Drip. Drip. Drip. The colorless solution drips at a steady rate, flowing through the tube of life. The tube that if I was disconnected from, I’d die a torturous death that everybody dreads. The solution glides down the tube and tingles as it enters me, but as it does, it begins to kill me. At the same time, though, it kills the demon that brought me here. The solution creates a feeling of warmth at my skin, but I am in an envelop of frigidness. My skin loses its magnificent white and is replaced by the icy color of paleness.

Once the solution is gone, the nurse looks at me with a face that shows it all. Such a pretty girl, one that is going to lose her battle. I’m so sorry. But then it’s gone as she expertly gets another IV going. This time it is red like blood. Red like the evilness of the demon in me. The coolness of the cap on my head radiates in me. They told me I wouldn’t lose my hair because the cold cap would prevent it. But what used to be a sea of brown is now a smooth empty field. A field of nothingness.

As we drive home from the hospital, my dad looks over at me with a death sentence. In his hand is a paper, a paper I know that can’t be good. I rip the paper from his hands, but then smooth it out. If I can’t be perfect, then everything else should. But before I even read the paper, tears well up in my eyes. The floodgates have opened and they won’t close. Last test results........metastatic.......terminal........surgery is necessary.........follow up with radiation treatment..........in addition to two current drugs..........oral chemotherapeutic drugs............pain medicine...........marijuana.........clinical trials. Enclosed with the letter is my MRI results,  prescriptions for two new pills, a pain medicine prescription, and a referral to a doctor for marijuana.

“It’s all going to be okay,” soothed my dad,” your cancer is in your lungs, but you can have a transplant.” “After that you will continue what you’ve done now. It’ll all be normal again.” But somehow I know he’ll be wrong.

As we pull up to the pharmacy, I can only dread more medicine. My dad and I walk into
the place that is all too familiar. The bland white color of the pharmacy counter. The many bags of drugs that others grapple onto to live. The orange pill bottles that await to be filled with the miracles that save others, but barely help me live a few more months. The hum of the computer. The technicians are just a reminder of what I am: a demon infested person whose life line is drugs. My dad gives the prescriptions over and they are scanned, verified, entered into a computer, and filed away. The screen flashes up with “$256.92” and I am reminded of what a burden I am to my parents.

After what felt like hours, the pharmacist closes up the safe and calls my name. My dad takes the bag and I just feel like crying. But I’m trying to stay strong. On the way home my dad calls the marijuana doctor. It’s a lot of questions and answers, but finally he gets somewhere.

“Okay, I’ll fill out the application, attach Dr. Alnen’s statement, a photograph of her, her driver's license, and a bank statement. I’ll bring the card from the state, yes.”

My life, once happy and fun, is now a life belonging to the demon. The demon is getting stronger, but the doctors think he’ll be gone. My life is now full of chemo, radiation therapy, surgery, pain medicine, and marijuana. This demon is sapping life from me and so is the treatment. My life is no longer my life; but, instead his life, the life that the demon is controlling.