As the weeks past we were given assignments and one of the assignments we had was to write something autobiographical.
This is a huge step for me. Although I want nothing more than to be a writer I am really nervous of putting my stuff out there. Seeing as this was the hardest assignment throughout the course I thought I would post what I wrote.
So here it is...
Something was wrong. It was the same feeling I had had six months ago. That little beast was gnawing the pit of my stomach again. I hate that feeling. I could tell by the way he was looking at me it was going to be bad news. I was uncomfortable so I kept rubbing my sweaty palms on to my flared jeans. It was then that I noticed that these were the same jeans I had on that fateful day. My mum hated these jeans. They flared out so much that the bottoms had scuffed and ripped and I tripped over the flare all the time. I had adorned them with badges and custom-made rips. They were how I felt, torn and broken. My sister had loved them but she wasn’t here anymore to tell me that she loved them. I felt another rip appear.
I glanced briefly at the Doctor again - he was addressing
my parents more than me so I just gazed out the window instead. I knew I should
be listening but I just couldn’t muster the energy. I felt like nothing could
be worse than what it already was. It had been sunny before we got here but now
it was grey, like the sun – like me – had just given up. It was poetic really;
the sun would have been an inappropriate guest to our gathering of misery.
Minutes passed. I could tell because the clock ticks were
pounding in my ears. Time had slowed down for months – since the dark day – and
it felt that every clock mocked my existence.
I was so disconnected to everything around me I hadn’t
even noticed my mother wailing next to me. I looked at her for a long time not
knowing what do to or if I even cared to ask what had happened to make her a
sobbing mess.
The doctor was staring at me; I felt my cheeks prickle
with heat and sank a little lower in my seat. I was aware he was probably
thinking I was just been a stroppy teenager but I just didn’t even know how to
exist anymore.
“Are there any questions you want to ask me Nicola?”
“Um, I’m not sure?” I didn’t even know what he was referring
to.
“Well, the options are a bit limited with how severe it
is but it is your choice with what you want to do” The doctor said with such a
monotonous tone these words had been uttered as many times as he had greeted his wife.
My mother’s voice boomed and snapped me out of my haze
“Whichever one is going to keep her alive is the one
she’ll have!”
I’m dying.
I caught snippets of words as I felt my chest tighten.
Electric pulses, not working, prolonged rhythms, cardiac arrest, pacemaker but
nothing made sense. I felt my heart start to hammer against my chest, as if
it’s secret that it was broken had been uncovered and he needed to make a quick
getaway. My head swirled and I felt a searing pain in my ears, I needed to get
out of the room. I needed to throw up, to scream, to smash something, I needed
my sister.
It transpired that I had the same heart condition that
had crawled in like a dirty rat and snatched my sister in her slumber. We had
more in common than we thought. I needed surgery and have a machine to help my
heart beat properly. I wasn’t even eighteen yet.
I became older that day. I felt what was left of my youth
flutter away with the wind that churned through my hair. My friends became
names I wouldn’t recognise soon. I would always be referred as that girl who’s
got the pacemaker. My body didn’t work, I
didn’t work. I was broken in so many ways and there was nothing I could do
about it.
