So, um, it’s been a while.
Everyone I love has been reminding me that the blog is stale, and a couple days ago I totally intended to write a post, but I only got as far as un-decorating the blog and making it normal again.
So! I wrote this forever ago. And it’s very depressing. But I think I like it. So here you go.
If you only had one day left to live—how would you spend it?
I never thought I would actually be in a position where I would have to answer that question.
But there I was.
Well, I mean, obviously, I knew there was one day going to be a day that was my last day on earth. My last day before I died. But I never expected to know that it was my last day. I don’t think that anyone does.
I felt surprisingly calm, figuring that these were my last hours of life. Being only seventeen, I was kind of surprised at my lack of mental breakdown. But I just kind of sat there after receiving the news.
What was I supposed to do?
It’s not like I didn’t know that this was an option. I’d been doing the chemo for months, but we’d always known the chances were slim.
But now that the chances were none—it was somewhat surreal.
Mom didn’t take the news as calmly as I did. Her gasping scream rattled around in my head before she broke into strangled-sounding sobs. The nurse escorted her to the hall, and my dad followed. The doctor stayed behind to calm me, but I didn’t need much calming.
He offered me his sincere condolences. I fixed my hat and thanked him.
The doctor left the room, and I was alone. Completely alone, for the first time in a long time. The quiet was calm. I felt like I was under water—peaceful, muted, floating.
So, one more day. How would I spend it?
I was tired.
I was always tired.
Sleep sounded nice.
I basked in the silence I didn’t know I had been missing. It’s never quiet in a hospital.