Chains

Death. It’s something that nobody likes to think about. Imminent, inevitable death. In movies before somebody dies there’s a really dramatic scene where your whole life flashes before your eyes and you remember everything and everyone. If your whole life flashed before your eyes, would you have any regrets? Would there be things you don’t want to remember? Would there be things you’re glad you didn’t forget?



Maybe before you die you don’t see your whole life playing out before you, maybe you just die. Does everything just end? Does everything fade to black like at the end of a movie before the credits? Who knows? Anybody who has experienced it isn’t around to talk about it.



What would happen if you died tomorrow? If you knew that today was your last day to live, what would you do? Would you spontaneously fly to Paris or Italy? Would you try to apologise to everybody you’d hurt? Or would you just spend the day with your family and friends? If you only had one more day, could you make it perfect?



Two days ago my doctor told me that my cancer had spread too far, and it was too late to stop it. He told me that I had a week, at best, to live. That was two days ago, and my time is running out. My breaths are numbered and I don’t know when, but pretty soon that number will be up.



I don’t want to die. I want to watch my brother grow up and see my parents face when I graduate. I want to go to the beach with my friends and run around in the rain. But I won’t get to do any of that, and I guess that’s okay. I have had an amazing life. I remember so many wonderful moments and days of pure bliss. I remember long, unbearable hours and days where it just didn’t seem worth it.



Nobody’s life is perfect. Everybody has drama and imperfections in their lives, and I am no exception. When I was twelve I was diagnosed with leukaemia. My parents just thought I had a cold, but when the symptoms didn’t let up after a few weeks they took me to the doctor to get some medication. After he examined me, the doctor told us to go to the hospital. He didn’t think that this was just a cold.



Two months later I was being treated with chemotherapy. I lost all my hair and couldn’t stop vomiting. When the chemo didn’t work, the doctors all thought I should wait a while before going into radiation therapy so my body could heal and regain strength. My parents both wanted to have me to have the treatment immediately so the cancer wouldn’t have any time to develop further, but the doctors talked them into waiting a few months.



The radiation therapy didn’t work either. My body was getting weaker and everything became a struggle. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to go outside. I was tired of people staring and whispering. My little brother was only five, but he understood. He would come into my room and talk me into getting up. We would play catch with balloons and blow bubbles at the cat. He was my best friend, and my only one left.



I used to be part of a big group of friends, but when I had to stop going to school and people heard about my disease, they stopped calling. They wouldn’t stop by or ask how I was doing; it was like they were scared of catching it, like if they came near me they would get cancer too. A few people still came by the house every now and then, and would ask if I could hang out. Eventually though they knew the answer would always be no.



We tried all the treatments we could. I got stem cell transplants from anonymous donors, bone marrow transplants, white blood cells, anything that the doctors thought might help. Eventually, when nothing worked, they just gave me interferon therapy to slow down the process.



Now here I am, I have nothing left. My breaths are getting shorter, my heartbeats slower, my eyes heavier. I know my parents are here with me. My dad is outside my hospital room, yelling at the doctors and trying to find another treatment to keep my alive. My mum in sitting right beside me, holding my hand, her tears rolling down her face. She looks so tired, maybe when I’m gone she will finally be able to get some rest.



My eyes are just open and I see my dad walk into the room with a red face and a desperate look in his eyes. “There’s nothing left,” he says softly to my mother, “we’ve tried everything, and there’s nothing left. She’s not strong enough for more chemo.” I see the tears making their way down his face. He has been so strong through all this, and I’d never seen him cry. My little brother is curled up next to me, his arm draped over my stomach, like he’s trying to hug me in his sleep. He looks so peaceful and innocent. He is nine now and has lived through so much. He had to deal with getting woken up at 1:30 in the morning because I never did learn to vomit quietly. He never once complained about not being able to go play with his friends on Saturday because I had to go into hospital again.



I love them all so much, and it hurts so much to have to leave them, but I know its better this way. My parents will finally be able to get some sleep, and my brother will get to enjoy what’s left of his child hood.



My eyes can’t stay open any longer, and I know it’s time to go. I breathe my last slow, shallow breath and let go.