I was asked by a few people after telling the amusing story of how this paper forced several classmates of mine to shriek in class. The project was to pick a cancer and diagnose yourself with it, then tell a story and reveal if you die or live. This was originally written for a health grade but it was dark and creepy enough to share. I know its TLDR but if you do decide to read this essay I hope you enjoy the story. :D Ever feel like there is a bag of boulders on your chest? I thought it was a cold at first, or at least a bronchial infection. Like most men I just ignored the entire situation, assuming that it was going to pass the way most illnesses usually do. When I awoke I was in a haze, unfamiliar room, blurry vision, and confusion. A strange man spoke to me in a droll tone, “How do you feel Mr. Zaritskiy?” I did not even know where I was, but I responded nevertheless. “How do I feel… Have you ever felt like you had a bag of boulders on your chest?” The stone cold stare protruding from the gentleman’s face was evident that he did know the feeling I was describing, and there was no good news to follow. All I remember hearing was stage four prior to a deafening silence slithering simultaneously into my head. I watched the doctor’s mouth flap on and on with no comprehension or care for the words that it spit out. Lung Cancer… I have not smoked in over two decades… W-what now? Meeting your demise is quite the task. Three months to a year was my timeframe. Since the cancer had already spread to every part of my lungs, in addition began its triumph over my liver. Time was already winning the race against me, each tick of time was another boulder added to my graves. Difficulty breathing, constant coughing, sometimes with a discharge of blood, and a harsh sound with every inhalation were only a few of the dreadful symptoms which came attached to my new passenger. I found myself in a fugue state most of those first days. I found myself aimlessly walking around the house looking for something which was missing, stopping only to cough. Lots of swearing and anger was expelled those days. It is expected when faced with such a life changing event. Doctor Hill called me to talk about some treatment options maybe a way to squeeze some extra time out of the little that I had left. Chemotherapy came up in our discussions to reduce the swelling and possibly remove some of the tumors. I was not too optimistic about the probability of success, but at this point what was there to lose? Sitting around the dinner table with my wife and kids we discuss what options are left and how to go about dealing with issues regarding insurance coverage limitations. Doctor Hill suggests that we use the hospital where I was initially brought and diagnosed; we unanimously agree that it would be the optimal choice. The room is dimly lit with a smell of death creeping about. Looking around there are people waiting like I am for an approaching shadow which would claim us all if not for those snippets of hope that we cling to. We make small talk about what our conditions are as poison is injected into our veins in attempt to kill the poison festering inside us. The prick is painless but the wait is excruciating. The frailty of the surroundings disturbs me, skeletons with stretched skin sit on chairs waiting for their doses to end. Balding men and women hopped up on so much medication that life is almost non-present. Spouses holding on to emaciated hands which once held such vivid vigor, such vibrancy, such vitality are now resting on armrests of chairs which once held the weight of the dead. It ends for this week, we leave. The sickening smell surveys the suit which I wear; it too now shambles over me like a hand-me-down. I catch my reflection in a window and stop to take a closer look. This thing in front of me is no longer who I once was; there is a metamorphosis of myself which I cannot accept as reality. I start attending support groups for people with terminal illness. Once a week the dredges of social lepers meet in a dingy basement of a church. We sit around talking about our lives and what we are going through, in attempts to accept our fate so to say. We do meditation which wouldn’t be so bad if not for my wheezing throughout the exercise. I can’t help but laugh as evidently all the other attendees become infuriated without the ability to say anything. I laugh followed by a quick apology, I don’t mean it. We participate in one on one sessions with one another, a bonding experience, which ultimately is pointless. Especially during the times I get stuck with the chimney that constantly smells of cigarettes and cat urine. Even with all the annoyances that come with this group of the walking dead, I do find some closure in a peaceful rest. Death doesn’t seem to bother me too much anymore. I live day to day and use my time in productive ways when I can. Living with cancer is like being trapped in a purgatory. People care to an extent but everyone is just waiting until you cease to be a burden. You are frail, vomitus, skinny, with no energy. You tread about viewing the abled waste their days doing nothing. When you gain enough energy to walk about after a few steps you being to gasp for air, imagine downing, all day long every day. We all want a glimmer of hope which may or may not come. To return us to our past lives, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past” to quote The Great Gatsby. A call one morning, no progress... Condition remains fatal. We wait… More doctors… No hope. Everyone cries all day. I rather they didn’t. It is bad enough I have to go through this ordeal, as the focal point I now must go through it vicariously through everyone I know. Time grips tightly around my neck and ever so gently squeezes slowly every day. Each day there is more crying, less energy, and a tighter grip around my esophagus. Friends stop by and give pleasantries, hooray for pity. I would rather they tell me I look like crap than make it seem like everything is okay. It is nice to see people who aren’t doctors or in support groups. We discuss sports and good times from the past, the laughing causes me to cough. I pass out. The sirens wake me up as I lie unable to move. I can see and hear the paramedics rushing around the speeding ambulance as it makes its way towards its destination. Terms I don’t understand are uttered about. Through the tones of voice I know that things aren’t going to end well. Panic is all I hear as we arrive at the destination. I can hear commotion as I am lifted from the ambulance stretcher to a hospital one, with my current physique it is no longer a difficult task. My wife crying can be heard in the background. Perhaps this consciousness is what we experience prior to our demise. This might be a way to tie a life into a bundle and conclude the entire collaborate. There is no flash of recollection, no embrace of fear, just calm. Tirelessly workers attempt to pull me from the brink of peace back into the world of the living, where the people I love live and the suffering I bore waits. Once the machines die down and the room becomes silent the medics look about and call it. Time of death, May 22, 2045 7:24p.m, funny I never imagined my death day to coincide with my date of birth. As that through crosses my mind, a weight is lifted off my chest, finally… rest.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Nov 2013 05:40:42 +0000
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