My parents knew that I was dying, but had tried to protect me from that painful knowledge. There was no point in continuing the treatment if there was no hope of recovery. I convinced myself that it should end as soon as possible. Why should I go through the trauma? It was pointless.
After an hour of staring at the endless sky, I sat back on the bed and wondered.
How do others cope with death?
Feelings of resignation seemed to comfort only on a superficial scale, hiding the real fears behind. And I didn't want to die.
I desperately wanted to live.
It is times like these that one hopes beyond all other hopes that there is a God - that someone is listening to your prayers for mercy, and is capable of either a miracle cure or a promise of heaven. But why should I be spared and not others? Clearly, I was sixteen and in the last phase of my life.
