I was half asleep on the bed, that has been mine for six years. Six years in a hospital. Six years between these white walls, looking out that tiny window next to me. The sun hit my pale face and I smiled. "Finally the winter is over and i can enjoy the view of the nearby park." I can't really see the individual blooming flowers but I can see that pinky-white color on the trees. I looked down at my hand and all I could see was my IV. "I still have ALS, I still know that I wont live for a long time."
I lived for 23 years. Well, actually i lived for 17 years. Then I was put into this hospital when I was diagnosed because my parents weren't able to take care of me. So basically they pay for this hospital room for me since then. They come only once a year. They give me birthday gifts and my mom cries a lot. After a while they get up and leave. Every year. It was hurting me at the start but now I feel OK about it. I know it's hard for them too. Slowly loosing their daughter while they can't do anything to help.
Looking at my hand, I tried to move it, but it hardly did anything. I remember that day when it started. I tried to play the piano at our living room, but my left hand was slower than usual. I wasn't paying that much attention to it then. If I knew that would be the last time i played piano.
The doctor came to my room but I wast paying attention. The usual things. Bloodworks, tests, scans, when to wear my oxigen mask ect. I heard him going away and I looked at the door to see the doctors white robe behind my glass door.
I heard people talking outside my room but I didn't pay attention. Always the "ohh poor girl, noone's coming to see her weekly" talking from the nurses. I hate it when they do that. They could come in and talk to me anytime, but they decided not to. They help me to go to the toilet and they give me food. If I pay extra, they'll help me to move my left arm and sometimes wheel me to the garden. That's all they do.
"Well, welcome to my life." I said to myself.