Outside, my father waved as the car pulled away, but I couldn't find the strength to lift my hand. I watched him shrink into the distance, a man who chose to "watch over me" only until it required actual movement.
We drove directly toward the hospital, the engine's hum vibrating through my brittle bones.
I was surprised to find that I was still hungry. Even with my body shutting down, the primal urge to survive remained, gnawing at my stomach.
I looked at my mom and grandma. My mom's face was a mask of sheer exhaustion, while my grandmother's eyes were rimmed with red, her expression one of barely contained grief.
"Mummy," I whispered. In this time, I hadn't yet switched to the more mature "Mom." The word felt like a plea.
"Are you in pain? Just wait a little longer, dear," she said, her voice trembling with concern.
"Baby, does it hurt?" my grandmother added, her voice thick and deep with unshed tears.
Seeing them like this shattered me. Now, I had been too young, too consumed by my own malaise to truly register their agony. But now, my grown-up consciousness was a prisoner inside this frail frame. I wasn't just experiencing the illness; I was forced to witness their hearts breaking in real-time.
I turned my head to look out the front windshield. My spirit was screaming, begging to comfort them, but the laws of this memory held me fast. I was a passenger in my own tragedy.
Finally, we reached the hospital—a towering, antiseptic labyrinth teeming with people. The door clicked open, and my mother gathered me into her arms; my legs were useless weights now, unable to support even my meager shadow.
My grandmother grabbed our bags and hurried behind us.
"You know where to go?" my grandmother asked, her voice tight.
"Yes, I was here this morning to set everything up," Mom replied, her pace quickening.
"Let's go straight to the doctor. My patience is gone."
They navigated the corridors with a desperate urgency. We were ushered directly into the doctor's cabin, bypassing the usual wait. The nurse led us in, and at first glance, the doctor's expression shifted from professional neutrality to sharp alarm.
"Oh, dear," he muttered, his eyes scanning my pale face.
"Hurry. We need to start the blood tests immediately. I've already reviewed her previous reports. Who is the mother?"
"I am," my mother said, stepping forward.
The doctor began speaking in low, clipped tones, but the words became a blur of medical jargon I couldn't quite catch. The nurse whisked me away to a separate cabin for the blood draw. I sat on the cold table, watching them through the glass partition.
I couldn't hear what the doctor said next, but I saw the reaction. My grandmother's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. My mother stood frozen, a look of pure, unadulterated shock washing the color from her face.
The diagnosis hadn't been spoken to me yet, but in their eyes, I saw my own death sentence.