Vanquish

        “We have the results,” the doctor slowly says walking into the room at a moderate pace. My dad squeezes my hand, my eyes close for a short moment and open again. I stare at the doctor and know the news he bears is not good. I feel my heart in my throat and my eyes sting. The doctor continues, “we figured since you were a little girl that your brain defect would be permanent, today was just the final confirmation.”

         My dad’s grip loosens, my hand slips out of his, and both of mine go to my face, as a feeble attempt at trying to hide my disappointment, and fear. My hands fill with tears and they flow down my arms, dampening my hospital gown. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder trying to comfort me as I tremble with a terrible reality staring me in the face. I start to rationalize, I’ve lived with this condition for seventeen years and it’s never improved. So why am I so disappointed with what I already figured. 

         I try to compose myself, taking several wet deep breaths, and I wipe my eyes with a tissue that a nurse hands me. “Could there possibly,” I start to say, looking at the doctor, but I pause letting a wave of tears run down my face. Then I continue, “is there possibly another medicine,” I pause again, to breathe and to swallow my emotions, when I proceed my voice cracks, “I could try?”

         The doctor takes a seat across from me, he leans forward with is elbows on his knees and says in a low tone, “No, we have tried every medicine, and every treatment there is that could possibly help your condition without taking the risk of causing other problems.”
         “But I’m not afraid of risks, and what other problems could there be?”