Fuck cancer

6.

Three days have passed.

Three.

Three days that can change so much.

In three days can happen too much.

On the first day, they told me they reduced her living prediction down to two months.

On the second day, she was already struggling with getting up and standing with the help of two people.

Her level of oxygen in the body got worse, she was coughing after each and every breath she took, she wasn't eating all day long.

On the third day she was so weak that she couldn't even sit straight anymore and fell asleep all the time, just to wake up again after five seconds with a loud gasp and saying that she cannot breathe.

On the third day, she was dead.

I didn't expect her to pass away on the same day she hugged me as tight as possible, didn't expect her to die when she was okay on the other day, when I watched her sleep because of the steady raising and lowering of her chest, telling me that she was still alive.

But time has no mercy on people and their hearts.

Everything happened so quickly, too quickly.

My father bursted through the door into my room and told me that it looked really bad.
That the doctors had arrived.
That she had trouble breathing again.
That she might even die.
Probably even die.

When we arrived, she was taking her last few breaths.

It was horrible, her jaw was wide open, she threw up, her skin was all cold and yellowish and her eyes were full of emptiness pared with panic.

But when she saw me, she seemed to relax.

Her last words were addressed to me:

A choking of my name.

I tried my best to comfort her, while my mother shed into tears.

"It'll be okay", is what I said.

What I promised over and over again.

"We're all here. It'll be okay."

But nothing was okay. I still tried to hide the shaking in my voice, tried to keep it in the calm tone and volume it always had.

It didn't take long for her to pass away.

At first, she stopped blinking.

Then there was the fact that the choking noise had stopped.

The next signs of her death was that her chest didn't raise another time.

The final one for her to turn into my little angel and fly high and far far away from this cruel world was her pulse.

It had stopped.

It was over.

At least she died in her favorite color.

I gently closed her slightly opened, exhausted looking eyes to let her rest. The blue had lost ever shimmer and shine of life, and it was time to let her go.

The next thing I know was that I was holding my crying mother in my arms, as the doctors wrapped a blanked around the cold corpse. I noticed the finger turning blue which symbolized the lack of oxygen in the body and reminded me that she wasn't just sleeping.

At least it happened quickly. They assured me she was barely feeling any pain, they put her on morphine to make it easier for her, drugged her with it.

One of them pulled out a phone to call someone of their team and mumbled some instructions into the device.

I didn't cry that day. I couldn't. I wasn't sure if I wanted to stay strong for my mother and the others in the room that suddenly felt too narrow to fit us all, or if it was just the fact that the numbness and the knot in my stomach and throat were too dominant to feel anything else.

Time of death: 16:50, 1st July.

It took one week for her to die.

One week.

One week after she had been diagnosed.

Fuck the prediction. 3-6 or 2 months?!

I was right after all:

Life was NEVER this generous.