04/18

“It’s not good… but it’s not bad either… I think if we continued a set of treatments we could possibly beat this. If not, at least prolong your life expectancy.”

He looked so hopeful, his perfect teeth on display in their most dazzling smile. As always I noticed it never reached his eyes. I looked at the purple veins running under my ash colored skin. Another round of experimental treatments, ranging from medicines to radiations. Another round of nausea, losing what little weight I had struggled to maintain. Another round of misery. The choice was easy.

“No.”

Dr. Glasgow peered at me closely. I had the distinct feeling of being an insect under observation, the white coated scientist being disappointed at what he saw.

“No? I don’t understand… if you stop taking these treatments… you’ll die in two months… at most!”

“Dying can’t be any worse than living.”

I heard the words leave my mouth before my brain had even pieced them together. I felt at peace about dying. I’ve been prolonging my life expectancy for years now, doing all the steps, taking all the treatments, spending money when there was none… if God wanted me dead so badly, who was I to stop him?

“But the pain–“

“Pain is a friend. Has been for the past five years. I want it to end.”

11/23

I opened the mailbox, feeling the cold bite my cheeks while I thought of the warm fire inside my house. I fumbled with the papers, hindered by my black woolen gloves and, without glancing at the senders, stepped inside the foyer. It already smelled like Christmas, the sharp scent of pine trees filling the house. The gas fireplace was running in the living room, unattended for the moment while the sound of bowls clattering together came from the kitchen. Footsteps could be heard on the ceiling as the kids chased each other upstairs, probably fighting over a hairbrush. It was a wonderful symphony of the living.

I pulled the gloves off my hand, revealing a healthy, pink-tinted skin tone. I unraveled myself from the bundle of coats and scarves and searched desperately for an empty hook on the wall. I settled for the floor. The beanie followed, letting hair fall down around my ears and tickle my neck, hair I hadn’t had previously. The brown curls were still foreign and, after four years without it, I suppose I had forgotten my natural hair color. The letters were the usual, junk mail and bills. One was unusual. It looked almost like jury duty at first and then… I was being called to court to testify… a witness… victim… fraud… false…

Yes, I noticed I lived much longer than had been expected. Yes, I felt much better and looked much better than previously. I had hair, a health skin tone, my nails grew, I wasn’t riddled with headaches and joint pain, no nausea or vertigo, I had an appetite, maintained a healthy weight and could actually walk and exercise without having to lay down practically incapacitated by cramps. I thought it was some miracle.

Instead there was a doctor that helped his patients and then lied to them, keeping them on “treatments” telling them how dire their situation was, taking their money to make them sick and using it to pay for his Porsche. I had defeated this sickness already, but was being led on, convinced I was still dying.

I sat down in the foyer, leaning against the wall as I read the letter over and over again. Choosing death saved my life…