The Pursuit

“You only have four weeks to go, I’m sorry.”
Every word was a dagger to my already bruised and battered spine; every muffled, congealed breath a spoonful of salt to the throat that was already bare from years of chemo past. My blood roared and screamed through my veins faster and faster until it felt like this room was a dream and my doctor was meant to be nothing more than a blur. I faded out of the real world and tried to curl up into a comforting corner of my mind – but I couldn’t find one. Every inch of my brain, every cell, every vessel was bursting with tainted blood, with hatred and fatality. I had nowhere, no one and nothing at all besides false comfort and the constant voiceover in my head telling me I was going to die. And the worst part was it was true.
I opened my heavy eyes, still swimming from the river of tears that flooded my face. Dr Rosa stood before me, his voice nothing more than a soporific monotone. His hand on my shoulder felt like an attachment I should get rid of. And I would. And that’s all I’d do for the rest of my life. Forget, forgive, say goodbye. Not caring that I was in full view of Dr Rosa, I curled up into the cheap linen of my hospital bed and sobbed countless, time consuming sobs. I felt a part of me disappear; just vanish into the arms of death. I have a myriad of words to tell you how it felt, but would it matter? I’d have to get used to it. Just like I got used to the everyday lumbar punctures, the all too frequent bone marrow transplants, the common blood transfusions. In four weeks time, my body won’t be mine any more. It’ll belong to my much, much more dominant nemesis: leukemia.

Three weeks to go. Again, my mother placed a meal on my bedside table. Again, I turned away. Why chew on cardboard? Where’s the point? Mum rested a warm hand on my bony shoulder, and I knew she was crying just from her delicate touch. Instant guilt took place of constant ignorance.
“What am I supposed to do, Annie? Just eat something, please,” she barely whispered. And I wanted to eat, for mum. I really did. But I couldn’t stomach the truth, never mind a meal.
“I’m not hungry, mum. That’s all, just not hungry,” I attempted to justify, but the muffled sob that broke the silence of the ward showed me that my attempts were far from successful.
“I know this is horrible, baby. I’m losing my only child, it’s hardly easy for me either. But there has to be something you want, hey? A visit from a friend? A book? I could persuade the nurses to let you out for the day, I’m sure they’d understand if you wanted to...” And she carried on talking, but I didn’t hear her anymore. The room had taken on some awkward atmosphere, some messy disposition that didn’t quite feel right. There’s something wrong with me, something deeper than the obvious. Because as mum spoke those words, I realized there was not one thing I wanted. Nothing. I’m going to die in less than twenty-one days - I’ve never travelled out of England, never met anyone famous, never even been to a concert. But I don’t want to, either. I racked my wrecked brains for some sort of want, some sort of need, but came out empty-handed. I turned abruptly to face away from my mother.
“Anything you want, darling?” She desperately asked; urgent for something, but I had nothing.
“No, mum. Nothing.” I trusted myself to say.
And she left just in time to miss the first tear fall. Thank goodness, as it was the first of what felt like millions.

**

Two weeks to go. A nurse fiddled with my drip. Everything she did aggravated me. From the way she walked to her chubby fingers. Why am I so irritable? I found my own continuous annoyance frustrating; as I became less and less of a human, I began to hate what was left more and more. Turning away from her, I scowled at the plain white wall. I must’ve angered it, as it seemed to become even duller than before. I used the infinite canvas to my advantage: trying to paint a picture of the next three weeks. Come on, Annie! What do you want out of the next three weeks? My mind stumbled and stuttered and staggered over ideas and words, but none were appropriate, none of them I really desired. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so content with dying when I’ve achieved nothing? Why doesn’t it feel like there’s anything missing?

By now the nurse was finished. There was still some painful tingling from the earlier injections, but it wasn’t more painful than the thought of dying with nothing to be remembered by, and so I rolled back over as if I’d just had the pleasure of a massage. The raised eyebrow told me the nurse was impressed, and I felt almost proud as I watched her fill the vase next to my bed with flowers.

