"To live is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people exist, that is all." - Oscar Wilde.
Late in the Summer of my 18th year on the planet (yay!), my parents came to the conclusion that I was depressed. Presumably due to the fact that I had hardly any enthusiasm for life anymore. That, and the fact that I never left my room, didn't stop listening to the same Hunter Hayes song on repeat and when I did, my head was stuck in the latest season of Dance Moms. This was purely down to the fact that there was something about Abby Lee Miller being her usual bosy self that removed the constant thoughts of death that occupied my mind most of the time. As uplifting and positive as I attempted to be around my family, it didn't work - they could see straight through the mask. I wasn't who I used to be before I was diagnosed. I wasn't the same smiley teenage girl that enjoyed to play ice-hockey with her father or jam out in the basement to a Fall Out Boy song with her brothers. Thesedays, I could barely make it up the stairs to my room before I had to take a break and allow some oxygen into my lungs: it didn't help that I had a Oxygen tank that I had to drag around everywhere. I was just a pile of bones and tumour-driven unwellness.
My mom gave me a few weeks to 'perk' up and despite my best efforts, she had officially declared that I was depressed, required treatment, and before I knew it, we were in the car en-route to Doctor Danielson's office. Much to my mother's dismay, I spent the entire waiting room wait with my head in the Cancer booklets. It was nothing that I hadn't read or heard before but each time my eyes scanned the forbidden 'C' word, it knocked me back into reality. Somewhat preparing me for my life to be torn away any day now.
After what seemed to be an eternity of waiting, it was finally our turn! Standing up, I dragged my Oxygen cart through the waiting room and past the reception desk and into my assigned room, the eyes of the children that didn't understand what was going on, burning into my back. I was used to people staring, and it's not like they could help it. They were curious like I would've been at their age. One day they would understand.
I sat in the chair and placed the tank inbetween my legs, adjusting the tubes in my nose before glancing around the room, my eyes finally landing on the doctor as he looked my way. No matter how many Cancer cases he had dealt with, not even he would fully understand the torment. He would never truly know how it felt to be a human grenade. He discussed things with my mother about how I had been acting lately as I sat back and zoned out. As I finally clicked back into reality, she was thanking him as he nodded his head. His eyes still looking my way. No matter how much I argued and tried to state that my behaviour was normal for a girl my age, he had agreed with my mom. I was depressed and he had upped my medication to something that would 'cheer' me up. A small sigh left my lips as I ran my fingertips through my short blonde pixie cut - the style my hair was in, now that it had started growing again after chemo-therapy. There was one other thing he recommended to help me overcome the battle with what he called my monster. As he handed my mom a leaflet, I automatically clicked on to what he was thinking and I knew that no matter how hard I argued, I was going.
Support group.
