Remember Me

Chapter Twenty-Three

In my life, I had given more of myself than perhaps was wise. I had made countless memories with my friends and made the most out of every single day as best as I could, but most importantly, I had loved without boundaries. With inflation rates skyrocketing, we weren't able to afford a private ward with food worth eating in addition to all the medical supplies and medicine we were already paying for, so when my friends came calling they brought something home-cooked, and so, in one go, they nourished my body and soul.

The process of dying was more cruel than any fiction I had ever read. The pain was with me until the end, and everyday was a constant mental battle to not to lose hope and an intense physical battle to overcome.

I had a stack of books next to my bed but not the strength to read one for more than a minute at a time. The everlasting pain made it hard to follow the plot anyway. Sometimes my sister would pick up my favourite fantasy novel and read to me until I fell asleep. When I awoke she had always left a note to say when she would return, signed love, Lizzie. I had every note kept in the dresser and stuffed in my make-up bag to make sure the nurses didn't throw them out.

The mornings brought bed baths from strangers, kindly though they were, and when my legs gave way I'd be winched onto a commode to do my business and afterwards left in an adult diaper. There was no dignity anymore. When alone I let my face, so deeply etched with the lines of laughter and love, fall with gravity, reserving my strength to smile for my family and friends.

I had just turned eighteen years old when I died.

It was a cold night in the middle of December and I was home with my family. My friends, specifically Nathan and Rachel had made a quick appearance earlier in the day but they were quickly chased out of the house by my mother after an hour or two.

That night was the night that my life changed forever.

It remained vividly ingrained in my mind.

I was lying on my bed shivering in my thin pajamas, covered in thick blankets. I had been running a fever for a little over five days and my mother was continually checking my temperature and fussing, making sure I was as comfortable as possible. She and I both knew that my time was coming to an end, and so she wanted to make sure that if I went, I was as comfortable as she could make me.

The clock struck midnight on December tenth, two days after my birthday. No one thought I would last this long; not my parents, my friends, my doctors, or even myself. It was nothing short of a miracle. The doctors had predicted I would have passed in the beginning of August and when I didn't, they were flabbergasted. They, of course, didn't show any less attention to me; I was still top of their priority list with weekly check-ups and re-filling of my many prescriptions. It was a sense of hope in a way. But that little glimmering of hope died out as quickly as it arose.

My mother checked my temperature again and when she took the thermometer out, the digital meter showed a temperature of 44.2 degrees Celsius.

Then it hit me.

I couldn't breathe.

"Mum?" I croaked out. "I can't...I can't breathe."

"Don't worry darling, you'll be okay, trust me on this one," my mother said as she rushed out of the room to my father and shook him awake.

"She has to be taken to the hospital," my mother yelled, throwing her hands in a flurry of motion. "Her temperature's not dipping and not only is she shivering, she just told me she can't breathe."