I stared out the car window, my stomach in knots as we approached the hospital. The stark white building loomed ahead, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. I've always hated hospitals.

It's not just one thing about them - it's everything. The smell hits you first, that sharp mixture of disinfectant and sickness that burns your nose. Then there's the way they look, all sterile and cold with bland walls and squeaky-clean floors. It's like they're trying too hard to hide what really happens inside.

And don't even get me started on the nurses. They're always smiling, always cheerful, even when they're giving you the worst news of your life. It's like they're robots programmed to be happy no matter what. I mean, I get it - they're trying to make you feel better. But sometimes, their fake cheer just makes everything feel worse.

Well, to be fair, my doctor didn't smile when he told me I was dying. His face was all serious and grim. But the point still stands - I hate hospitals.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I took a deep breath. This was it. My first chemo appointment. The start of my new life as a cancer patient. The thought made me want to throw up.

"You okay, sweetie?" Mum asked, glancing at me with worried eyes as she turned off the engine.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. What was I supposed to say? 'No, I'm not okay. I'm terrified. I don't want to do this. I want to go home and pretend none of this is happening?' But I couldn't say that. I had to be strong for everyone else, if not for myself.

Walking through the automatic doors, that familiar hospital smell hit me like a wave. I wrinkled my nose, trying not to breathe too deeply. The reception area was bustling with activity—nurses rushing around, patients waiting in chairs, phones ringing. It was overwhelming.

Mum went to check me in while I found a seat. I looked around, taking in my surroundings. The walls were a pale blue, probably meant to be calming, but they just looked depressing to me. Posters with forced-cheerful health messages were everywhere. 'Stay positive!" one of them said. I almost laughed. Stay positive while you're dying. Sure, no problem.

A little girl across from me was playing with a doll, her bald head covered by a colourful scarf. She looked so small, so fragile. Is that what I'm going to look like soon? The thought made my chest tighten.

"Elizabeth Reid?" a nurse called out, her voice overly bright. "We're ready for you now."

I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like jelly. This was it. The start of my fight against cancer. The beginning of my journey to... what? Survival? A legacy? I didn't know. All I knew was that I was terrified and that I really hated hospitals.

But I had no choice. So I took a deep breath, plastered on a fake smile to match the nurse's, and followed her.

She led us down a long corridor, her shoes squeaking off the tiled floor. Mum walked beside me, her hand on my back, trying to comfort me. I appreciated it, but it didn't help much. Nothing could help right now.

We entered a room filled with comfy-looking chairs arranged in a circle. A few other patients were already there, some reading magazines, others chatting quietly. Most of them looked older than me. I felt so out of place.

"Here we are," the nurse said, still smiling. This is where you'll be receiving your treatment. Let's get you settled in this chair."

I sat down, sinking into the cushions. It was more comfortable than I expected, but that didn't make me feel any better about what was about to happen.

"Now, Elizabeth," the nurse began, her voice taking on that careful, gentle tone that adults use when they're about to say something they think might upset you. "I just want to make sure you understand the nature of your treatment. This type of chemotherapy is called palliative chemo."

"I nodded. "Yeah, I know. The doctor explained it."

She continued anyway. "It's a bit different from other types of chemo. The main goal isn't to cure your cancer but to improve your quality of life. It might extend your life a bit, but not by much. It's mainly to relieve your symptoms and make you more comfortable."

I wanted to laugh. Comfortable? How was pumping poison into my body supposed to make me comfortable? But I just nodded again.

"Sounds wonderful," I muttered under my breath.

The nurse's smile faltered for a second, but she quickly recovered. "I know this is hard, but we're here to help you."

I looked away, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes. I'm still dying. I wanted to scream. All of this - the hospital, the chemo, the fake smiles - doesn't change that fact. I'm still going to die.

Mum squeezed my hand. "It's okay, honey. This will make you feel better."

I knew she was trying to be supportive, but her words just made me feel worse. The truth was, I didn't feel okay—not even close.

As the nurse started preparing the IV, I looked around the room again. The other patients seemed so calm as if this was just another day for them. Maybe it was. Perhaps they'd been doing this for so long that it had become normal.

Would that happen to me? Would I get used to this? The thought made me feel sick. I didn't want this to become my new normal. I didn't want to get used to being a cancer patient, to spending my days in this sterile, chemical-smelling room.

