One month ago, I was coughing up blood. I thought it was just because I'd been coughing a lot. I mean, I had had a pretty serious cough for about a week before. I thought it'd all just get better and go away. I thought I just had a cold. I never could have guessed I had something seriously wrong with me. But even though I was coughing up blood, I didn't tell my parents. I wanted them to think that I was strong. My Dad had always been disappointed in me for some reason or other. Whether it was because I wasn't doing well enough in school or because none of the sport teams would accept me. I was always such a disappointment to him.

Mum was always good to me though. She'd come and comfort me after Dad had yelled at me for some reason, saying that he really was proud of me, he just didn't know how to show it. But everything I did disappointed him, and he made sure I knew.

That's why when I really started getting sick, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't want to make it look like I was getting frightened of something that turned out to be nothing.

A week after I started coughing up blood, I started getting sharp pains in my stomach and chest. At first I was frightened, because now it hurt to do anything at all. But I still didn't tell anybody. I still wouldn't tell anybody. None of them would have cared anyway, right? After all, I was a complete failure. I never got my school work in on time and I was failing every class. I got picked on by the other kids in my grade. I used to come home with black eyes and blood noses. Yet another thing that disappointed my Dad. Every time it happened, he'd lecture me about how I should stand up for myself and my beliefs. He'd tell me that I'd never get anywhere in life if I let him push me around. He told me that if this was how I chose to live, he wanted nothing to do with me.

After he'd finish with me, Mum would come in and help clean me up. She always had a way of making me tell her everything. I reduced myself to tears in front of her repeatedly, but she never cared that her fourteen year old son was crying like a baby. She always had faith in me. She said I was strong, and that someday I would stand up for myself. She told me she was proud that I never started fights, and that I tried to avoid them. She held me as I sobbed into her shoulder almost weekly.

At night on days like these, I'd hear her arguing with Dad. She'd be yelling at him that all I wanted was for him to love me like other fathers loved their sons, but that he couldn't bring himself to love something he himself had created. And he'd calmly say that I was a disappointment, and that maybe when I had done something to deserve his love, he would love me.

That's why I never told him I was sick. That's why I kept it to myself. He wouldn't be able to call me weak for that as well. He wouldn't be able to punish me for becoming sick.

One week ago, I was tackled playing football in P.E. I got tackled a lot, even when I didn't have the ball. The other kids loved to hurt me. But it never really got to me that much, unless they did something really dirty to me, like throw in a knee when they jumped on me. I used to just get up and keep playing. But this time I couldn't. This time I just lay there, slowly rolling around with silent tears streaming down my face. I'd promised myself I'd never let anyone besides Mum see me cry, but here I was crying in front of everyone.

The teacher jogged over to me, telling me to get up. When he saw me crying, he knelt down and asked me what was wrong. I squeaked. I couldn't say anything. I thought I'd die from embarrassment. All the other kids had gathered around now, and were laughing at me, calling me names and telling me to stop being such a wuss. Then I stopped breathing and passed out.

I don't know much of what happend after that, but I woke up in an ambulance. There was a man sitting next to me, talking to someone in the front. When he saw I was awake, he told me that everything was going to be OK. He said that I'd passed out from lack of oxygen and from blood loss. I said that I hadn't realised I was bleeding anywhere. Looking over me, I couldn't see any cuts or bandages. I told that to him. He said that it wasn't a big surprise I couldn't see anything, because I had been bleeding inside. He said the impact from the tackle had caused extensive internal bleeding. When I asked why I couldn't feel any pain, he said he didn't know, but that I'd be alright. Then he smiled at me and I blacked out again.

I woke up at the hospital, lying in a bed. I could hear my parents outside, talking in hushed voices to someone. I heard my Mum start crying, and my Dad mutter something to her. Then the door opened and they were ushered inside by a doctor holding a clipboard. Mum rushed over to me immediately, hugging me close and sobbing into my hair that I should have told them I was feeling ill. Dad just stood there.

The doctor had told my mother that I showed signs of damaged tissue in my throat, as well as bleeding in my stomach, liver and bladder. He asked why they hadn't noticed I'd been coughing up blood. Mum just started crying louder, and Dad said that I had never told them anything.

A few days after that, the doctor came back and announced to my parents I only had a few days left to live. He said that they were doing everything they could, but because it had been left too late, they simply couldn't stop the internal bleeding. Mum started crying again, and asked me why I hadn't told them anything. I said that I had wanted to make Dad proud. That I wanted to show him I was strong and not a complete disappointment. All he did was stand up and leave.

Mum started stroking my hair, and saying that he was proud, that he did love me and that I wasn't a disappointment. She said that they both loved me so much, and that they wouldn't have minded being told that I was feeling sick. But I still couldn't believe that I had ever made my Dad proud. And now I never would.

That all leads up to where I am now. Lying in a new bed, this time hooked up to one of those machines that tells the doctors your heart rate and all that, as well as a few drips. They expect me to die sometime soon. I'm lying here surrounded by people, but I feel so alone. Everyone's talking about my death like it's the most normal thing in the world. All around me people talking about me dying, treating me like I already am dead.

And now I realised I never should have though I'd ever make Dad proud. I gave my life trying to make him proud, and he can't even say anything to me as I lie here, dying. I'm about to die, and he still can't even treat me like his son. I really am a disappointment. I never was good enough for him. So why do I have to care about it so much?

I feel kinda faint now. And cold. But at the same time I'm really warm. This must be dying. Shouldn't it hurt? There is a bright light, like they say. But there isn't a tunnel.

I'm tired now. I think I'm going to go to sleep.

Robert Cox 29.11.05