Series: Charmaine Pauls
Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
It’s not until the door closes behind them that I drop my face into my hands and start to cry.
I cry for about an hour before I pull myself together. So what if I’m dying? Aren’t we all, in a way? Granted, most of us get seventy, eighty, maybe even a hundred years on this planet, while I’ve just barely made it to twenty-two, but that’s twenty years more than I might’ve had if things had gone differently, so it’s really a win.
I’ve had a lot of practice dying. Well, almost dying.
My first bout with childhood leukemia happened when I was just thirteen months. I don’t remember any of it, so that ordeal was definitely rougher on my parents than it was on me. I beat it, obviously. Then the leukemia returned when I was three. I do remember that time. Lots of needles and hospital visits and parents crying. Not fun for a child. Zero out of ten, would not recommend. But I beat it again. Yay, go me.
My third and final round with leukemia took place when I was seven. The doctors were convinced that this was it. None of the chemo drugs were helping, so I was advised to say my goodbyes. My parents withdrew me from school and signed me up for one of those Make-A-Wish things, where I got to meet a singer that I once told them I liked. In person, she was much less impressive and way too awkward about the fact that I was a little bald kid who was dying. Then my parents took me to Disney World, which I absolutely hated as I felt deathly ill the whole time. And that was supposed to be the end of me, except the day before I was due to enter hospice, I got enrolled in an immunotherapy trial and my stubborn cancer actually responded to it. Elsie—three, cancer—zero!
Of course, with my luck, the cancer wasn’t the only thing that responded to the immunotherapy. My immune system did too. It decided to go into overdrive and attack whatever it could get its grubby killer cells on. My pancreas was the first to go—hello, type 1 diabetes. Then my stomach kept acting like I was still on chemo, so they discovered I also had Crohn’s. Then lupus. Then rheumatoid arthritis. To control all that, they prescribed me a witch’s brew of immunosuppressive drugs, and then I got diagnosed with melanoma when I was fourteen—despite the fact that I was hardly ever out in sunlight. Thanks to my practically living in hospitals, the melanoma was caught early, so I just have a nasty scar on my leg as a reminder of that fun little battle.
So yeah, when my kidneys failed shortly after my seventeenth birthday, I took it pretty much in stride. Dialysis three times a week is nothing compared to the fun that is chemo. With all my autoimmune issues, I knew I wasn’t a candidate for a transplant, and I was fine with it. Then my body started to attack my heart.
More drugs, more trials, yadda, yadda, yadda, and here we are.
I’m officially dying. Again.
This time is probably for real, though. My parents have reached out to just about every medical establishment on the planet, and nobody is pulling a miracle out of a hat for me. Once the defective ticker inside me goes, that’ll be it.
In the meantime, there’s my Greek Lit paper to write. And Physics final to study for. The latter is in three weeks, so I might not make it, but on the off chance I do, I want to be prepared. It’s bad enough I’m a college freshman at the age of twenty-two thanks to my parents pulling me out of school each time I had a health scare. If my body holds up, I will finish this semester. And I will do it with straight fucking As.
My vision, which is not all that great to begin with, is blurring by the time I finish editing the paper. It’s come out pretty well, if I say so myself. Writing is not my forte—I’m more into math and science and all things logical—so I have to put a lot of effort into the humanities side of the core curriculum. I do enjoy the challenge, though.
It keeps my brain from ruminating on things it shouldn’t.
With my last remaining strength, I save the paper and email it to my professor. That way, if I croak tomorrow, he’ll have it. I doubt my parents will bother sending in my assignments while dealing with funeral arrangements. I told them I want to be cremated and have my ashes used as fertilizer on our lawn, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to do the whole coffin and fancy burial bit.
I love them dearly, but they never listen to me when it matters.