The look on the doctor’s face told me everything I needed to know. It wasn’t going to be good news.
“I’m sorry…” were the first words out of his mouth. That’s never a good sign.
He told me the specifics, the what’s and where’s and what-to-expect’s. But it was so hard to understand. There was a ringing in my ears. I don’t remember a lot of the details. It’s like the doctor was an adult character from one of those Charle Brown cartoons. Instead of hearing his voice, I only heard a trumpet wah-wah-wahing at me. It all seemed so unreal. This happened in the movies, or to other people. Not to me.
My family try to be encouraging—to be strong. But I can see it in their faces; panic. Each of their eyes are a mirror, reflecting my own fear.
How can this be the end?
What have I done? What have I accomplished to be remembered by? It’s not fair. I haven’t had enough time to do anything.
I need more time!