Jenny Downham

do.
50
I cant judge it, but Id encourage you to do the things you want to
He has some slides with him to prove the point, passes them round
like holiday snaps, pointing out little splashes of darkness, lesions, sticky
blasts floating loose. Its as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm
has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.
Dads trying unsuccessfully not to cry. What happens now? he asks,
and big silent tears fall out of his eyes and plonk onto his lap. The doctor
hands him a tissue.
Outside the window, the first rain of the day spatters against the glass.
A leaf caught by a gust of wind rips, then flares red and gold as it falls.
The doctor says, Tessa may respond to intensive intrathecal
medication. I would suggest methotrexate and hydrocortisone for four
weeks. If its successful, her symptoms should improve and we can
continue with a maintenance programme.
any of it.
The doctor keeps talking and Dad keeps listening, but I stop hearing
Its really going to happen. They said it would, but this is quicker than
anyone thought. I really wont ever go back to school. Not ever. Ill never
be famous or leave anything worthwhile behind. Ill never go to college or
have a job. I wont see my brother grow up. I wont travel, never earn
money, never drive, never fall in love or leave home or get my own house.
Its really, really true.
A thought stabs up, growing from my toes and ripping through me,
until it stifles everything else and becomes the only thing Im thinking. It
fills me up, like a silent scream. Ive been ill for so long, puffed up and sick,
with patchy skin, flaky fingernails, disappearing hair and a feeling of nausea
that permeates to my bones. Its not fair. I dont want to die like this, not