Dying Dreams

A story purely written from fiction and an overactive imagination

From the moment we are born, we have these dreams. Maybe they aren’t our own until we get to a few years old, but others have dreams for us. We have over 50 years to complete these dreams before our bodies begin to fail us, and after that, most of us give up hope of completing any more of our dreams.

When you think about it like that, it’s sad.

I’m a planner, so I like to have my next few years planned out. Like, these next two years will be dedicated to finishing my degree. Then I’ll get a job, preferably in this city but I’m okay if it’s in another, and then maybe I’ll marry my boyfriend and settle down. But I don’t want kids till I am in my late twenties because I want to travel. And live. But I don’t want to be an old mother either.

Those were my plans.

The funny thing is, when you plan, nothing goes accordingly. Two weeks ago, I was just like you. Dreaming about the future I was going to have, planning years in advance. But then when I sat down today, those dreams kind of just evaporated.

I could say that I don’t know what happened, but that’s kind of the whole point to this story. To my story. It has everything to do with life, dreams and well, me.

For someone who loves words, for someone who is studying the English language, I was at a loss for words. My brain was empty and I was told that that was the normal reaction. That’s the thing though, there should be no normal reaction to this. 

This isn’t something a young female just starting her twenties should be going through. It’s not even something anyone should have to go through.

And now I am left with a whole lot of decisions.

Like, am I going to tell people? More importantly, do I tell my family and the love of my life?

Do I shatter their dreams about me along with my own personal dreams for myself? Or do I leave them in the calm winds of what they don’t know won’t hurt them until the sky falls on their heads? But the biggest question of all, what does time even mean anymore?

Ever since I was in high school, I cared too much about what people thought of me. What were they saying behind my back? 

Did I really want to know the answer to that? And now that things had changed drastically, could I really afford to keep caring about what people thought about me?

I know the answer to that, but I’m just not ready to face those facts.

If people knew, they would call me the girl with cancer. Or worse, the girl with terminal cancer. That’s not really a title I want hanging over my head. I don’t want people to look at me with pity, to see the looming black clouds coming for me, I don’t want them to see me for anything but myself.

That’s something we all want. To only be seen for the person we are. But we get caught up in the games of life, and nobody really see’s us for who we are but the person we choose to love. That is the person that comes the closest to knowing who we really are. But sometimes, even they don’t. It’s never guaranteed.

For me, the hardest thing is leaving all these dreams I have that I am never going to be able to complete. Like, travelling the world for 6 months. Or, being a mother to my own kids and watching them grow up. Writing my own novel. Owning a house. 

Those all disintegrated at the words terminal cancer, and 6 months.

I’m not afraid of dying though. I mean, I don’t want to die but the fact alone does not scare me. I’m more worried about the people I am leaving behind.

Cancer, as terrible as it is, makes you see life in a whole new perspective. You realise just how lucky you have been in the past. How many people you have that love you, and that make your life worth living. I didn’t realise that in my teenage years, but I have so many people that care about me. How can I tell them that I am not going to live into the next year, despite it only being 8 months away?

How can I tell all those people I am going to die?

A tear fell down my cheek as I stared into the mirror, contemplating the rest of my existence. There is no way I’m going to finish my degree, that’s for sure. And I need to at least get one eye brow wax while I live. As stupid as that sounds, I feel like it has to be something that I try. How can I not?

All these little things that I knew I wanted to try one day; I have to try them today. The doctor might have said that I have 6 months, but 2 weeks ago, nobody knew I had cancer. I was going to live until I was 80, and then boom, actually you’re going to die soon.

You’re going to die before you even really get to live. Sorry you pulled the short straw on that one. Please, feel free to cry.

“No, f**k!” All the air in the room escaped me as I realised that I was really going to die. Soon.

I fought the tears as everything really dawned on me, and f**k, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I was dying.

That picture of me coming home to my husband, after a long day of work and setlling down on a couch in front of the fire, coffee in hand and sock clad feet sliding under the blanket but on top of his legs, that picture was just that. A picture. I wasn’t going to have a husband. Or a home. Or a future.

I was dying.

As much as I wanted to say that I looked at every day like it was my last, all I could see was everything I was never going to be able to do. While I wanted to see the beauty in everything, all I could see was loss. I was losing everything. And I had nobody to blame.

I couldn’t blame myself, how was I to know? Couldn’t blame the doctors, how could they know? It’s not the kind of thing you catch until it’s too late. F*****g Ovarian Cancer.

What were they going to put on my tomb stone? The girl who died before she could live?

How am I going to be able to tell the man that I love, that I am going to die? How am I supposed to break his heart, and then expect him to stand by my side until I die? Watching me as I grow thinner, weaker, until I finally die. How can I do that to him?

Simple. I can’t.

But I can’t just suddenly die on him one day either, that just isn’t fair to him. Then he won’t know whether to grieve or hate me, and he will blame me for leaving him with that question. And the alternative of leaving him so he doesn’t have to know? 

