*Sensitive themes. Cancer, coming to terms with death and being at peace with it.*
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
The steady hum of the heart monitor prevents me from falling asleep, even though the nurse says that my body needs rest. I’m exhausted. I’m sore. I’m weak. I don’t want to move. I just want to sleep, but the pain…and that monitor.
If only someone would shut that stupid thing up.
I lay awake in this hospital bed, my breathing shallow, waiting, hoping that someone will walk in to keep me company. Still, I know that no visitors are allowed after 8 PM, and I give up. Maybe, I’ll die before morning. It’s better than being alone all night, lying awake until the sun shines through the windows, pretending it’s going to be a good day. Every night that I’ve been stuck in this horrible hospital (way too many), I haven’t had more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time without being woken up by the noises, doctors, nurses, etc…and the stabbing pains in my chest.
The seconds tick by and no one comes.
Let me start at the beginning of…everything.
My full name is Alexis Rosalie Fisher, but I go by Alex. I’m 18 years old and I live in California. At this point in my life, I should probably be selecting classes for college, like any normal high school graduate.
Unfortunately, I’m not normal.
I have cancer.
I am currently living with acute myeloid leukemia, a type of blood cancer, specifically in my white blood cells. But my cancer is worse than normal. It’s stage four. It has spread to the rest of my body. It’s deadly.
My breathing becomes sharper as the thought of death swirls around my mind. Will it hurt when it’s time for me to go? Will I even feel anything at all?
You may notice that I talk like I know for sure that I’m going to die. I obviously can’t tell the future. However, the doctors told my parents not to get their hopes up, because “there is a chance that she can’t be saved.”
It isn’t the fact that I’m scared of dying that makes that statement hard to forget. It’s my family. My death would hurt them more than it could ever hurt me.
Just as I’m drowning in denial and negativity, the door opens. It’s the nurse. I quickly close my eyes and breathe like I’m sleeping. I catch a whiff of her perfume and almost gag because of how strong it is. When you put too much on, it no longer smells like roses. Instead, it smells like alcohol and desperation.
The nurse checks my vitals and peers at my “peaceful” form. I consider turning over, but decide against it because of the IV inserted into my forearm. And also the fact that I usually don’t move in my sleep. The nurse runs a couple of tests and I fight the urge to wince.
I hear a gasp and the closing of the door. My arm jumps uncontrollably. Great, a seizure. I mention it like it’s just a tiny irritant. That’s because I’m so used to seizures by now. I’ve been having them for a few months.
…I wonder why the nurse ran out like that.
The door opens once more and I don’t even bother pretending to sleep. The doctor’s worried face concerns me.
“Oh, you’re awake?” he says softly, though I obviously am.
I nod. The doctor whispers something to the nurse, who nods and slowly turns to leave. He sits down on my bed.
“Now, Alex, what I’m about to tell you is upsetting, but I think you have to know.” He takes a deep breath. “The cancer has started to affect your heart.”
I stare blankly at the doctor. I knew that something was wrong. But it doesn’t matter; the pain will just end sooner.
“The nurse just called your parents, and they’re on their way. I’m so sorry. There isn’t much we can do.”
I slowly nod. I’m not angry.
I’m not sad.
I just feel bad for my family.
Just then the nurse comes back in. “They’re in the lobby.”
“Let them come up.”
The nurse leaves again and comes back with my mom, dad and 21-year-old sister, Grace. Their terrified expressions rip my heart to shreds. I must look horrible, with my body being made up of, essentially, skin and bones. I look at my family and feel guilty, like it’s all my fault. I know that I couldn’t prevent myself from getting cancer, but I still blame myself.
Ten seconds pass.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
Thirty-one…thirty-seven…forty-four…fifty-six…
Grace is the first one to break the silence. She walks over to my bed and hugs me. I know why. Grace and I have been so close our entire lives, and I’m about to go. I want to hug her back, to hold my sister, but I can’t force my skinny, feeble arms to lift up off of the bed.
Instead, I whisper, “I love you.”
She looks at me, tears in her eyes. “I love you too, Alex,” she whispers back through trembling lips.
“We can try chemo again, or a transplant, but it’s risky, and I don’t think that either will do much. I’m sorry…”
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I wince as a needle is inserted into the inside of my forearm. We’re trying chemotherapy one more time, one last shot of hope. All the nurses seem to avoid touching me now, and I feel more alone than ever. I know, deep down, that no matter what we try, how hard I fight, I only have a couple days left. If even that.
The nurse leaves the room. I try to read a book, but my mind wanders far, far away. Exhaustion creeps in, and it’s all I can do to stay awake. I’m scared now. Scared that if I fall asleep, I won’t wake up.
People always joke around and say that they’re sick and tired, but they don’t know what that really means. I’m the one that’s sick and tired.
Try slowly dying, I want to yell, scream at them. Over the past few days, I’ve been in so much pain. Too much pain, and I have no idea if this is normal or not.
I’ve never died before.
Why did I wish death upon myself, not so long ago? The reality sinks in slowly as the chemo seeps into my bloodstream. I’m in pain, but I can’t let myself die.
I don’t want to die.
I let myself cry while there’s no one in the room.
I wish I could tell the world that it’s working. I wish I could see the look on my family’s faces when I tell them I’ll live. But I know that I can’t.
I count the seconds that go by, knowing that my own are numbered.
Time is unique. It’s something beautiful. Something fleeting. Something terrible. All at the same time.
Incredible things happen in seconds, minutes, hours, days. Sometimes months, years, decades. It all has its place in time. Everything is centered around time.
And I let myself absorb that information. Everyone has a time that they’ll go. For me, it’s sooner than expected.
But the time is perfect. Fate. Written in the stars.
I let the seconds pass, not wanting to forget a single one.
Seconds.
I’m letting the seconds pass, cherishing every single one.
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It’s sunny on the day that I die.
My sister and parents are gathered around my bed, their whisper-soft sobs echoing quietly in my ears. I can hardly breathe, see, or even think through this fog that surrounds me.
But it’s okay. I’m…okay.
I can hear birds chirping outside my window. I’m at home. I didn’t want to spend my last days at the hospital.
I take in shallow, rattling breaths, the air avoiding my lungs like the plague.
The room dims around me.
My eyes close, slowly, but surely.
The soft and steady heartbeat that was my lifeline ceases to exist.
It’s over.
Absolute silence.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
EightNine
TenEleven
Twelve
I count the seconds passing by, the words jumbling together, each one feeling as quick as light, but as long as an eternity of darkness. I hear nothing. I see nothing. I feel…nothing.
Then a white light suddenly appears above me. I feel myself smile. Not my body, but my soul. My seconds have stopped. Time is now gone.
Nothing matters but the light.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days.
It’s all gone.
I’m one with the light.
I’m at peace at last.
The Lighthouse 