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I listen to the soft ticking of the antique pocket watch around my neck. I focus on the weight of it. It’s not meant to be worn as a necklace, but I’ve been attached to this thing since I was a kid. My dad put it on a gold chain for my seventh birthday, and I’ve worn it every day since. If I pay close attention, I can feel the mechanisms inside clicking and turning as the gold back rests against my sternum.
One might say the ticking is an ominous sound, especially now that I have so little time left, but I still find it comforting.
I want these seconds. Every single one.
It’s been a little over three weeks since I suddenly got sick. Twenty-three days, to be more precise.
The neurological symptoms came on without warning, causing me to lose consciousness on my way to feed the chickens one morning. A trip to the emergency room, and countless scans and tests later, I still don’t know what’s wrong with me.
No one can figure it out, but on some deep level, I know I’m approaching the end.
My mind is no longer running like a well-oiled machine. It’s breaking. Shutting down. Fast. My kidneys are failing, and my liver numbers aren’t looking great.
I’m deteriorating too quickly, and the doctors are scrambling to come up with any kind of treatment plan.
By the time they figure it out—ifthey figure it out—it’ll be too late to save me.
And I’m scared. Scared of what will happen next. Even if there is some kind of existence after death, I’m not ready for this life to be over, and I’m already grieving the loss of everything I haven’t done yet.
I’d never been so cognizant of how alive I am until I started dying. Isn’t that ironic?
I used to take everything for granted. Breathing. Walking. Existing in a constant state of comfort.
Now, the persistent throbbing in my skull makes me all-too-aware of the fact that my head is still attached to my body, and I wince as the twinge travels down my spine.
The newest symptom is the tingling in my right leg. About a week ago, a strange sensation started in my toes. Slowly, it traveled upward until it affected my entire leg. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just numbness, but it’s not.
Pins and needles.
I feel like I’m being stabbed a thousand times a second, and it gets worse when I put weight on it.
Although the pills in the bottle won’t help much, I take them out of my purse anyway. Two fall into my palm and I toss them back.
I wash the medicine down with a long sip of my iced tea. Cold sweetness hits my tongue, and I savor it.
Another pull of my drink turns into a loud slurp as the liquid runs out, and I’m already planning to refill it once I get home.
I know the sugar isn’t good for me. My doctor told me I should cut it out of my diet. If not for my immune system, then for my kidneys and other precious organs. But what’s it going to do? Kill me?
Laughable.
Besides, I need the caffeine if I’m going to get through tonight.
The sound of an engine revving down the road interrupts my thoughts, and I look to the left where I see a red sports car moving very slowly.
It’s an extraordinarily nice car. The sun glints off the shiny, perfectly waxed exterior of the sleek hood. Dark tinted windows hide the driver as the deep rumble commands attention.
Then the car stops about a hundred feet away.
Suddenly, it lurches forward, only to go back to a crawl as it inches toward me.
Are they drunk? More likely, they’re lost. The only people who end up several miles from the nearest town are either here on purpose or they made several wrong turns.
Maybe someone’s looking for the farm. Some guests for tonight’s event, perhaps?
A big part of me is afraid no one will show up. Only a few people have RSVPed, and those who did are customers who barely have two pennies to rub together.
Excited that we might have at least one wealthy person showing up for the fundraiser, I brace my elbows on the table, lean forward, and wave my hand to flag them down.
