One Last Miracle [complete]

I

I

four months...

"As I've told you, sir, your daughter's form of cancer is rare. There's not a lot known about it, so I cannot give you much concrete information."

From where I lie on the hospital bed, I watch dad frown. "This is her sixth months of chemotherapy, surely there's something."

Doctor Sherwood frowns. "Sir, Sarcoma as a form of cancer, is rare. But osteosarcoma is even rarer. The cancer is in her bone and we cannot complete an operation to get rid of it until the drugs have taken effect. As it stands, the cells are still primarily in your daughters bone and operating now would be a severe risk to her health. And you know that she still has to go through radiology after the chemotherapy has been successful—and that can be months apart."

"And pumping drugs into her system for six months isn't? Moving her onto another few months of treatment is going to help her?" Dad's voice is harsh like a whip. "She's too weak to move some days. Every day she's in pain. And I'm not made of money. Her treatment costs more than Ana and I can handle."

"The hospital covers most of the cost, sir."

"That was fine. At the beginning. But, now even with the hospital subsidising it, it's becoming too much."

"Sir—"

"Dad, stop." My voice is weak, but it's hardly surprising. Dad's right. Chemotherapy is a lot of things and it has a lot of effects. The drugs cost a fortune. But the worst thing it renders you too weak to move, to talk. "It's not worth it. The cancer decides what it wants to do and no one can stop it."

Dad looks over, blue eyes flashing with fear. "Alyson. Look at you."

I laugh, though it's a bitter sound. "I've seen myself, dad. Bald and too thin. Beautiful, right?"

"Alyson, don't say things like that." His voice is stained, as if the words are difficult to say aloud.

Sighing, I press the button the side of the hospital bed. Physically sitting up became too hard months ago, so now I have to resort to letting the hospital bed do it for me. In the end, it works out the same anyway.

There's not much to look at anyway. The hospital room is stark white, the space filled with hospital equipment along the right side. The hospital bed isn't special either. The mattress is rough and uncomfortable and all sorts of IV drips surround it, all of which have been in my arm at some point.

You learn to get used to the mattress though, especially when it becomes your home for six months straight.

"I know, dad," I whisper. "Where's mum?"

Dad stands, making his way over to the side of the bed. His hand smooths over my hair, and his lips ghost over my forehead. "Your brother had soccer practice."

I nod, glancing over to the corner of the room. Doctor Sherwood is sitting behind the small table that always sits in the far corner of the room. As always he pretends to be ignorant to the conversations, going through paperwork.

"How is Rick?" I ask, distractedly, itching to walk over and go look at the records he's holding. They're about me, about how far the cancer's progressing and how long I have left to live.