My playground was the bare hallways in the hospital where I would take a wheelchair or sometimes my IV drip stand and use it to speed down the corridor. The nurses laughed and sometimes gave me a mild scolding, but I knew they never really meant it.

I had friends. Most of them were the other little boys and girls that came to stay in my room in the bed across mine. Many of them went back home after saying goodbyes but will still write letter sto me.

I had a best friend, Cli. Cli and I would have races across the corridors together. But one day she left without saying goodbye. I never got a letter from her.

By the time I reached my teenage years I had stopped looking at the mirror. That pale, sickly bald figure in the mirror was not me.

I had visitors. Friends, relatives, siblings. By the time I was staying in the hospital permanently I almost never saw my parents.

I am at stage four now. I want to go home for one last time but no one is around to take me. Stop lying to me. I know I have been disowned. I know that there might be a chance to save me but no one will pay for the treatment.

I know I am as good as dead.


Constructive criticism welcome.