Anoi

Stone

Have you ever sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair for several hours, waiting for news that could change your life? I have. Twice if you count just now.

The last time I sat in this same chair, and stared at the same notices above the surgery door, I waited for the same reason.

I remember the same cold stone sitting at the bottom of my stomach, the sandpaper throat preventing me from swallowing and even the clock on the wall - its ticks and tocks getting slower and longer, until it seemed an eternity between each one.

But I failed to retain one feeling: The kind of feeling that paralyses your body but leaves your mind to wander through dozens of nightmare realities. And there's no-where to hide from your own mind. I failed to remember the cold certain dread that everything in your life revolved around the next few minutes and if the answer the doctor gave you was a good one.

And knowing it wouldn't be.

I'd looked up the symptoms on the net; dizziness, changes in my vision, loss of feeling in my arms and memory loss. What else could it point to but a brain tumour?

So that first time, when the doctor, Mr. T. Morrison, opened his door and beckoned me and my parents inside to relay to us the fatal results, I was prepared. But my parents hadn't been. I think that their frail misconception that I was exaggerating was shattered that moment, forcing them to face reality. And nearly breaking them at the same time.

But when Mr. Morrison explained the variety of treatments available they donned their shields of hope again.

The only problems with shields is that you have to lower them to see what's happening behind. So when my old symptoms returned they never noticed.

So I'm here, same chair, same door with posters above it, same feelings churning my stomach and the clock constantly ticking in the background, but this time no hands to hold mine still as they quiver at my sides.

I'm prepared. I know the success rate of chemotherapy second time round. And I know what will happen if it fails again.

But as I regard the surgery door, mapping the rough grain and small holes from drawing pins dotted across its face, I can feel my soul crumpling, screwing itself into a small ball, trying to hide from all the pain. Becoming stone.