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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10. ten. in pain and no gain.

I can't help it. I cry constantly. I'm sad, depressed, and I can't help it. I truly feel alone. I'm in a lot of pain because of treatment. My hair is the worst. It feels like it falls out, then when I grab what I think fell out, I end up ripping out hair.

I'm in pain.

I ache. I can barely walk anymore. The meds have made me sick.

It's been a week since treatment began. A week ago, I was fine.

Fine. What an abstract concept.

That's seven trips to radiation and I feel like my brains are going numb and flowing out my ears. I'm getting dumber, for sure. It's killing my brain; I feel like I can't focus and I can't remember things. I want to pull the freaking black cord out of me and just let the bad flow out.

I scream a lot now, especially when I try to sleep because I'm afraid if I close my eyes they'll never open again.

I don't know how, but I manage to collect some strength. Using the bed rails and lamps and window sills, I pull my self into the bathroom and look at myself:

Hair ragged, in clumps.

Eyes bloodshot.

Tightened skin.

Tear-stained face.

And pale. Pale like Casper the freaking Friendly Ghost!

I want it to be over.

I want it to be over.

I want it to be over.

I want to be done.

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