Black Cord

A short little story about a young girl diagnosed with end stage melanoma, her fight to hold on to her hope, and to find her courage to let go and accept her fate.

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9. nine. she lost it.

The colour drained from my face. I felt sick. It felt like a viscous, black poison was flowing through me at such a slow rate that it hurt.

Suddenly, I jumped, or rather, fell out of bed and stumbled with my IV still amazingly intact into the bathroom. I puked. I gagged. I threatened to my mother that I would pull the cord out and just walk the hell out of there.

After I thought I could make it back to bed without puking, I took a swig of water. It tasted funny. I choked on my dinner. It was like the bad had an influence on everything else in my life. My mom left after the puking incident and returned about twenty minutes later and handed me an orange bandanna.

"For when your hair starts to fall out." she said quietly.

Gee. Thanks.

Look, honey. I know how incredibly hard this is for you. But it's incredubly hard for me as well. I just want you to know: I love you. No matter what happens.."

She's choking back tears now. I can see the buildup in her eyes.

"....You're my baby and I can't believe this is happening to you. I'm....I'm sorry baby."

Her eyes, blue with green flecks, overflow with water, like a dam bursting. Then, I start to cry.

Not because she made me with her impromptu speech-and don't get me wrong, I appreciated it-but I started to cry because that speech proved what I had suspected all along:

My mother had given up hope in medics, science, chemo itself. But most saddening: she gave up hope in me.

I had lost everything. 

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