s i x t e e n

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           Maya   

We reach the clinic, and I zip up my black, anti radiant hoodie cover and step out into the dusk. The wind smells like oatmeal and raisin, and I see a small, lone tumbleweed stumble it's way down the road. My regular, jolly self would have dramatized the situation being in a deserted area with all contemporary color variants for miles around. My mom nods in the direction of the teal and white glowing sign that reads -
Connor ~ Chain of clinics.
I groan and stumble behind my mother who tried to keep up her 'pre-appointment positivity posture'. She pushes the frosted glass door, which beeps piercingly at our arrival. Mindy, the other Indian women I know other than my few aunties, greets us with the gleam in her eyes. She hands me and mom the small blue plastic packet of all the gloves, cap, foot covers and a mask, and I wear it all obidiently, holding my breath hoping not to have an anxiety attack midway.
I try not to think to much as we are summoned into the main room for discussion. I'm told to lay down on the black polythene covered seat, and duck under the black bowl. The black bowl was the name my dad and mom had given to it when I was really blowing my brains up about being diagnosed under that huge apparatus. A pale light turns on sensing me, and a soft whirring starts with the machinery as the doctor talks to my mom about my reports and scans. I close my eyes, and open them again, and play like this for a while till I feel extremely dizzy and nauseous.

                                                                        +                            +                          +

My mom's sobs are still heard over the floors.
"She can die for heaven's sake! ..... You can't be serious right now! That's outrageous that you should care about your culture over your sick daughter!"
She goes on.
So here's the gist of what exactly happened at the doctors appointment. I might not be the most accurate narrator of all times, but my scans can say more than anything. And so do the vibes in our household.
I am officially given a periodically monitored regime system. Meaning in non medical terms, I'm under supervision for being diagnosed for a consistent number of illnesses, showing my declining metal and of course physical health. To sum it up, I'm dying in a few months. Countdown will be updated.
N'oublie pas de vivré.

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