March: Part 2

I have so little time left. I have cut out all of the toxic people from my life, all of the people who I thought were my friends but never really were. My parents just want me to do the testing that the doctors are suggesting, I don’t want that to be the rest of my life. Needles, tubes, and monitors reminding me that I am running out of time faster and faster every day. I walk through the city every day; I look at all of the beautiful things that I missed. All of the things that I was just too busy to look at before. All of this graffiti under the bridges is more beautiful than most things seen in art museums. There is a beautiful mural of an Indian, he is wearing a handsome feather headdress and there is an eagle on his shoulder. He is also gazing up at a picture of the moon, he is so graceful and diligent looking. He is beautiful.

It has been a long few weeks. I can’t walk anymore, my legs gave out and my parents took me to the hospital. I have been refusing to sign their papers for testing for several weeks, but I am losing my hands and arms as well. I fear that this is it. I have scheduled a meeting with my doctors for this evening, I am going to sign the waiver for them to start testing on me. I have to sacrifice my freedom to buy some more time. Hopefully this will cure me, and I won’t have given up for nothing.

The testing is painful, lots of needles. Lots of skin samples. Lots of loud beeping monitors. The room smells of sterilized instruments and hospital food; they have a drip of solution to an I.V. in my arm. The dull pain is slowly driving me mad but I can move less and less by the day, I am trapped here. These white walls and sterilized environment is my prison, god help me.

I can barely move. This treatment isn’t working. So much pain. All of these needles, the scars om my arm from them wont heal. My legs are thin and frail from lack of muscle, and I sit here for hours waiting for death. The doctors say that soon I will be comatose. All of the other patients are fine, what is wrong with me? Nothing is working. I just hope that they don’t try to save me after I’m gone.

Everything is fading, I am so tired. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open. I have so little energy, my life is slowly disappearing before me. They said it would be like this. They said they will put me on life support and continue testing. Why won’t they leave me alone? I am ready. Let me sleep, let me be in peace at last. Let me leave this place. This is the end. This is my end.

Original Work by P.H.

March: Part 1

The cold on my legs caused goosebumps to form across my skin. My thin, tight jeans didn’t provide much protection from the cold. Spring would be soon, the flowers would bloom, the trees green again. Though, I wouldn’t experience it the same as everyone else. I had been diagnosed with a strange illness. I didn’t bother to remember the name, basically I had developed paralysis. The doctors say that before mid-June I will be completely paralyzed. I will have no feeling in any of my body, I won’t be able to move. I will be a prisoner. My family says that we will try anything to make me better, the doctors keep reassuring them that they will try everything they can. Though I know the truth, it’s all an act. One of the nurses pulled me aside and told me there are no known cures for my condition, I would be a guinea pig in some experiments. Poked, prodded, and injected with whatever they think will work. My parents agreed to sign waivers for me to be used as a test subject. These next few months could be my last free ones, and I don’t want to be somebody’s science experiment.

I refused to sign any papers. My parents were shocked that I didn’t comply, I didn’t want to be a lab rat for the last months of my life, I wanted to be free. I wanted to travel, to see all of the amazing things that people talk about on their death beds. The Grand Canyon, the jungle, the Taj Mahal, going snorkeling in Hawaii.

I walked along the sidewalk and listened to the few birds left in the neighborhood chirp, it’s far too cold for any bugs or other animals, but the birds stay. They could come and go as they pleased, but they stayed. Damned fools. If only they knew to run as fast as they could, get out of here before it was too late. If I had wings like them, I’d fly my ass right out of here, and never look back. Everyone talks about the seven stages of grief when hearing news like this, but nobody talks about the numbness. The sheer shock of it all, somehow you feel less than before. Everyone around you goes through the stages, and you just sit and watch. People often mistake this for depression, but it’s just numb.

My hands keep getting shakier, I’m afraid that soon I will not be able to use them. My body goes numb sometimes and I fear that it is the end, that I am trapped sooner than I expected. I am still free for now. I have been going to the park and looking at the art, it’s beautiful. I am thinking about starting to paint but with the way I have been deteriorating I doubt that my work will get anywhere. Every day my muscles are less and less cooperative, I feel my cage building itself up around me. The freedom is slowly leaving me, soon I will be as much as a statue.

This is a two-part story, part two should be published by the end of march.

Original Work by P.H.