Room 23

November 21, 2015

The floor is cold beneath my toes as I breath in the chemical cocktail of city air. The

scent of bleach and antiseptic cling to me like rust on a neglected automobile. I don’t

want to be here, but won’t bend and cry. I must be strong and hold my head high, for I

won’t let this crush me. I must fight.

Fourth floor, second hall, room 23. This is my hell. Today a new treatment to

eradicate the disease that kills me. I have advanced fibromyalgia, a heart murmur,

bronchial spasms, and arthritis. My nerve damage is all too much. The doctor walks in

with the grim face he always wears. I get blood tests and scans for the next four hours.

My brain feels like slush as highly concentrated blood combined with a new

treatment that stays at a temperature below freezing is shot into my veins. Sure it hurts,

but there’s nothing I can do about it. By the time the pain dulls to a thud I am sent for

scans.

My mother holds my hand and tells me it will all be OK, but I know better.

Sometimes I feel as if I am taking care of her, not vice versa. My mom begins to cry as

dye is injected in my spine. I don’t shed a tear, because I can no longer feel the sting of

the needle.

Once the scans are done I get a break. Chinese sticks to my ribs and leave a

salty taste to my mouth as we comb store after store for a jeans in which my baby

brother will outgrow within the next three months. I feel like a puppet as my mother

guides me from place to place. I don’t even remember every detail of every place. I feel

hollow.

The doors open with a whoosh as the bitter cold air bites my skin. I walk back to

rom 23, my mother holding my hand and saying it’s almost over. As I sit I realize that I

feel different. I feel as if I will vomit in a moments notice. The doctor walks in and orders

more tests.

It’s late by the time I am released. All I desire is a good meal and rest, but before

that wish can be granted I must visit room 23. The room that I have learned to hate

three years ago, the room in which a piece of me died, and now the room that will give

me my life back.

The doctor enters with a grin as big as the cheshire cats. The treatment worked. I

am not cured, but given another chance. This one treatment out of hundreds has

worked. I no longer need experimental prescriptions, and get to do what I never thought

possible.

I have a heart and it beats like a drum while I walk on cloud nine and find that

nothing will end till it has to. I am whole and thankful for everything that I am given. This

is the day that I finally cried. This is the day that I realized I’m alive.

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