It started, like all things do, with some form of pain.
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But, in tthis case the pain continued.

I rollover in the scratchy hospital bed, feeling the layers of fabric beneath me twist as I move my legs over to the opposite side of the cramped bed. IV’s poke out of my arms, which are always pale, but today they are blue, under the fluorescent lights. I’m in the goldfish bowl of the world. Next to me, dozens of monitors go haywire, flashing and dilating different colored lights. The doctor comes in, with a quick tap on the door, and I sit up, braving myself for the news.

I can see it on his face, through the glass pane in the door and I know already, before he opens his mouth. I bury my face in my hands, feeling the tape and plastic tubes on my fingers scratch my eyes.

Dr.Whitman comes into the room, and starts babbling some damn story about how the chances are good, and I will still be healthy for the next few weeks before things start to go downhill. I want to strangle him, sitting there, telling me that I am going to die, but the chances look good.

James comes through the door next, armed with hello kitty balloons and a cupcake from Kroger. He waned to get me a chocolate mousse torte from his dads catering service but I like my Kroger sugar cupcake, thank you very much. When I see James I want to cry, so I do.
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I thought the world wasn’t supposed to work this way. Doesn’t God create everyone equal? How can I have down syndrome and AIDS. Isn’t there a limit to these things? MY dad comes in the room next, and I start to feel overwhelmed by all the noise so I try to remember exactly how many stripes there are painted on my ceiling. I am at 24 when my dad is at my bed, kissing my forehead and patting my arm and I just want to scream because I don’t like it when people touch me and he knows that but today I guess he cannot help it.