Cancer.
It's a curse.
It turns people's lives upside down and ruins their relationships.
Brynne Foster is a perfect example.
After being diagnosed with leukemia at age 17, Brynne's family struggles to accept her decision of refusing chemotherapy...
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op·ti·mism /ˈäptəˌmizəm/ noun hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.
People who are optimistic are sure of their futures. They are excited to reach their goals. A little optimism is healthy for everyone. Little girls plan out their weddings in hopes of the perfect fairytale day. Teenagers dream about their first kiss and how magical it will be. Most adults are optimistic that they will find the loves of their lives and settle down to have a family. I used to be an optimistic person. Thinking of the future made me happy because I had everything planned out;
First, I would go to college to run track. Hopefully with a scholarship, but that's a bit far-fetched considering the limited training here in Richmond. I would major in architecture and graduate with a degree, getting a job close to the beach. I would marry the love of my life and have two children; one boy and one girl. I would love them with all of my heart and raise them how I was raised, with gentle kisses and kind words. We would spend our days walking along the beach and exploring the endless reefs. I would be happy, and everything would be perfect.
Except that's not possible anymore. There's no graduating from college or starting a family. No more living by the beach or becoming an architect. There's simply nothing for me in the future. When people ask me about my plans after high school, my mind becomes blank. There's nothing ahead of me, just memories that follow me like a painful reminder that I once had a life. I once had something to look forward for.
Soon I won't be living anymore. I'll just be surviving, trying to make it to the next day without falling into a deep hole of endless pity for myself. And I know that cancer is taking over my body. There's no doubt about it. I wish I had the choice for it to kill me silently. Forget the treatment. I would let it grow until I couldn't live any longer. At least that way, I'm not giving up my sanity in some foreign place that only wants to drain us of money.
Three days. Three days until I stop living and start surviving. And I hate to say it, but I'm counting every second.
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As I lie on my bed, a fan rotates above me, sending cool air against my heated thighs. The sun feels good against my sickly pale skin. The sheets beneath me stroke my exposed back and wrinkle as I cross my legs. Sunlight filters through the large window and shines onto my white dresser across the room. I can see the specks of dust floating in the beams of light.
Deeply inhaling, I immediately recognize the scent of Chanel perfume floating through the air. Grant gave it to me a couple of Christmases ago, and I forgot about it in the back of my dresser drawer. I figured I didn't need it in the hospital, so I generously sprayed it on myself after a quick shower.
I grab a piece of wet hair and weave it through my fingers. Water drips onto my palm, running down my arm after I lightly squeeze it. As much as I hate to feel sorry for myself, I am going to miss my golden locks. When my hair is straightened or curled, it gives me a sense of confidence that I normally wouldn't have. I don't know why it just makes me feel more feminine. Without it, I don't know what I'll be like.