“Now, Annie. Is there anything we can do for you in your last weeks?” She asked, lightly resting a hand on my shoulder and heavily pressing my conscience into my mind.
“No,” I replied abruptly, turning away and burying my head into my pillow.
“Nothing at all? We’re a children’s unit, Annie. We can pull some strings! Only last week we got Tom Kitson from that boy band in to visit Ruby! Just say the word and we can make it happen,” she continued. Really? She honestly thinks that’s going to make me change my mind? It’s sick. Repulsively morbid how the children here think that they instantly get what they like just because they’re ill. Meeting Tom Kitson will give you a moment of joy, pure and simple happiness. But not peace of mind, not another week to live. I hate this hospital. I hate the far-too-white sheets on my bed and the obsessive hand washing. I hate the constant stench of bleach and the harrowing noise of crying played on repeat.
“Annie, everyone has a dream to chase, a unicorn to catch. What’s yours?” she asked. I’d forgotten she was even there. In reply to my silence, she got up to leave, smoothing down her faded blue overalls that made her look like a potato. I laughed at my own joke inwardly. Well, laughter’s the best medicine, eh? I may as well try and buy myself some time. I watched the nurse disappear off down the ward, and so, exhausted by nothing, I slumped back into my bed and waited to die.

**

One week to go. Mum’s brought me home in the hope that it’ll be worth something, but I can tell you now that it just makes this whole ordeal feel worse. I sat cocooned in a duvet on our soft leather sofa, using the armrest as a pillow. Dad poked at the fire he’d lit just for me, even though it was July. I appreciated it, I really did. But I wanted to want more than warmth. I wanted to want to meet a celebrity, or go swimming, or go to the beach. But I didn’t. And that hurt more than any needle, any test, and any amount of hours spent heaving on an empty stomach.

I watched the flames dance and intertwine, and it fascinated me. The patterns, the colours, the sheer magnificence of something so simple. I watched the fire grow and grow. Spark to life as I died beside it. Beautifully repulsive. I wonder if my eyes are becoming more enhanced since I lost my hearing a few days ago? It certainly seems like it. It’s weird how strangely peaceful silence can be. Though I’m sure the novelty will wear off. Just like the novelty of being an only child, or everyone pretending to like you just because you’re ‘the kid with cancer.’ I’m so tired of it all.

I sank back even further into the plush leather, pulling the duvet tighter and closing my heavy eyelids. Suddenly the soft embrace of my duvet was replaced with a beautifully comforting hug from my mum. I kept my eyes closed and felt rather than heard her whisper against my ear. I nestled into her reassuring arms and pretended that I wasn’t dying. And, just for a moment, I wasn’t... Mum’s plans for me had all worked out. She had beautiful grandchildren who she adored. She offered to babysit, spoilt them silly, loved them so much. And she loved me, too. We shopped together, we had morning coffee, we gossiped like best friends. And when she grew old, I looked after her. She outlived me by far. And more importantly, she loved me. And she never forgot about me. Never forgot about me… And even though it was just a moment, it was the most stunning one I’d ever experienced. I wanted to swallow it up, drink it in and exist in it. To cut a long story short: I wanted to live. And as mum stroked my bald head with her elegant fingers, I watched the clock tick. Ever closer to my last moments. Ever closer to my eternal goodbye.

**

Today is the day. I know it is. I can feel it in the beep of the machines and the flow of the IV. My parents are sat at my bedside, though I can hardly make them out. It’s like watching the world through the bottom of a glass. I think mum’s holding my hand. I don’t know, but I can feel something - a muffled touch of warmth and love. But now I’m falling...falling…

I never found anything I wanted, did I? I didn’t find my unicorn, didn’t chase my dream. But in this bleary, spaced-out oblivion, being just another forgotten face doesn’t really bother me.

Is it too late to tell you that I’m scared of death?
I’ll take that as a yes.



I love you, mum and dad. Can you hear me? Can you feel the love I’m so desperately pouring out?
Bereavement, loss, decease, me.


Gathering pace, running towards the light...


And a smooth flat line blinks across the monitor.
And I realize that all along I just wanted serenity.
And I achieved it.
The pursuit of absolute peacefulness.