A Lesson In Dying

They say truth is relative so I guess it’s the same when it comes to how one perceives a catastrophe. Last summer, I was diagnosed with leukemia. I went through the usual regimen of treatment: drugs, bone marrow transplant, chemotherapy. Instead of getting better, I got sicker and sicker, and I lost all of my hair. The first time I looked in the mirror without my hair, I thought I looked so hideous I wanted to end it right there. I felt so ugly, and I felt so helpless. Now I have to wear this awful wig. This awful, awful wig.

You know what? I’m angry. I’m very, very angry. I think about not reaching Christmas, not graduating from high school, not going out on a date, on how much I’d miss out. Maybe if I had been older, been given a chance to live, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But I’m only thirteen years old. I barely had a life. I’m stuck in this decaying body and there’s not a DAMNED thing I could do about it! Yes, I said damned and I won’t apologize for it. Even if all hell broke lose, I wouldn’t care. I’m dying. Last April, the doctor gave me six months. So I’d consider myself real lucky if I make it way past October.

There are times when I wish I could lash out, but I know it wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s not people’s fault I’m sick. I couldn’t even get angry at God because I read somewhere that before we all came into this earth, we chose what we want to look like, what we want to acomplish, what we want to learn. So in spite of what’s happening to me right now, I know there’s a lesson in here somewhere. Whether it’s a lesson on forgiveness, or on letting go, or on not taking anything for granted. Whatever it is, I hope I can figure it out before I go. Then maybe I won’t have any regrets. Then maybe I could die happy.