I took this weight as my own burden to bear. It simply had to be so, because even though I suffered, I could tell I was handling it far greater than any others receiving the same treatment. I was not sick, moving from one room to another didn’t drain me of all my energy, I was even strong enough to receive treatment every two weeks instead of every three. There was even a time when the machine used to test if a patient’s blood was strong enough to handle chemotherapy was down, and no one received treatment, save me. They knew I could take it.
I could take it. That phrase played through my head as often as it fell from the lips of those around me. I often found myself pondering if it was simply a wish, a hope, that others had. They had their own reasons for wanting me to live, so they passed their empty wishes on to me, in hopes that I could fulfill them.
But it wasn’t that way. At least, not with me. I knew, somewhere deep down, that I COULD take it. I was made to survive. No matter what happened, I’d hold on. I can’t say it was some beautiful dream of a life I had yet to live that kept me going. I can’t say it was some vision of the future I had yet to accomplish. I simply kept going…because I had to. That’s all there was to it.