It’s still dark out when I wake.
Reaching for my cell, I see that it’s 5:15 a.m. Too worked up to go back to sleep, I decide to take a shower and get an early start on the day.
When I step out, I dry off and stand in front of the mirror. It’s fogged up, thanks to my blistering shower, so I swipe my hand down the glass, leaving a s***h in its wake. I peer at myself in the shred, half my face and body obscured, but I can see enough.
I’ve changed so much. Each day robs me of breath. It’s like Georgia took a piece of me with her.
A small, bothersome voice whispers in my ear that I’ve given up too easily. I could call Dr. Carter and ask to trial the new drugs available, but I won’t. Since being diagnosed, I’ve had the choice made for me. I was going to die. But lately, the line has been blu
