I only vaguely remember getting home that night. I had fallen asleep in our embrace and Rob had half carried me home. Briefly, I caught snippets in my memory; him placing me on my bed, stroking my hair and kissing my head. Obviously, I begged him to stay with me, but it was a school night.
Thankfully, I did not have to get up early in the morning because mum had booked me an appointment with a tumor specialist. I could not think of a more depressing job. Having to tell patients, day in and day out, the risks of chemotherapy and to list the stages of death as easily as a rehearsed script.
Our old car chugged along the motor way; I leant my head against the vibrating glass, trying to remember how to block pain out. It was strange not having anything to block out, now the headaches were gone, something had to replace them.
The most depressing buildings humans have to look upon have to be hospitals. Peeling paint, grubby walls and fallen signs. Windows, grimy and blinded. Patients and nurses were smoking outside, guarding the entrance door with a thick cloud of smoke. I wondered why they still smoked, when they were ill, or nursing the ill, in the first place.
Once again, I was herded into the waiting room with all the other people just like me. Unsurprisingly, I was the only one of my age there. There was a middle aged man, two children less than ten years old and and a toddler in his mothers arms. Smiles suffocated the room. Everyone was smiling. Doctors, nurses, receptionists, parents smiling towards their children, the children putting on a brave face. I knew it could not cure them, believe me. I had been smiling since I was born, look where it got me.
Although, I suppose they had hope and will power. I didn't. I knew I was going to die. But at least I could choose how I died, I was grateful for that.
My name was called and I got up, my mum trailing behind me, letting me know silently that I was in charge.
"Alli." I muttered, annoyed at how formal everyone was.
Ignoring me, she carried on, "You know why you're here, I presume?"
Her face was pinched and her eyes narrow, her voice like ice on ice.
"Yes." Mum answered.
"Well then shall we get started on your options?"
"Yes." Mum answered again.
I blanked them out as they discussed how operating was out of the question. Then they talked about chemo and radio, how my hair would fall out and how I'd loose my appetite. Finally, I could bare it no longer.
"I don't want much treatment." I blurted out when the doctor was in mid-sentence.
"Alli, behave." Mum hissed. I could only glare at her. I had just declared something very important, and she dismissed me because I was making a scene.
"No. Please, It's my choice. I only want one dose of chemo, because I made a promise to someone. But then I want to stop, it's not worth it. I'm going to die anyway."
The doctor was silent. Both of them were staring at me.
"You won't fight it?" The doctor inhaled at the same time.
"Won't fight it? Doc, I've been fighting it for so long. Don't you think I've suffered enough. I don't want my last days to be full of feeling sick and wasting away."
"Are you sure?"
"Then we should arrange when you will have your chemotherapy session."
The date was set, for two days time; I was lucky to get a slot so soon, but due to my rapid deterioration, I was moved up the list.