Never in a million years did I think I would hear the words, “you have five months to live” come out of anyone's mouth. For so long I felt that I was invincible and now any minute of anyday I could be invisible. 

     The doctor told me that my body was beginning to shut down after fighting leukemia since I was seven years old. Yup that's right I’ve been in and out of the hospital since the day my mother gave birth to me, a “miracle baby”. Although if I was a miracle then why would I be leaving her with nothing but grief, and the idea of losing her child, her best friend. 

     My father left my mom when I got diagnosed because he couldn’t handle the stress of my disense. He made everything about himself, even the day I had my first transplant. So far I've had 27 surgeries and I am still here; so maybe my diagnosis was just a gift giving him the opportunity to leave us. 

     Everyday it’s getting harder and harder to crack a joke because I see my mom's blood-shot eyes, meaning she’s trying to hide her sadness. I never actually took a minute to think my last birthday was actually my last birthday. Yes, having cancer is scary but the idea of dying is even scarier. Who will laugh if I'm not here to crack jokes? Who will tell me if the nasty nurse down the hall finally got fired? Or what will happen once my heart stops? There’s so many questions that can’t be answered because it hasn’t happened to anyone I know except me. 

     While I was standing in the empty hospital room waiting to go home, I thought of all the things I would miss out on. Prom, marriage, family, anything any “normal” 15 year old can dream of. Except sitting here for the next five months knowing it won’t happen, makes me remember why I am still fighting. Everyone thinks they are taking care of me but really all I’m doing is taking care of them. My job since I started to talk was to make sure everyone spends their day like it was their last. 

     I was discharged from the hospital on October 10, 2010 with the words “you’re going to die'' spinning throughout my mind. When we got into the car my mom helped me up in the seat almost as if I was paralyzed from the waist down. She keeps treating me like I’m not dying but I try to tell her that I’m already gone. Nothing was the same after I got diagnosed,  but now since my last day is only a few months away it's like we have to squeeze my whole life into that time frame. My mom doesn’t know how I am feeling mentally, because she only asks about me physically. I know she is trying but sometimes the only people who actually know what I'm going through are the people who have experienced death.

     As time passes by I try to get my mom to laugh and smile because I know when I die that'll be hard to get back. If the roles were reversed I don’t know how I would feel about losing my best friend. A part of me would be so angry that I’d never get to see her again and it's not just any argument that will fix itself. Leaving this earth knowing that I’m hurting the only real people I’ve got, is the hardest thing about dying.