Tick, tick, tick

It would come down to a tie,
Audience wailing, mascots cheering,
My teammates encouraging me from the bench.
And with a perfect bump, set, spike: we’d win,
The final blow sending the ball careening over the net,
It would plant itself dead centre in the opposition’s court.
But that? That would never happen.
At least, I wouldn’t be around to see it.

Instead of being surrounded by my teammates, mascots, audiences, and cheers,
I’m instead surrounded by white.
Whitewashed walls, neatly folded off-white sheets,
And pale white faces, looking at me as though I’d already died.
As though the stage four bone cancer, 
That was slowly eating away at my body had already killed me.

I sit in my bed, watching my dreams slip away.
Dreams of winning provincials, of getting into University.
Meeting someone. Marrying, having kids, a family.
Dreams of a fulfilling future are replaced by dreams of surviving.
Laughter and happiness are replaced by words of empty, pointless encouragement;
You’ll be okay. Hold on a little longer. You’ll get through this.
But how much longer could I hold on?

Sitting in my pale room, in my pale bed, staring at my pale bony hands,
I listen, as the clock slowly ticks the time away, and I know that soon, I will lose the fight.
Because it was never really a fight at all.
Because did I ever really stand a chance?
I listen.

                        Tick, tick, tick . . .