𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐧 𝐎𝐱𝐲𝐠𝐞𝐧.

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always the optimist | ella

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"Can I get a nose piercing dad?" I asked looking up from my phone, pouting my lips. "Pretty pllleeaasssseeee," I whined, looking over at dad who's face was covered by the newspaper.

Damn. Now I can't use the puppy dog eyes.

I sighed in despair when dad didn't answer. I swear that man is as deaf as a doorknob sometimes. "Dad? Hello? Earth to the doorknob?" I wriggled around on the cold lino of the bench trying to get his attention but flinched when something sharp stabbed into my butt.

"Stupid hospitals," I mumbled as I continued to wriggle, now trying to get comfortable from the lumpy mat rather than get dad's attention, but I came to a stop when I heard a loud sigh sound from dad.

"Stop moving Ella, you'll bump the drainer," Dad says, before finally remembering what I asked and throwing down the newspaper with a huff. "Why would you want a nose piercing? I don't think you can even have one with your breathing tube ellaphant."

So he did hear me... interesting.

I sighed as what he said suddenly set in with realisation.

Damn that tube. It was bad enough I have to carry an oxygen canister with me let alone having something sticking out of your nose all the time. "Can't we at least check with Doctor Molune?" I asked sweetly batting my eyelashes at dad.

He just shook his head at me and gave me the look and sighed.

We all know that look.

"I suppose we can ask. He wanted to meet us after draining today."

"So no?"

"I just said we'd ask El,"

"I'm not stupid dad, don't worry about it," I mumbled quietly looking down at my feet and swinging them back and forth as I became entranced in my thoughts.

I hate when people do that. Say 'maybe', or 'I suppose'. We all know that they really mean no. 'No, you can't do it. But I don't want to hurt your feelings, so I'll say maybe so you have hope. False hope.

I hate it. It's as if actually saying no is going to break me. It's not.

After all, you can't break what's already broken.

"Soooo... do you know why Doc want's to see me?" I asked curiously, trying to steer us back to another conversation, butterflies soaring around in stomach at all the possibilities of him wanting to see me.

You see, every day we come to draining, but we only ever see Doc. on Mondays.

Today was Thursday.

"No. But he mentioned that it was about something that could be beneficial to you. Could be a new treatment?" He said, head hidden behind his newspaper again, his body slouched in the chair.

Ahhh. Treatment. Gotta love it.

You see. I have lung cancer.

I know cliché right?

There's a growth in my lungs disrupting it's walls and potentially tearing a hole in it. We don't exactly know, and we probably won't.

So, you're probably wondering the big question, why don't they take the tumour out? I mean. I thought that too. Easy peasy lemon breezy. Just cut that bugger of a thing out, slap a band-aid on and send me on my way.

Except it doesn't work like that apparently. As it so turns out in my case, taking it out would cause more damage than leaving it in there. It doesn't really matter to me anymore though. I'm going to die anyway.