«Bambi!». I could hear my mother screaming from downstairs. It was half past eight in the morning and I couldn't think before ten, but despite this, she pretended not to know. As always.
«Bambi! I'm going up!». I buried my face inside the pillow and sighed. I could hear the sound of her stiletto heels hitting the floor. I don't know how it was possible, but she still hadn't ruined the parquet in my room.
«When is that bloody day going to come when you stop calling me that? I'm not six anymore!». My mother is a beautiful woman. A perfect body, blue eyes and long soft blonde hair that falls gently to her shoulders. I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed with the usual medicine bottle in her hand. «Time to take the Xanax. Come on, pull yourself up». I obeyed her orders. I sat waiting with my hand open for the usual antidepressant pill. Because that's also what cancer brings you: depression. Why not, it's not enough for you not being able to breathe practically on your own, no, you also have to feel like a living shit. A walking zombie. You must feel like a depressed person who sees the world colored only in black. An infinite tunnel where there is no electricity.
I downed the pill with a little water. At first I was struggling. They got stuck in the back of my throat. I downed gallons of water in the hope of not suffocating. Then, over the years, it had become a normal thing. It had become a routine. I didn't even notice it anymore.
"Mary will be here any minute. I'll be back from work around seven tonight. Papa, I think you will do it later.' Mary is my sort of caregiver and nurse. She comes every day until my parents get home from work. She gives me medicines, sometimes while I sleep she checks if I'm still breathing, she prepares me to eat. I mean, she makes me feel like I'm a disabled princess.
«I'll be here anyway. Anxiously awaiting your arrival, like every day my queen», I replied with a small laugh.
«Don't forget, for anything, she calls me or your father. Behave yourself". She gave me a loving and comforting kiss on her forehead.
"How am I going to misbehave if I'm cooped up in here like Rapunzel?"
«Bambi, you know that if you want to go out, you can».
«Yes, with Mary clinging to my ribs and asking me with every step I take if I need more oxygen! Also, stop calling me Bambi. I already told you, I'm not a child anymore!», she shouted at her while she was already walking down the stairs to go to work.
«You will always be my little girl, remember that!». I huffed again and tucked my head under the covers.
My mother is a criminal lawyer, while my father is an architect. Let's say that financially we were quite well. All medicines were provided to us by health insurance; basically, the only thing we had to pay was Mary's salary. I would lie in bed all day, hoping for a call from the hospital that someone has died and you can get new lungs. Why must it always be so hard to live?
I looked at my watch, it was only a quarter to nine. Time never passed. I spent my days watching television in hopes of waking up one day and being one of the Kardashian sisters.
«Hi Diana. How you feel today?». Mary's usual question every single morning.
«As always», I replied.
«I'm going to make you breakfast now. Pancakes? What do you say?».
«Excellent to start a beautiful day full of life and emotions!», I said smiling ironically.
«You're always so nice in the morning». She squeezes my cheek like she's my Aunt Amelia when I see her on Christmas day.
Sometimes, my gaze rested on the phone that I always kept propped up on the bedside table, perhaps in the hope of receiving a message from someone. But I had no friends. Not even one. The only people who wrote to me were my mother, father and sometimes my grandmother Rose to ask if I was still sick. She's not very sane. She is in a hospice a few kilometers from my house. She thinks my illness is like the flu. I'd love to think like you, but sadly, that's not the case.
"Here it is". Mary places a plate of three steaming pancakes with maple syrup on top of my bedside table.
«Mary, can I ask you a question?».
«Certain. Anything». She sat on the bed next to me.
«Aren't you ever bored staying here? Don't you want to do something else with your life instead of looking after a girl with lung cancer who could die at any moment?».
«Don't be silly, Diana».
«No, seriously. Don't you have a dream in your drawer?».
She was silent for a few seconds and then she answered my question by saying: «When I was little, I dreamed of becoming a famous singer». I forced myself not to laugh. I didn't really imagine her as a singer.
«And why aren't you? Why didn't you realize this dream of yours?», I asked.
She took a deep breath.
«My mother died when I was only fifteen. She also had cancer, but of the liver. From there, I decided to become a nurse to help people».
«But it's boring! You always do the same things, every identical day». Perhaps, on this, we had something in common. I too did nothing but lie in bed all day watching Netflix. Perhaps, for her, being a nurse was like watching television and lying on the couch for twenty-four hours.
«It is not boring. Maybe, for you it may be, but for me... my dear, it's my life's work.' I remained silent. I hated the idea that someone couldn't achieve their dreams because of me. Although most likely Mary would have been a nurse anyway, with or without my lung cancer.
«Do you have a dream in your drawer?» She asked me while her hand rested on my arm.
«No. Indeed, perhaps, live a normal life. Going to college, drinking alcohol, having sex with random people...». We both laughed.
But actually; that was not my dream. I wanted to become a teacher. I loved children. I loved their purity. I loved being asked about my illness. They were always curious to discover everything that was part of this world, even if it sucks. I wish I could have lived in Neverland, together with Peter Pan and the children who never grow up.