before i die Jenny Downham

thirty-two

Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and sits there. I didnt know it would hurt this much. I didnt know that everything good thats ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it.
its happening now and its really, really true and however much they all promise to remember me it doesnt even matter if they do or not because I wont even know about it because Ill be gone
A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like material rippling through trees.
I hear myself moaning from a distance. I dont want to listen. I catch the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Dad. Their hushed voices. Panic spills from Dads throat.
Not yet. Not yet.
I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars.
Cal comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he stands next to Dad, quiet and small, and whispers, Whats wrong with her?
Shes got an infection.
Will she die?
Theyve given her antibiotics.
237

So shell get better?
Silence.
This isnt how its supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. Leukaemia is a progressive disease. Im supposed to get weaker and weaker until I dont care any more.
But I still care. When am I going to stop caring?
I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached angle of a jaw bone.
I want to tell Dad how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up from a vat of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery.
Dont let me fall.
ve got you.
m falling.
m here. Ive got you.
But his eyes are scared and his face is slack, like hes a hundred years old.
238