I wake up, again with blurry vision, again with a foul taste in my mouth. Again I try to step from the side of my hospital bed in room 144 and collapse to the ground with knobby knees. Again I have to press the button for the nurses to come in and put me back in bed. Last week, I could walk; this week, I can’t even feel my legs. Soon, I won’t be able to feel my arms, either; I can sense that it’ll happen. No matter what I tell the doctor, though, no matter what my test results show, he assures me, a hand on my shoulder each time, that I’m “fine.”

If you could see me three years ago and today, you’d know I wasn’t fine. I am a shell of my former self, stripped of my ambitions, purpose, and energy.

Today, though, after the nurse put me back into bed, she accidentally left her notepad on my bedside table. She’d be back for it soon, I figured, so I grabbed it and flipped to the last page with writing.

_Keep Room 144 sedated. Doctors orders. Will die soon. _

At last. I _knew_ they knew. Now, what to do with that information, besides die? Hm. I suppose it never mattered if they knew or not.