I guess it's clichéd to say that I want to be remembered, but then again, things become clichéd because they're true. Some may call me an idiot, and say that oblivion is inevitable—that we're all to be enveloped in the perpetual darkness of the unknown—and I suppose that's right. One day there'll be no-one left to remember John F Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr, let alone little old insignificant me. But that desire to be remembered is just one of my purely human traits.
Oh, humanity. Such a pure, corrupted race. So full of hope, and obsessed with being known, yet their memory will disappear like the wind blows away footprints in the sand. How futile our attempts at making it big are, because once we're six feet under and turning to dust, will any of this really matter? To be honest, does any of this matter now? Once we die and are in the ground, will it really have been worth it? The suffering, the endless pain and struggle to try to make ends meet—all for what? A pit of darkness and insects crawling into our unseeing eyes and nibbling away at what we cared about so much.
Some say that God, the ever forgiving and loving master, gives us our deserved reward in another life—but what about this life? What about all the wretched and dishonest politicians living the high life while people who truly deserve the good things in life and have no money must subsist in destitution? God hasn't maintained any sort of balance— that is, if He even exists. What a laughable concept. A man in the clouds who controls everything that happens, and yet loves us? If He loved us, why are there so many natural disasters? Women and children taken advantage of by men who care for nothing but things that serve their own interests? But whatever. What use is there in ranting aimlessly if He's never answered any of my prayers, and never will?
I sigh and get up from my seat, retrieving my now cold mug of coffee, which had just been sitting on the table as I brewed in my thoughts. I do this a lot now, I've noticed. I lose time and find myself thinking for hours that feel like minutes. Dysphoria follows, making my stomach uneasy and my head spin. My footing slips and my equilibrium vanishes as I fall to the ground. I start seeing double, and I try to help myself up by grabbing the couch and pulling upwards, but I just fall to the ground again. It feels as though I've lost strength in all corners of my body—and let me tell you, that is no fun.
The chemo obviously hasn't been working. Chronic Lymphocytic Leukaemia. I was diagnosed three years ago at the age of 18. I was just starting university—studying to be a surgeon. And then I started to get tired. Really tired. At first, I just wrote it off, thinking it was lethargy from hard work—I was a uni student after all. But then I began to lose weight, and a lot of it. I got nosebleeds, and weird spots on my skin, and a whole load of other things. That's when I realised something had been up, and was to be met with drastic news. I had cancer.
I drag myself along the floor, unable to muster the strength to stand, but I reach my medicine cabinet, which I keep low in anticipation of moments like these. I grab my Chlorambucil and dry swallow it. I can't even attempt the feat of getting a glass of water. I probably take a couple too many, but at this point, I don't care. It doesn't make a difference. Supposedly, Chlorambucil is a wonder drug whose alkylating agent will kill my cancer cells. But my cancer is everywhere, so I guess that means it'll kill me too. I don't have any false hope. I am more than aware that my condition will be my end.
I can't take this anymore. All this waiting until the day my sickness finally takes me. I don't want to die because I'm weak and can't survive a few nasty cells. It feels undignified. There's nothing brave about losing your life to illness, despite what people say. It's pathetic. I don't want to be remembered as "Mr Miller's sickly daughter".
I want my footprints to be left in cement, not sand.
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2nd Place (KS4) First Story National Writing Competition 2016-17
