Breaths halt. She gasps for air with every short, rhythmic beat of her withering heart. She lays motionless on the metallic bed with sheets, like paper, draped over her limbs. Defenseless, she must succumb to this fate. Her fate is emphysema.

Some doctors make false claims that she will get better. Others stamp her with a number—two to four months, as if she was an immigrant traveling to new land. She stares at the IV, dripping slowly into her body like drops off a gentle icicle in the morning. With every second, minute, and day that pass by, she thinks about how much time is left. Will it hurt? Will I go peacefully? Will I die?
Yes, friends and family do visit, but soon forget about her. She is completely alone in her cold hospital room, illuminated by one light slowly swinging above her. Mesmerized, her eyes glaze over, revealing an ethereal figure in the distance. Reality or Fantasy. She cannot decipher.