The Property Of: Neena Eellante | ✓ |

30. Sincerely, The second star to the right

I would hate to be a doctor. I would have to meet people each day knowing two things are going to come out of encountering you -- they walk away either dead or alive.

I don't feel like writing, I feel like burning this book. I kinda just feel sick in my stomach honestly. But that's normal apparently. I think its a load of bullshit. "Side Effects for your condition" my ass. I'm throwing up because I keep remembering that I'm going to die.

I guess we are all going to die though. I am just know when.

I'm glad the average person doesn't know when they're going to die -- people would be so depressed... Or maybe it would sper people to enjoy life to the fullest. To be honest, I don't really know what to think right now.

The only reason I'm writing is because... Well, I just have things inside of me that I don't have the strength to say out aloud. I think I'll write them down here and hope the people that need to read them, read them. Or maybe, I'll give them this book.

Chemotherapy, that's the plan. They're going to fry me from the inside out. They suggested a stem cell transplant but well, my parents cannot afford it.

That is the hard truth.

I feel bad for burdened them. Aye, don't start with the 'it's not your fault' shit because it truly is. They postponed their divorce for me. Dad moved out, he's in a small apartment that smells faintly of damp carpet. Mom in the house, it must be lonely.

I am writing in the hospital bed, just waiting for my second injections of Chemo.

The roofs are white. Did you ever notice that? I hate it so much. I wish they'd paint it with beautiful colours or maybe the stars or maybe nature. Staring at a white walls is so horrible. Whoever is reading this, do me a favour and paint hospitals walls.

I'm sick of this stupid book.
Sick of hearing my voice in my head as I write. I'm sick of the cupped fruit and I'm sick of this tube in my chest. They're pumping poison into me. It doesn't hurt, do not worry.

You know, something else has changed also. I genuinely find myself hanging onto every word of every person that talks to me.

There was a little boy today that passed me his ripped and used little, brown bear while I sat in the room full of patients in the moving process. They were coming and leaving constantly directed by nurses.

The boys head was naked of hair. He was almost blue from how sick he was. He was in the corner on a bed, his nurse was in a rush. She was only gone for minutes.

He gestured me over.

"My name is Peterpan. Well, it's just Peter but I prefer Peterpan." He had said, a small weak hand cupped a bear, "You sick?"

"Yes." I had said. He gave me the bear and I rejected it, "No, it's okay. It is yours."

I get teary thinking about it.
He said, "Have him. He is good to cuddle with when you don't feel too well. He doesn't need to leave when visiting hours are up. He's my best friend and he will never leave you."

I had made my first friend, I'm holding the bear now. I asked the nurse if I could visit a boy named Peter Spencer.

She told me that he was put
into a coma a few hours prior.
The boys pain was too much.

He didn't seem in pain —
he was smiling for fucksakes.
But that's what we do, we smile when we want to cry.

So I've promised myself,
I'm going to keep smiling until the very end.

Peterpan went back to Neverland.

Sincerely,
The second star to the right