The Ones We Leave Behind

Chapter 1

    "On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?"

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that same stupid question. Hmm, well if I'm screaming in pain, is that an eight, nine, or ten? If I just have a slight tinge of pain, is it even a one?

The annoying thing about this: the nurses won't give you any pain medication until you tell them which number you are currently feeling.

          Today as I sit on the bed in my hospital room, I'm not in any pain, or at least not in enough pain to be labeled on this ridiculous scale. I get my blood pressure tested, my temperature taken, and head out to get weighed and measured like a slab of meat in a butcher's shop. I then head back to my own room to get my labs done.

          I sit while the nurse takes my blood, and she rambles on about her life. I pretend to listen while I think of what to put next on my bucket list. My dad doesn't like the fact that I even have a bucket list because he says I'm "giving up hope." My psychologist says it's good for me because it could "help me through the process."

        Yes, I have a psychologist, and yes, they're as awful as they seem. I've never been huge into sharing my feelings, and obviously that's all he wants me to share. My dad was convinced I was depressed because I spent most of my time cooped up in my room after treatments, I pushed away most of my friends because of embarrassment, shame, fear of being a burden, and who knows why else. Now that I have openly accepted and stated the fact that I'm going to die, he got me a psychologist. I guess he has a right to be paranoid, being my dad and all. But the thing is, I'm not depressed; I've just come to accept the fact that life is short, and mine is just going to be cut shorter than most.

          My psychology appointments are nothing I look forward to. They are full of constant questions like, "How do you feel about that?", "What are your thoughts on this?" You know, the basics. The psychologist reads into everything I say whether I mean anything by it or not.

          Don't get me wrong. Having a psychologist isn't all bad. I mean, for one I get to see someone else besides my usual doctor and nurses. Secondly, I have the appointments in his classy office, which is a change of scenery from my bland room. You'd think they would try to make the other rooms prettier here, since much of the time it's the last view people have before they die. But no—plain white walls, white beds, white bathroom, you get the idea.

          And the smell! I can't even begin to describe how awful the smell is here. Just the thought of it makes me sick. The nurses have tried to help by masking the smell with peppermint oil, but now my room is just a gross mixture of that disgustingly clean smell and peppermint. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I doubt that anyone does.

After taking my blood the nurse leaves, and I grab my bucket list notebook and lie back in my bed. I have a few things on it that will never happen, but I put them on anyway. Here's what I have so far:

1. Have a Lord of the Rings Marathon.

2. Watch All of the Movies at the Hospital.

3. Read Harry Potter Series in 1 Week.

4. Raise a Duckling.

5. Drink Champagne.

6. Eat Something Exotic.

7. Get a Tattoo.

8. Watch the Ball Drop on New Year's Eve.

9. Be on TV.

10. See a Sunset in Greece.

11. Fall in Love.

12. Kiss Someone in Paris.