Time To Go

Prologue: John O

My name is John O'Callaghan. I'm exactly twenty-seven years old and I am dying.

I don't want to die.

My Mother comes to see me every Thursday night at six o'clock. She always puts flowers, white flowers, on the table beside my bed. She smiles, holds my hand and tells me the doctors say I'm getting better. She's lying.

My Father comes to see me every Saturday morning at eleven o'clock. He tells me all about his day, about the people he saw, the words he said, and the lives he changed. Then he asks me about my day. I don't know why. I always tell him the same thing in varied formats. One day I'll tell him that I lay in bed and watched the television before eating some food, and another day I will tell him that I sat in bed and read my book whilst drinking some coffee. He pretends to be interested.

I like it at the hospital, sometimes. I like watching the people rush past; I like overhearing people's conversations, I like listening to the sound of the monitor beside my bed, the soft, gentle beep that tells me that my heart is still beating. One day, that beep will stop and in turn, I will stop breathing. Every time I try to face the facts, I can't. I turn away. I've tried to give up again and again, to realize that the next minute to come may be my last minute on this Earth, but I can't. I'm optimistic, and it's driving me insane.

I blame the people who come to visit me. I blame my Mother, my Father and my brothers. They tell me that I'll be alright and so I believe them, even though I know it isn't true. When you're dying, you will try anything to keep yourself alive, even if 'anything' is simply wishing hard enough for the disease to just go away - I have chronic lymphocytic leukemia and I'm unlikely to live to the end of next December. It's June now. That means I have a year and a half to live.

Eighteen months.

Seventy-eight weeks.

Five hundred and forty-six days.

Thirteen thousand, one hundred and four hours.

Seven hundred and eighty-six thousand, two hundred and forty minutes.

Five hundred and eighteen million, nine hundred and eighteen thousand, four hundred seconds.

I have nothing else to do but count.