The floor is cold beneath my toes as I breath in the chemical cocktail of city air. The
scent of bleach and antiseptic cling to me like rust on a neglected automobile. I don’t
want to be here, but won’t bend and cry. I must be strong and hold my head high, for I
won’t let this crush me. I must fight.
Fourth floor, second hall, room 23. This is my hell. Today a new treatment to
eradicate the disease that kills me. I have advanced fibromyalgia, a heart murmur,
bronchial spasms, and arthritis. My nerve damage is all too much. The doctor walks in
with the grim face he always wears. I get blood tests and scans for the next four hours.
My brain feels like slush as highly concentrated blood combined with a new
treatment that stays at a temperature below freezing is shot into my veins. Sure it hurts,
but there’s nothing I can do about it. By the time the pain dulls to a thud I am sent for
scans.
My mother holds my hand and tells me it will all be OK, but I know better.
Sometimes I feel as if I am taking care of her, not vice versa. My mom begins to cry as
dye is injected in my spine. I don’t shed a tear, because I can no longer feel the sting of
the needle.
Once the scans are done I get a break. Chinese sticks to my ribs and leave a
salty taste to my mouth as we comb store after store for a jeans in which my baby
brother will outgrow within the next three months. I feel like a puppet as my mother
guides me from place to place. I don’t even remember every detail of every place. I feel
hollow.
The doors open with a whoosh as the bitter cold air bites my skin. I walk back to
rom 23, my mother holding my hand and saying it’s almost over. As I sit I realize that I
feel different. I feel as if I will vomit in a moments notice. The doctor walks in and orders
more tests.
It’s late by the time I am released. All I desire is a good meal and rest, but before
that wish can be granted I must visit room 23. The room that I have learned to hate
three years ago, the room in which a piece of me died, and now the room that will give
me my life back.
The doctor enters with a grin as big as the cheshire cats. The treatment worked. I
am not cured, but given another chance. This one treatment out of hundreds has
worked. I no longer need experimental prescriptions, and get to do what I never thought
possible.
I have a heart and it beats like a drum while I walk on cloud nine and find that
nothing will end till it has to. I am whole and thankful for everything that I am given. This
is the day that I finally cried. This is the day that I realized I’m alive.