But then again, what choice did I have? This was my life now. Short as it might be.

The nurse came back with the IV bag. "Ready?" she asked, still with that annoyingly cheerful smile.

No, I wanted to say. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready for this. But instead, I just nodded and held out my arm.

As she inserted the needle, I tried not to wince. This was it. The start of my palliative chemo. This is the start of my attempt to make my last months less awful.

I closed my eyes as the drugs began to flow into my veins. Wonderful, right? Not really. But it was all I had. All I could do was hope it would give me enough time and strength to do something meaningful with my life before the end.

Because that's all I had left now: hope and a ticking clock.

As the drugs slowly dripped into my body, I found myself wishing Dad was here. He always knew how to make me laugh, even in the worst situations. But he had to stay at home with Meredith. Someone had to keep her world normal while mine fell apart.

And then there was Nathan. God, I wanted him here so badly it hurt. He was my best friend, the one person who could always make me feel better. He had offered to come, his eyes serious as he said, "I'll be there if you want me, Beth. Just say the word."

But I hadn't asked him. I don't know why. Maybe I was scared of him seeing me likes, weak and sick. Perhaps I didn't want to burden him. Or maybe I was just being stubborn.

Now, sitting here with the chemo flowing into me, I regretted that decision. I needed him. I missed him. Maybe next Monday, I thought. Maybe I'll ask him to come then.

"How are you feeling, Elizabeth?" the nurse's voice broke through my thoughts.

I blinked, focusing on her face. "Um, okay, I guess. A little weird."

She nodded. "That's normal. The drugs can make you feel a bit off. Let me know if you start feeling nauseous, okay?"

"Okay," I mumbled.

Mum leaned forward in her chair. "Is there anything we should be watching for at home?" she asked the nurse, worry evident in her voice.

The nurse turned to Mum with that ever-present smile. "Well, we typically see a few side effects with this treatment. Fatigue is common, so Elizabeth might feel more tired than usual. Nausea can also be an issue, but we've given her some anti-nausea medication that should help."

I tuned out as the nurse continued listing potential side effects. I didn't want to hear about how awful I would feel. Instead, I found myself thinking about Nathan again.

"Elizabeth?" Mum's voice pulled me back to reality. "Did you hear what the nurse said?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, what?"

The nurse repeated herself patiently. "I was just saying that it's important to stay hydrated. Can you drink plenty of water over the next few days?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, not caring. Who cares about staying hydrated when you're dying anyway?

Mum must have sensed my mood because she reached out and squeezed my hand. "It's going to be okay, sweetie. We'll get through this together."

I wanted to believe her, but it was hard. How could anything be okay when I had an expiration date hanging over my head?

"Mum," I said quietly, "I think... I want to ask Nathan to come next time."

Her eyes softened. "Of course, honey. I think that's a great idea. He's been so worried about you."

The nurse, overhearing our conversation, chimed in. "Is Nathan your boyfriend?"

I felt my cheeks heat up. "No, he's just my friend. My best friend."

She nodded, still smiling. "Well, it's good to have support. Friends can be a great source of strength during treatment."

I almost rolled my eyes as if I needed her to tell me that. But instead, I just nodded.

"How long have you two been friends?" the nurse asked, clearly trying to keep me talking.

"Since we were babies," I replied. "We grew up next door to each other."

"That's lovely," she said. "I'm sure he'll be a great support for you."

I nodded again, not wanting to talk about it anymore. But Mum jumped in, apparently sensing an opportunity to keep the conversation going.

"They're inseparable," she said with a fond smile. "Nathan's been so worried since we got the news."

The nurse nodded sympathetically. "I'm sure he has been. It's wonderful that you have such a good friend, Elizabeth. Having a strong support system can make a big difference."

I knew they were trying to cheer me up, to focus on something positive. But talking about Nathan just made me miss him more. It made me wish he was here, holding my hand instead of my mum, cracking jokes to distract me from the poison flowing into my veins.

"Yeah," I said softly. "He's pretty great."

As the nurse chatted with Mum about post-treatment care, the door to the room opened—a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, walked in carefully, holding onto his mother's hand. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and he moved with the cautious steps of someone who couldn't see where they were going.

I couldn't help but stare. The nurse caught me looking and leaned in close.

