I have to see a doctor after I faint at school. Mom doesn’t like going to the hospital but my teacher tells her that it is mandatory. When the doctor checks my heart with his stethoscope, he says that something seems wrong and orders several more tests. The results come back a few minutes later and a short brunette nurse reports them to us. She says that I have a life-threatening illness. I don’t catch its name; it is very long and she only says it once. I think it has something to do with my blood.

Her voice is low and monotone. She explains that several years ago, the United States government launched The Campaign To End Human Suffering, and under this plan patients with life-threatening illnesses are kept under strict management. To avoid excessive pain and suffering, they are given two options: the first, to immediately begin the most aggressive known form of treatment, or the second, to immediately terminate life. Life-threatening diseases are defined as those which have five-year survival rates under 50%. Mine has a rate of 42%.

“The treatment,” the nurse explains slowly, “begins at two-hundred thousand dollars.”

Mom stares at the floor and lets a piece of hair fall in front of her face. “We don’t have enough money,” she mumbles. It is true. She makes less than one fourth of that in a year.

“All right,” the nurse responds, “then we will schedule the appointment. Does tomorrow work?”

Mom clears her throat. “Yes.”

The appointment is set at 8 a.m..

It makes sense. 42% is a low number, and this disease is very bad. It has a lot of bad symptoms and it is threatening my life. The Campaign will prevent my pain. It has proven successful nationwide, as the nurse tells me that in the past decade reports of happiness among the general populous have gone up two points. That's probably a lot.

She asks me if I have ever had any depressive or suicidal tendencies. I tell her the truth-- that I have not. That’s a very thoughtful thing to ask. They don’t want anything bad to happen to me before my appointment. Before we leave, she gives me two pamphlets. I put them in my backpack.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says as we leave the hospital. I don’t know why she says that. This is part of a well planned-out campaign that helps people every day. She should not be upset.

We drive home without saying anything to each other. I want to read at pamphlets, but I know I shouldn't look at them now. Reading in the car makes me sick. When we arrive home, Mom gives me the key to the house and tells me to go inside. She says she has errands to run. She does not say where she is going.

I go to my room and lie down on my bed. I feel tired. I think my disease had already started to hurt me. It's good that we're doing this so soon. That the doctors know how to prevent my pain.

I sit up and pull the two pamphlets out of my brown backpack. The first-- the smaller one-- is entitled “Modus Operandi of Discretionary Preventative Human Quietus.” I like the word quietus. It’s nice. There is no picture on the front, just a pale gray background. The paper is thin and waxy and tears in two places as I unfold the pamphlet into one long sheet. The words are very small and there are no pictures. It hurts my eyes to look at. When I try to read it, the words do not make sense. They are not like any words I have ever seen. I scan my eyes slowly along the lines and concentrate fully.

“Saturated barbiturate of sodium thiopental solution begins conjugation in the median structural system of the sapient,” reads one sentence in the first paragraph. These sound like the kind of words only doctors understood. I try another: “aforementioned lamented sapient shall substantiate imminent dispatching to the appropriate preliminary conjecture facility.” I think this is just the details of what is going to happen. I cannot read this, but I’m sure it all makes sense to the doctors. They always try to help their patients. This would all sound lovely if I were a doctor. But I am not.

I look at the bigger pamphlet. Maybe I will understand this one. As I pick it up, I can already tell that the paper is much thicker and stronger. This one is called “Your Final Days: Love, Wisdom, and Peace.” Just looking at the front makes me feel better. It is a picture of a dove holding a branch, like the one Noah sent out. Except instead of olives, the branch has little hearts on it. The picture is very pretty, and it reminds me of the pictures my Chronicles of Narnia books. Maybe the man who illustrated those books also drew this picture.

The pamphlet folds like a small book. When I turn the pages, I see that the words are much bigger and easier to read, and I easily recognize all of them. I begin reading. “At the start,” it says, “you might feel sad, or confused, or maybe even a little bit mad!” I think I do feel a little bit mad. “But we are all working so hard to take care of you, and you should know that this is the best thing for you. After all, we don’t want you to be in pain, or to be scared about what will happen to you!” Reading this pamphlet makes me feel better. I see that they understand this better than I do.

