Before I die Jenny Downham

Thirty-two 
Death straps me to the hospital bed, claws its way onto my chest and 
sits there. I didn t know it would hurt this much. I didn t know that 
everything good that s ever happened in my life would be emptied out by it. 
it s happening now and it s really, really true and however much they 
all promise to remember me it doesn t even matter if they do or not 
because I won t even know about it because I ll be gone 
A dark hole opens up in the corner of the room and fills with mist, like 
material rippling through trees. 
I hear myself moaning from a distance. I don t want to listen. I catch 
the weight of glances. Nurse to doctor, doctor to Dad. Their hushed voices. 
Panic spills from Dad s throat. 
Not yet. Not yet. 
I keep thinking about blossom. White blossom from a spinning blue 
sky. How small humans are, how vulnerable compared to rock, stars. 
Cal comes. I remember him. I want to tell him not to be scared. I 
want him to talk in his normal voice and tell me something funny. But he 
stands next to Dad, quiet and small, and whispers, What s wrong with 
her?
She s got an infection.
Will she die?
They ve given her antibiotics.

---

238
So she ll get better?
Silence. 
This isn t how it s supposed to be. Not sudden, like being hit by a car. 
Not this strange heat, this feeling of massive bruising deep inside. 
Leukaemia is a progressive disease. I m supposed to get weaker and 
weaker until I don t care any more. 
But I still care. When am I going to stop caring? 
I try to think of simple things – boiled potatoes, milk. But scary things 
come into my mind instead – empty trees, plates of dust. The bleached 
angle of a jaw bone. 
I want to tell Dad how frightened I am, but speaking is like climbing up 
from a vat of oil. My words come from somewhere dark and slippery. 
Don t let me fall.
ve got you.
m falling.
m here. I ve got you.
But his eyes are scared and his face is slack, like he s a hundred years 
old. 

---

239