My leg is throbbing with an agonizing pain, but I have learned to tolerate it. As I rub the muscles in my leg, all of the people in the waiting room stare at me in pity. I do not yearn for people’s pity, because I do not want their thoughts to be consumed of me. Oh you poor thing! I am terribly sorry. Cancer is the most difficult thing to live with. They struggle to comfort me with these positive stories about others beating the harmful disease and how they optimize my fortune will be similar. But, it is always the same and I am sick of their false endearment. No one treats me like an ordinary person once they discover I am a cancer patient. They purposely avoid natural conversations like the casual ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ They assume I will not grow old, which verifies their lack of confidence in my future. My parents have even closed the account for college money, because their hesitant that I will adventure that far along. I hate/despise/loathe this destructive disease! My life has been so distant from normal that I have not even experienced anything since the day the doctor announced my condition. Nobody, not a soul, will let me thrive. It is like they have built a six by six foot barrier around me, and I cannot get through. I desire to defeat this infection worldwide, which will conclude the behavior others have towards us cancer patients. I attend all of the walks, however with my leg; I simply park myself at the team table and raise money. Maybe the cure to cancer will not be found while I am alive. Although, when it is revealed, I can say that I contributed to find the cure to what made me and billions of others suffer incredulously.
Alone in the crowded room, with all the sorrowful eyes peering at me, the pain in my leg increasingly matures. It is horribly difficult not to grimace. Attempting to distract myself, I dive into my purse searching for the mini Sephora mirror I have had forever. Observing my complexion seemed to draw my mind away from the pain, nevertheless when a woman in Tweety Bird scrubs appears a the main door way; it reminded me of the pain. “Abigail String,” the woman whispers looking at me humbly. She has called my name multiple times before, obviously as I am regular here. I nod acknowledging her and I securely thrust the mirror back into my ratty purse. Seizing the crutch laying on chair to my left, I use it to prop myself up and balance myself as I wobble towards the woman in the Tweety Bird scrubs. She smiles sweetly at me and guides me towards the room with my doctor. Hobbling into the room, my doctor warmly welcomes me and beckons me to take a seat. “Alright Abigail, how is sarcoma treating you?” He says grinning in is usual jokingly matter. Making an effort to be happy, I answer, “Oh no, do not worry,” my small smile invasive, “I have been showing it who’s boss.” In spite of this seemingly wonderful answer, sarcoma has been winning. The muscles in my leg enhance to pulsate every second. Sitting there feeling defeated inside, I think I am not suppose to be the one to feel defeated. This damn disease deserves that sentiment. I guess I did not cover my emotions well enough, because my doctor gives me the remorseful look of pity. Even my “protector” pities me! Again my mind trails off and I inaugurate a new thought, how am I suppose to survive this disease when my doctor does not even have confidence I have a future? Then, I lose all confidence in myself, which is what I am afraid of most.