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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13. thirteen. feeling nothing but nothing.

The tube itches in my throat. I want it out. I've told- well, I've motioned- to my nurses to take it out mulitple times, but they always say the same thing:

"Sorry, you're not breathing over the ventilator."

I guess it's a good thing, because when I pass out every few hours or so, I'm not sure what's happening. If I'm breathing at all. I'm usually up for a few hours at a time and then I'm out for a few hours. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I'm not sure what day or month it is. I'm not sure how long I've been here or how many days I've missed when I wake up.

I scared. I'm terrified. I do not want to die. This stupid black cord. Do you see what it has done to me?!? Turned my brain to mush, compromised my breathing, ruined my life.

I'm going to die..

I hate saying that.

I haven't given up all hope.

Just most of it.

All those episodes of medical shows are flashing back to me now. All those dying cancer patients magically being nursed back to health. Just, resuming their lives as if it had never been affected at all.

Miracle is a stupid word. Gives all the real patients, those who are actually dying and in pain, false hope.

Fake. Like the deaths and lives of medical dramas. Unlike my pain and suffering.

Fake.

I've realized that there's no point in getting aroused anymore. At the beginning, when Dr. Mackenzie used to walk in with his stupid grin, I thought he would tell me,

"It was all just a nightmare. You're fine."

Now, when he comes in, I curse at him for giving such hope to me at the start.

Maybe it didn't clue into me at the beginning like it does now. Maybe I was in shock. I don't care anymore.I've fought for months. I'm done. There's not much left of me to give. I don't belong here anymore.

 

 

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