I keep reading. It tells me that I should read my favorite book or watch my favorite movie again, and that I should eat something I really like. It says I can eat until I am stuffed. Mom usually tells me to watch what I eat, so I am very pleased about this. The next part is called "What Happens Next.” It says, “nobody knows exactly what happens, but lots of people have very different beliefs! Some people believe that you go to live in the sky, where you meet all the people you love. Other people believe you get to become another person, or maybe even an animal. Imagine that! But no matter what, everyone believes that you will go somewhere very peaceful, and that you will be much happier than you are here.” That sounds good, I guess.

I hear Mom open the door, so I put down the pamphlet and go to greet to her. I wonder where she went. She smiles at me but her eyes are very puffy and red. I know that when she looks like that it means she doesn’t want to talk what she was doing. I don’t ask.

“Tonight,” she says, “we can have whatever you want. I got all your favorites.”

I decide to have burgers and mac and cheese and then chocolate ice cream for desert. It all tastes very good but, for some reason I am not that hungry. Neither is Mom. We don't eat very much.

After dinner, I get ready for bed. She tucks me in and reads me part of my favorite book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. It is the part where Aslan the lion comes back to life. When she finishes reading, I set my alarm clock for 6:30 a.m. and she turns out the light. A little while later I can hear her crying in her room. It takes me a long time to fall asleep. My blood doesn’t feel right. I’m glad the doctors know what to do.

The next morning, we get to the hospital at 7:45 a.m.. I wear my pajamas because the pamphlet said to wear comfortable clothes. We sit in the waiting room for ten minutes and then a thin, pale nurse with forehead wrinkles comes and asks me if I am ready. Before I can say anything she starts walking away and we have to follow her. She takes us into a small room. It has chairs, medical equipment, cabinets, and a bed. She tells me to sit on the bed.

“I’m just going to ask you a few questions.” I nod. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” I say. The nurse’s forehead crinkles like tin foil.

“What year of school are you in?” She asks.

“Sixth year,” I say.

“Do you have any pets?” She asks.

“No.” I say.

“Have you begun menstruation?” She asks.

Mom interrupts me. “Why are you asking these questions?”

“They-- they are for demographic purposes.” The nurse replies. I don’t know what that means, but I’m sure she does. She looks kind.

She continues, “have you begun menstruation?”

“No.” I say. I see her hand turns white as she writes this down.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.” She leaves. We sit in silence for a few minutes until a man with slicked-back grey hair and big brown eyes comes in. He tells us that he is the doctor.

“Are you nervous?” He asks me. I don’t know what to say. I guess not. Am I supposed to be?

“Well, don’t be,” he states. “This will be very easy.” He smiles at me, and I can see almost every tooth in his mouth. I smile back. The nurse wheels in a tray full of medical items.

“Ok,” he says. “We’re going to hook you up with an IV. You’re mother and I will be here the whole time. It will feel just like falling asleep. You’ll do fine.” I’m not sure what he means by that. I’ll do fine at falling asleep? I guess that’s true. He prepares the IV. “Little pinch,” he whispers. It hurts more than a pinch but I don’t say anything. “Great,” he mouths. I can tell that he is a good doctor.

The IV starts going into my blood now. I didn’t realize this would happen so quickly. It feels strange. I start to sink down in my bed, sort of without realizing it. Mom holds my hand.

I'm a little bit dizzy.

I sort of wish I could have done more things. I’ve never ridden a horse or met my cousin Emily. I wanted to do all those things but I guess it’s okay that I can’t. Lots of people can’t do the things they want.

I have a headache now.

If this hadn't happened, I could have studied to be a doctor, and found a cure for the thing that’s in my blood that doesn’t cost so much money. I guess that’s silly. I get bad grades in science. And anyway, that is not what is happening.

My eyes are getting blurry. Mom is sniffling and I feel sad, too, even though I know that this is best for me.

“You won’t be able to talk in a few minutes,” says the doctor. “So, do you have any words for us?”

I’m confused. “What… do you… mean?” I ask. It’s hard for me to get words out, like my mouth is wandering away from the rest of me.

The nurse swallows hard. “These are your last words. They will be logged for posterity.” Her voice quivers. There might be something bad on her mind.

It makes me very sad to think that I won’t be able to say any more words after this. But this is what is best for me. It has to be. They would not make this rule if it wasn’t best for me, or for other people. Mom must know this. So why has she started crying again?

“Goodbye.” I don’t know what else to say, and it’s too hard to say more, anyway.

I’m very tired now. I think I’m going to go to sleep soon. I remember what the pamphlet said, about how some people believe that you become another person or an animal.

Maybe I will become a lion.