I took a deep breath, rolled over and opened my eyes, the bright red numbers of the clock on the bedside table were staring me in the face. Two in the morning? Really? I sat up and forced my legs over the edge of the bed and stared out the windows, the hustle and bustle of the Jersey creatures was roaring beneath me. My head was pounding, and my eyes were focused on the nothingness that was the city. I knew the routine; I reached out into the darkness, pulled open the drawer in the bedside table and grabbed the small, cold, plastic bottle. My hands were shaking, for a moment I wasn't sure if I would be able to unscrew the lid, you know, those little white ones that are meant to keep children from accidentally taking their parents medicine because they thought it was candy? That kind. I wrestled the small, white capsules in my hand, and tossed the rest onto the nightstand.
When I opened my eyes it was morning, monday morning, the day I have been dreading for weeks. I looked at the time, in three short minutes my phone would go off, the tiny little screen would produce a message informing me that I had to be somewhere. That somewhere was doctor Johanson's office. It wasn't so much going that bothered me, but the being there. You see, Doctor Johanson didn't get to give people good news, he gave people new, not good news, not bad news, but news. That's how it seemed atleast. He was never excited when he told someone they were getting better, or apologetic when he had to tell someone they were sick, he just told them, whatever the news was. His office didn't have any inspirational posters, or facts about vaccinations hanging on the walls, it was just walls. The waiting room was small, and the wall paper was that weird creme color that you see in retirement homes and hotel bathrooms. On this particular day I was the only one in the small room, as I walked up to the counter.
"Name?" The receptionist said without even looking up from her newspaper. "Ma'am? Your name?" She was now glaring at me from behind her thick bifocal glasses.
"Oh, uhm. Tiffanny. Tiffanny Lyle..." I trailed off, more focused on the fact that i had left my medication in the car, and the last dose was begining to wear off.
"Age?"
"Twenty Three. Im twenty three."
"Okay, take a seat, the doctor will be with you soon."
I turned around and walked to a seat near the office door. The ticking of the clock echoed in my mind at a thousand times louder than you would hear them. What was probably only a few minutes seemed like ages before I heard the nurse call out my name. I glanced over before getting up. She was new, I'd been in this office what felt like every day over the past month, and I had never seen her before. Her hair was long and curly, pulled up in a perfect high pony-tail with a bright pink bow. That was a change from the usual nurse. I followed her through the door and down the hallway without even saying a word, I'm sure she was talking to me, but I wasn't listening.
She took me into an office-like meeting room, rather than an exam room and informed me that the doctor would be in soon. I scanned the room, and then nodded as I took a seat. She shut the door behind her as she walked out. There were a few things I noticed about this room, it had carpet instead of tile, the chairs were leather, and the desk was heavy wood, it was all around better than any other part of the office I had seen. These things were all eye catching and made me wonder, but what really held my attention was what was on the desk, a large envelope with my name on it. I assumed that this was probably the results from all of my testing, and I was anxious to know what they said. The lighting in the room was low, which helped the massive migraine, but I was still thinking how much I wanted another pain pill.
I could hear voices outside the door, as well as footsteps. A few moments later there was a soft knock at the door and doctor Johnanson entered the room.
"Good morning Tiffanny!" He said with what was almost a half smile.
"Morning"
"I assume that you are prepared to go over the results of the testing?" And we were back to being indifferent.
"Might as well."
"Well Tiffanny, I've got some news for you." Of course he did. He always has news. I just want to know the cause of my headaches, and really I just want a refill, but they require me to come to these appointments in order to get more.
"Well? What did the tests show?"
"You are suffering from a malignant glio blastoma butterfly." My stomach dropped and my eyes darted towards his hands, that were working to pull out all of my test results.
"Wait... You mean, like, Cancer?" I wasn't sure if I acctually wanted to hear a response to this question.
"Brain Cancer." He handed me the brain scans, "I'll give you some time to think over your situation."
He left me in the room holding pictures of my brain. The brain that was causing all of my problems. This was the reason I was waking up in the middle of the night with pain, and the reason I forget to stop for milk, and loose my cell phone in plain sight. This butterfly, as he called it. Why call it a butterfly? Butterflies are supposed to be beautiful, and peacful, a gorgeous thing. Cancer isn't beautiful, cancer isn't any of those things. Cancer is a death sentence.
Doctors had mentioned it before, the possibility of cancer, but I never really paid any attention. The pills were working, why would I waste my time worrying about something with such a slight possibility of happening?
I could hear what i assumed to be doctor Johanson, and then the door opened. He quickly stepped in and walked back to his chair without saying a word. I looked up at him and I could tell he wanted to say something, but was hesitating.
"How long do I have?" Thats what you're supposed to ask, right? When people hear the word cancer, they want to know when they're going to die.
"With treatment? 6 months."
"And without treatment?"
"I can't make any promises. It's best that you begin saying your goodbye's, either way."
"I don't have any goodbyes, I don't have anyone." I left it at that and I walked out of the room, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I plan to die. Not from cancer, not from sickness, or infection. I don't plan to suffer, or spend the rest of my life in pain, becoming a burden on someone who doesn't even know me. Who would want a life like that? What kind of life is it when you can't live it? So what will be my cause of death? What will they put on my headstone? Dignity.
