Six weeks since I started treatment.
My body was suffering greatly. Every morning my head felt like it was splitting open and I was sick. Then the shaking began. Unnoticeable at first, but I still knew it was there. My memory got worse and my speech slurred sometimes. No one said anything, they all knew what it meant. My body was almost completely wasted away because I had lost so much weight and I had little energy; sometimes I had to be moved around in a wheelchair. I didn't like that little chair, it scared me. Made me loose my independence.
Some days I just didn't come in. I would not have gone back, but I had to see my friends, had to have memories, had to comfort them.
Mum scolded me and dad scolded her. We were falling apart. Most nights David would come in and lie in my bed with me, both of seeking each others emotional warmth. One night, we did not sleep.
"Are you scared of dying?" He asked me.
"No. Dying is not so bad, loosing my hair was nothing either. Do you know the worst bit, David? The worst bit is knowing that i can never pray for anyone again. I will never see their faces or laugh, not on earth anyway. That's worse." I had no intention of scaring him, but someone had to know.
I had just two weeks before I was supposed to die. But I knew it would be sooner. My body had been telling me for a while. I was ready now, ready to go and be at peace.