living things. Chemically known as dichlorodiethyl sulfide, the yellow fumes damage cells rapidly, though visible symptoms may take hours to develop after the initial exposure. Inhalation of mustard gas damages the airways. Skin reddens and blisters, and significant contact with the gas causes necrosis, the death of cell tissue. Even if necrosis does not develop, a quantity of redness that covers as much as a quarter of a person’s entire body indicates lethal exposure. There is no chemical that can fight mustard gas, and there is no antidote for mustard poisoning. Survival depends entirely on the level and concentration of a person’s exposure. *** My dad sits across from my hospital bed. In one hand he holds a cup of coffee, pure black just like he always drinks it, and in the other is his weighty Bible with large enough print for his eyes— they’ve never quite been the same since he had cataract surgery a few years ago. This last hour or so, he’s been my sole company, aside from the occasional nurse. My mom is at home for now, just a 30-minute drive away, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t be here either if I didn’t have to be. It is my fourth visit to the Stony Brook Children’s Hospital in the last two months, and each time my mom has made herself a temporary home here on the turquoise pull-out couch that my dad now sits on. Of all my experiences in that hospital, the interior design choices are some of my least favorite. Usually, I like turquoise, but that couch paired with the offensively bright orange chair to its left created a garish effect. It is as if the interior designers wanted the furniture to compensate for the suffering that kids would experience in those rooms, like they thought that the brightly colored furniture would sit there with these plastered, blinding smiles. As if the color orange could tell hospitalized kids that tomorrow will be a better day with less nausea and more sunshine. My dad must have gotten tired of watching me just sitting on the white hospital bed, doing nothing except mindlessly scroll on my phone, and he tells me that we should go for a walk. The idea is strange to me. I can’t quite articulate why, but I don’t feel like walking. I guess I don’t want to go through the effort of getting up, even if I am feeling well enough to do so. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I don’t feel like doing anything at all, not when chemicals have so recently ravaged my body and not when I feel like a collection of limp bones
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