Post by DEREK CONNOR FINLEY on Mar 15, 2013 18:12:50 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 440px; height: 400px; background-image: url(http://i51.tinypic.com/ngx4hu.jpg); -moz-border-radius: 250px; border-radius: 220px 220px 0px 0px; border: 0px solid #414141;] derek connor finley eighteen | 2010 | male | natural |daniel radcliff Good evening. My name is Derek Connor Finley. You can call me Derek, if you'd like. As you can tell, I'm dead. And what a relief that is. Maybe that was a tad callus of me. Let me start over. Let me tell you my story. I was four years old when I was diagnosed with leukemia. I don’t remember much about it besides my mother crying a lot and being poked and prodded with all numbers of needles and other medical instruments. I suppose after spending so many years in hospitals I should be able to tell you the names of those instruments and all their functions. I can’t. When I was very little, my parents told me they were magical and that they were fighting against the curse placed on me that was making me so sick. When I got older, I simply didn’t care. By that time I knew well enough to trust that the doctors and nurses knew what they were doing and, more importantly, that every procedure had been approved by my parents, who’d learned so much about medicine during those fifteen years that they may as well have medical degrees. Besides, I wasn’t always in the hospital. Occasionally I would be in remission and be able to live like a regular, if sheltered, child. Other times I would be in outpatient care, staying in our family’s actual house most of the day and going to the hospital for chemotherapy. These were always the best times. Sure, chemo was horrendous, but any time I could stay out of the hospital was great because I got to do normal things; I could go to the mall, hang out with friends, sleep in a bed without being hooked up to wires. It was worth it. When I was in the hospital, I spent most of my time reading. As much as I didn’t want to know how the medical equipment worked, I did love learning new things. It really didn’t matter what it was. I guess it was a habit I picked up from my father. He’d been in the army up until I became sick, and he would always tell me that uneducated people made poor soldiers. He’d say it didn’t matter what subjects you read, it was the act of exercising your mind that counted. He was a ravenous reader. My parents would also often make references like that: me being a soldier, fighting to stay alive. They’d make these comparisons to support and encourage me, but I must admit, I never thought it was a very apt metaphor. You see, I was never really fighting. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as if I wanted to die, and I always did what was asked of me in order to get better, but I wouldn’t have called it “fighting”. It was more passive resisting. I didn’t want to die, but I wasn’t happy with the life I had either. As much as my time out of the hospital made me feel more normal, I was not a normal kid. I couldn’t play sports or go to sleep overs or even go to school. My friends were other patients and nurses; other children waiting to die and adults who were just there doing their jobs. Some months, there really was no quality to my life besides the books that I read. I existed and I would then feel it may be better if I wasn’t. At this time, I will state again that I didn’t want to die, but I’ll clarify that this desire came from the wrong motives. While I was not fighting, my parents were. They put absolutely everything in to keeping my alive; countless hours and research and money were put into maintaining my existence which I was so flippant about. I had to stay alive as long as possible, if only to be sure all their hard work wasn’t in vain. Fourteen years was far longer than the doctors had guessed. They’d thought I wouldn’t make it past my eighth birthday. I made it to my eighteenth. My death wasn’t some big sceptical. The last round of radiation had destroyed my kidneys and I’d waited too long for a transplant. The doctors recommended I just be made comfortable at home, and thankfully my parents agreed. I passed in my sleep. I didn’t feel a thing. Death has been… liberating. I don’t wake up each morning in pain. I can go wherever I want, meet strange and interesting people, and see things I never thought I would see. It’s strange; in death, I get a chance to live. I’m sure if my parents knew that, they’d be happy. I hope this is how they picture me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going now. The library’s about to close and it’s the only time I can go without having to worry about people seeing floating books. Thank you for listening to me. Maybe next time you can tell me how you came here? luck | nineteen | five-six years | central canada |