He will know when I die. He will know and he will hate me for deleting those last 6 months we could have had together.

There is no way around it. I have to break his heart.

I’m going to die before my dog will.

I’m going to die before my parents.

Before my grandparents.

I won’t see either of my siblings get married. Or see them love their children. I don’t get to be a part of any of it. And I have nobody and nothing to blame because nothing could have prevented it and that makes me so god damned f*****g mad.

I am so mad and there is nothing I can do about it. Because I’m dying and I am so mad that I don’t get the same chance as everyone else to live. My life tipped down the drain like sour milk that you forgot about in the fridge. Done. Finished.

These thoughts keep racing through me head, even though it’s 2am and I should be sleeping. Need my beauty sleep, to get through the next day. The same thoughts, on repeat, for the past few days. Ever since the final bell.

You.

Have.

Cancer.

You are dying.

DYING.

You have 6 months left.

CANCER.

Please, enjoy them.

Let us know if we can help.

TERMINAL. CANCER. DYING. DEAD.

I am dying and you want to offer your services because you feel bad. Well instead of standing there like a pair of ducks, perhaps you could find a cure. Or better, find a way to test people before it’s too late. Make it mandatory for every female to get tested for ovarian cancer at 18. And 14 because some girls get even less time to live. Catch death before it makes itself at home.

It’s too late for me, but don’t let some other girl die just because today’s health isn’t up to the standards it should be.

Learn from my tears, from the screaming in my chest, from the aching in my bones, learn from that and prevent it from happening again.

I scream and throw the cup at the wall, the tears flying down my cheeks like an eagle from the sky. Fists clutching at the thin material of my night shirt, nails digging into my palms through the shirt. It’s a cage. The shirt is a cage. I rip it off as the sobs creep through my chapped lips, sinking against the bed and dropping my hands to the carpet.

Pieces of glass tickle my fingers, my toes, digging into my skin and dreaming of piercing the skin. I think I have some stuck in my throat, ripping against the air as it struggles through the airway.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t see anything. It’s all black.

I scream into the air, silently. The tears come faster this time, following the tracks down my cheeks and dripping monotonously from my chin and onto my bare thigh. I clutch my chest and I tuck myself over and the other hand is digging into the carpet, I can’t breathe. My heart is beating so fast, but I can’t breathe.

I’m a dying girl and I can’t breathe.

I want to curl up in your arms, feel the safety of your love, but nowhere is safe. Because it is inside of me and killing me slowly.

I can’t breathe.

My fist pounds against the carpet, the concrete on the other side sending pain ricocheting through my already frail hand causing me to squeak. Pain. I still can’t breathe. As a last resort, I bow my head and pray. Forehead against the soft carpet, tears seeping in, begging for somebody to hear me.

Please, Lord, help me. I’m dying and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe and I’m scared. I’m scared of hurting everybody I love; I’m scared of losing who I am in this fight to stay as long as I can for them, scared of losing myself because I’ve lost my dreams. I’m so scared and I don’t know what to do. Lord I’m scared, and I cannot breathe.

Help me to breathe.

My fate is what it is, but help me to breathe. I need to support those who are going to be hurting when I leave. I need to breathe to help them.

I can’t breathe.

I need to breathe. I need that temporary air, just for a short while, I need to breathe. Until I can be sure that everyone will be okay. I need them to be okay, because if they aren’t, then I can’t be okay with dying before I’ve ever had the chance to live.

I can breathe now. I am going to be okay. I can do this. I can love them for as long as I live, and they will be okay because I can breathe now.

I can breathe and everything will be okay.

Author's Note

I know I have a little of present and past tense mixed into the above, I'll fix that soon, but please enjoy otherwise

Reviews

[Agyani]

Willa
This is some powerful writing. In the beginning, it felt like a drag, I'll be honest. The pace seemed slow.
But once you break the news to the reader, you show different phases of a person struggling with her situation. The pain is almost palpable in the words, the reality of the situation too real and visible. I've known people dealing with similar hardships, not always so soon in their lives, but never have I had the chance to talk to them about it in such a manner. Or perhaps I or the other person(s) never found the courage to turn the conversation in this direction. I never knew what EXACTLY they were going through. Until I read this.
I think that's how many people feel when faced with such circumstances.
Being a writer is telling a story in a manner that the reader feels it, and you did it here. I can only commend you for the outstanding job.
And I didn't find any issue of tense confusion here.

Thank you for sharing this piece here.

[WillaDanvers]

I'll see if I can adjust the beginning so it's more fast paced :) you're words are very kind, thank you!! :)

[Coyote Poetry]

Hello Will. Learning, you have cancer. Would turn your world backwards.
"My fate is what it is, but help me to breathe. I need to support those who are going to be hurting when I leave. I need to breathe to help them."
The above lines are solid and we would need to do. Thank you my friend for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote