For Better or For Worse

      3:17 AM, that is what the digital clock that lay beside the hospital bed displayed when I looked over at it, after awakening from another dream filled with voices screaming in misery and anguish. The faint green light from the digital clock was the only thing that illuminated the room. Room 103, the room that for the past month had resembled my home. A home filled with monitors that flashed and beeped when my health was in danger, and almost mercifully they remained silent, but vicious almost as if they were mocking me, reminding me of the challenges I would have to inevitably face in the future. As I tried to move my arms, to obtain in a more comfortable position, a flash of pain ran through my right arm, which was accessorized with an assortment of needles, and as I shut my eyes tight, trying to stop tears, which had become all too familiar to me, from rolling down my cheeks, I was once again reminded of my condition, that of a leukaemia patient.

    Why? Why me? Why had God chosen me, a mere sixteen year old, to go through this terrible ordeal that they called leukaemia, or more commonly blood cancer? These were the questions that had exploded in my mind, blinding me from seeing reason, reason a thing I did not believe existed when I thought about my condition. It had all started when I ran a fever a month ago, I thought it was just a regular flu, but when it persisted, l was taken for a blood test. I was then called into the doctor’s waiting room and after what seemed like an agonizingly long wait he called us into his office, which at that time seemed very unfamiliar and lonely. His wrinkled face bore an expression of grave seriousness and his dark eyes represented cold, lonely tunnels which no one ever hopes they stumble upon, he then uttered those fateful words, he explained to us that I had leukaemia and it was already in its second stage, at that moment a wave of fear, anger, shock and sadness swept through me. As I stood their visibly shaking, my eyes a mixture of pain and shock, my parent’s eyes grew moist as the held me in their familiar arms. I had lost track of the doctors explanation of the disease, its causes, symptoms and treatment, his voice resounded in my head as a noise that I didn’t care about, a noise that didn’t matter.  The phase that followed was that of anger and sorrow, I wallowed in my sadness and did not even try to conceal my rage. Anyone who tried to talk to me about it was met with disappointed as I raved and ranted about everything and everyone. I refused to accept the cold and harsh albeit true reality, I fought against it, in every way possible.

      It was when I was admitted into the hospital, that I finally realised, understood and accepted reality. It wasn’t easy, I saw the sadness on my mother’s face when she greeted me in the morning, even though she never cried in front of me, her eyes were red, dark circles engulfing her face, I knew how hard it was for her. My father would return from work every evening and come straight to the hospital; I could see his effort to forget all his worries about work and footing the expensive medical bills, as he talked and laughed with me as though nothing was wrong, but I could still see the evidence of his worry, the wrinkles on his face and a sort of sadness that had found permanent inhabitance in his eyes.  My friends from school would bring bouquets, gifts and cards, which would perpetually lay by my bedside. As I tried my level best to fight against this disease that was slowly and painfully sucking away not only my life, but also the life of the people close to me.

      Injections, blood transfusions and extensive medical tests had all become familiar to me. The days at the hospital merged into one another, as my condition worsened I scarcely knew the time of the day or night, my eating habits were erratic, and most of my food was given to me by the means of a needle that was firmly implanted in my now pale skin. I had lost track of the time and date. I was only conscious for a few hours in a day, the rest of the day I remember just a long dreamless sleep.

      That was when I stopped fighting, I had lost the need and will to live, and I didn’t care anymore. In my mind I had already decided I would be better off without all the suffering, pain, needles and medicine. I obeyed everything I was told, but without any spirit and will, I was just sick and tired of it. I was sick and tired of life.

        The girl writing in her diary leant back against her pillow and clutched the diary close to her with her feeble hands. She closed her eyes trying to sum up her life, reliving all the happy memories and trying to erase the bad ones. This once again brought tears rushing to her eyes. The machine monitoring her heart beat showed a sudden increase in her heartbeat - thud, thud, thud and then there was none.