"That's Tommy," she said softly. "He's such a sweet little boy. The cancer attacked his eyes and made him blind. It's such a shame."

I felt a pang in my chest. As awful as my situation was, at least I could still see.

The nurse stood up, her voice brightening. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson! And hello to you, too, Tommy! How are you feeling today?"

Tommy's face turned towards the sound of her voice. "I'm okay," he said with a small smile.

"That's great to hear," the nurse replied. Then she turned back to me. "Tommy, there's someone new here today. This is Elizabeth. She's starting her treatment today."

"Hi, Elizabeth," Tommy said, his unseeing eyes pointing somewhere over my left shoulder.

"Hi, Tommy," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

Tommy tilted his head, curiosity clear on his face. "Can I... can I touch your face?" he asked hesitantly.

I blinked, taken aback by the request. "Um..."

His mum quickly stepped in. "I'm sorry," she said to me. "Tommy likes to 'see' people through touch. It helps him form a picture in his mind."

"Oh," I said, understanding dawning. "Sure, I guess that's okay."

Tommy's face lit up. His mum guided him to where I was sitting, and he reached out with small, careful hands. I held still as his fingers gently traced my features—my cheeks, nose, and eyebrows.

"You have a nice face," he said seriously when he was done. "Can I draw you?"

His mum laughed softly. "Tommy loves to draw, especially people. He has a special raised-line drawing board that helps him feel what he's creating."

I was amazed. This kid couldn't see, and yet he was creating art. Meanwhile, I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself.

"Sure," I said, surprising myself. "I'd like that."

Tommy beamed. "Great! Mum, can you get my drawing stuff?"

As his mum went to fetch his supplies, I smiled properly for the first time since I'd entered the hospital. Maybe this chemo session wouldn't be so bad after all.

The nurse patted my shoulder. "See? You're already making friends," she said with a wink.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me.

As Tommy settled in with his drawing board, chattering excitedly about his art, I felt something shift inside me. If this little boy could find happiness and creativity in such adversity, maybe I could, too.

For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to make these last months count. And who knows? Perhaps I'd meet more people like Tommy along the way.

It wasn't much, but it was something. And right now, something was a whole lot better than nothing.

Tommy's parents started conversing with my mum as he worked on his drawing. I tried to focus on Tommy's excited chatter about his art, but I couldn't help but overhear bits of their conversation.

"...on the list for a cornea transplant," Tommy's dad was saying, his voice low but hopeful.

My mum gasped softly. "Really? That's wonderful news."

Tommy's mum nodded, her eyes shining. "It could help him see again. It's an amazing thing. We're just praying he gets the chance."

I felt my heart skip a beat. A transplant that could help him see again? That was incredible. I watched Tommy's small hands move confidently over his drawing board, creating an image he couldn't see but could feel. The thought of him being able to see his artwork one day was breathtaking.

As I sat there, a strange feeling began to grow inside me. It wasn't quite hope - I was still dying, after all - but it was something close to it. A purpose, maybe.

What other amazing things were possible if a simple transplant could give Tommy back his sight? And, more importantly, what could I do? Even if I couldn't save my life, maybe I could do something to help others after I was gone.

The thought hit me like a lightning bolt. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was how I could leave my mark on the world, not by living longer but by giving someone else a chance at a better life even after mine ended.

I might be dying, but that didn't mean I couldn't do something extraordinary. Something that would outlive me, something that could make a real difference in someone else's life.

As the nurse came to disconnect my IV, signalling the end of my first session, I found myself smiling. It wasn't a big smile—I was still scared and angry at the unfairness of it all—but it was real.

"Are you ready to go home, sweetie?" Mum asked, gathering our things.

I nodded, my mind still racing with possibilities. "Yeah, I'm ready."

As we said goodbye to Tommy and his parents, I tucked the drawing he'd made of me into my bag. It wasn't just a picture anymore—it was a reminder—a reminder that even in the darkest times, there was still beauty to be found, still good to be done.

Walking out of the hospital, I took a deep breath of fresh air. The smell of disinfectant and sickness faded away, replaced by the scent of newly mowed grass and warm sunshine.

I still hated hospitals. I still hated that I was dying. But for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could make my remaining time mean something.

Chapter Nine

0 Comments