Take a Breath

Trigger warning: mention of illness

I jolted awake in my bed, gasping for breath. My lungs searched desperately for air but I couldn't take a single breath. I had "forgotten" my cannula. In truth, I didn't forget it. I just hated it because it was so uncomfortable. And yet, when I shoved my cannula back into my nose, I could only feel relief as a rush of fresh air filled my shriveled lungs.

Hi, I'm Grace Miller. I'm a fifteen year old girl and I have lung cancer.

My mom rushed into the room and when I told her what had happened, she looked at me angrily. I knew what was about to come. A lecture.

"Grace, how could you forget you cannula? You could've died!"

"Mom, I can die any day," I joked.

"Not funny," she growled.

My dad came up to my bed and patted my shoulder submissively. He was the kind of guy that got uncomfortable when he had to make someone feel comfortable.

"Listen to your mother, Kiddo," was all he could mutter.

I've had lung cancer for a couple of years now. Before I got the dreaded diagnosis, I was a normal teenager doing normal things. I generally liked sports, I was mediocre at math and I had lots of friends. But after I got lung cancer, my friends treated me differently. They didn't ignore me like I thought they would. Instead, they treated me with more attention than before. They would constantly check to see if I had my cannula on and they would carry around my oxygen tank wherever I went. I was glad that they cared but I missed when they treated me like their equal. Now, they treated me like I was going to die. To be fair, that was always a possibility.

A week after the cannula incident, my mom took me to the hospital for a check-up. For most healthy people, check-ups were nothing serious. You would just go for a couple of minutes and the doctors would tell you that you were healthy as a horse (whatever that meant). But for people like me, check-ups were the worst things ever. The doctors would tell you everything that was wrong with your sick body and they would tell you how many days you had left so that your death wouldn't surprise your loved ones. At least, that's how it was at my brutal hospital.

I sat on the hard hospital bed, waiting for the doctor to tell me my number. I looked around at my surroundings. My thin, frail fingers tapped nervously on the cold parchment paper that was taped to the bed. My cold chest breathed against the blue hospital gown that every patient had to wear whether you liked it or not.

Neither me or the doctor was speaking and the only sound I could hear was the menacing sound of the analog clock ticking down the minutes I had until I kicked the bucket.

Finally, the doctor spoke the dreaded words I had been waiting for.

"Grace Miller. I regret to inform you that due to the condition of your lungs, there's simply nothing we can do anymore. You only have two more days to live."

You only have two more days to live.

I knew that I wasn't healthy, but only two more days? That was so short!

I stayed silent all the way home.

When we came home, I had to do the most depressing thing ever. I had to write my will. In it, I wrote that my dad would have everything I owned (which wasn't much) and my mom would get my Genie Foundation wish.

Every few minutes or so, my mom would say, "Grace, you can rest. Please. You'll be at peace. Rest, honey."

The thing is, I didn't want to rest. Maybe it was because I was scared to die. Maybe it was because my body had personally gifted me insomnia as a get-well present. Maybe it was because I just didn't want to sleep. I knew how my mom felt. Her only child was sick and was going to die tomorrow. But I didn't want to rest. I was restless. My body constantly ached and I always had bags under my tired eyes but I didn't feel like resting. I wondered if my mom would ever understand.

Rest, Grace. For me. Please. Just go to sleep.

The next day was my final day. I woke up to my favorite breakfast, waffles and bacon. My mom took me to see a movie I had been dying to watch (no pun intended) and she even took me to get a new haircut. Through all of this, I couldn't help but feel thankful that I had a mom that cared so much for me. I couldn't help thinking about how pained she felt. She was going to lose me. She wasn't going to be a mother anymore.

The only thing that disappointed me today was that my dad wasn't there. The night before, my parents had a heated argument and at the end, my dad left the house for good. I couldn't believe the audacity of him. He wasn't here to spend the last day of my life together.

Rest, Grace.

No, I can't rest. Not now. My mom needs me.

The rest of the day was super fun and it was even better because I had my mom to spend the day with. At the end of the day, I could feel my body give up on itself and I flopped on my bed, possibly for the last time. My mom put a cold, wet towel on my heated forehead and whispered a soothing lullaby into my ear. Before I got lung cancer, I would've thought that lullabies were for babies. But now, it felt nice and calm listening to my mother's voice in my final moments.

"You can rest now, Grace. You'll finally be at peace."

"I love you mom."

"I love you too."

I felt my eyes closing and my breath shortening. I could finally rest. I could finally be at peace.