Chosen Harvest

The morphine drip hums quietly beside my bed, a mechanical lullaby I've grown too familiar with. My fingertips trace the plastic tube snaking into my arm, and I press the call button. The red light blinks steadily, counting seconds until someone arrives.

"Need something, sweetie?" Nora appears in the doorway, her scrubs wrinkled from a twelve-hour shift.

"I'm freezing," I tell her, pulling the thin hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders. "The medication makes me feel like I'm swimming in ice water."

"I'll grab you something warmer." She disappears with a sympathetic smile.

I sink back into the pillows I've arranged and rearranged countless times during this stay. Three weeks in this room. The longest admission yet. The walls, once sterile white, now seem to pulse with a sickly yellow glow under the fluorescent lights.

I miss home. I miss the window in my bedroom that catches the morning sun. I miss the sound of Mom singing off-key while making breakfast. I miss having the strength to walk to the bathroom without feeling like I've run a marathon.

Nora returns with a heated blanket, unfurling it over me with practiced hands. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you."

"Try to rest. Doctor Lin will be by on rounds in a few hours."

The warmth seeps into my bones, and I drift into the hazy half-sleep that's become my constant companion. Not quite unconscious, not quite awake—existing in the liminal space between.

"Jade? Can you open your eyes for me?"

Doctor Lin's voice pulls me back to reality. I blink away the fog to find three familiar faces at the foot of my bed. Doctor Lin, Doctor Mercer, and Doctor Patel stand in a solemn semicircle, their expressions carefully neutral in that way that immediately tells me something is wrong.

"Morning," I manage, my voice scratchy from disuse.

Doctor Lin steps forward, tablet in hand. "How are you feeling today?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck, then reversed over for good measure." The weak joke falls flat in the heavy atmosphere.

Doctor Mercer clears his throat. "We've received your latest test results, Jade."

The way he says it makes my stomach drop. I've been in and out of hospitals since I was seven. I know what bad news sounds like.

"Just tell me," I say.

Doctor Patel moves to my bedside, her dark eyes soft with compassion. "The cancer has spread more aggressively than we anticipated. The treatment isn't working as we'd hoped."

"And?" I prompt, knowing there's more.

"There's a tumor pressing against your brainstem," she continues gently. "Surgery would be extremely high-risk, and in your weakened state..."

She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.

"How long?" I ask, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

Doctor Lin takes my hand. "Weeks. Maybe a month."

I nod slowly, absorbing the information like it's about someone else. Someone distant. Not me. Not nineteen-year-old Jade Powell who hasn't even started living yet.

"We can try experimental treatments," Doctor Mercer offers, "but I want to be honest about the chances of success."

"Don't sugarcoat it," I tell him. "I'd rather know the truth."

"The likelihood of meaningful improvement is very low," he admits. "At this point, our focus would be on your comfort and quality of life."

A tear slides down my cheek, but I brush it away quickly. "Let me tell my mom, okay? She should hear it from me."

Doctor Patel squeezes my shoulder. "Of course."

"I've known you since you were a little girl fighting odds no child should face," Doctor Lin says, his voice thick with emotion. "You've shown more courage than many people do in a lifetime."

"I had good doctors," I reply with a small smile.

"We'll stop the aggressive treatments," Doctor Mercer explains. "Focus on pain management and comfort measures. The nurse will bring in adjusted medication shortly."

They linger for a moment longer, these three people who have fought alongside me for years, before filing out with promises to check in later.

I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. One hundred and forty-four in each panel. Seven panels within my view. One thousand and eight holes to focus on instead of the ticking clock of my life.

The door opens again, and I smell Mom's perfume before I see her—jasmine and vanilla, the scent of home.

"Sorry I'm late, honey. Traffic was a nightmare and—" She stops abruptly, her eyes darting from my face to the tissue clutched in my hand. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Mom," I say softly, patting the edge of my bed. "Come sit with me."

She approaches slowly, as if afraid her movements might shatter me. "The doctors were just here, weren't they? I passed them in the hallway."

I take her hand, noting how our fingers are the same shape—the only physical trait I inherited from her. "The treatment isn't working anymore."

"Then we'll try something else," she says immediately, her voice rising with forced optimism. "There are clinical trials, experimental therapies. Doctor Lin mentioned something about a new drug they're testing in Boston—"

"Mom," I interrupt gently. "It's spread to my brain."

Her face crumples, the hope draining away like water through sand. "No."

"I need you to listen to me, okay? I'm not afraid. I've been fighting this monster half my life, and I'm tired. So tired."

"Don't talk like that," she whispers, shaking her head. "You can't give up. You're my fighter, my miracle girl."

"And I always will be," I promise. "But this time is different."

She pulls away, standing abruptly. "No. No, I don't accept that. We'll get a second opinion. We'll find another specialist. Someone who won't just give up on you."

"They haven't given up," I tell her. "The cancer has just gotten too strong."

"You beat it before," she insists, pacing now. "When you were seven, they said you wouldn't make it six months, and you proved them wrong. When it came back at thirteen, they said the same thing, and you fought through it again."

"Third time's not the charm, I guess," I say, attempting humor that falls painfully flat.

Mom stops pacing and stares at me, her eyes wild with grief and denial. "Don't joke about this. Please, Jade. I can't—I can't lose you."

I hold out my arms, and she collapses against me, her body shaking with sobs. I stroke her hair, the roles reversed as they so often have been throughout my illness. The child comforting the parent.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry I have to leave you."

"Nineteen years," she cries against my shoulder. "It's not enough time. It's not fair."

"No, it's not," I agree. "But they were good years, weren't they? You made them good."

She raises her head, her face streaked with tears. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me. From the moment I held you, nothing else mattered."

I think about all she's sacrificed—the career opportunities passed up, the relationships never pursued, the dreams set aside to care for a chronically ill daughter. She gave me everything, and now I'm leaving her with nothing but grief.

"Promise me something," I say, wiping tears from her cheeks. "When I'm gone, you'll live. Really live. Not just exist. You've spent nineteen years taking care of me. It's time to take care of yourself."

She shakes her head. "Don't talk like that. Please."

"Mom, listen to me. This is important." I take her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I need to know you'll be okay. That's the only thing that scares me about dying—leaving you alone."

She closes her eyes, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "How am I supposed to live in a world without you in it?"

"The same way you've done everything else—one day at a time, with incredible strength."

She pulls me close again, and I feel her tears soaking through my hospital gown. As she holds me, she begins to pray in a broken whisper, begging for a miracle I know isn't coming.

I stare out the window at the slice of sky visible between buildings, wondering if there's really something waiting on the other side of death. I'm not afraid for myself. The pain and exhaustion have worn me down to acceptance. But anger burns in my chest at the unfairness of it all—not for me, but for her.

What kind of God gives a young single mother a child to love with her whole heart, only to take that child away? What cosmic cruelty designed this particular torture?

"I love you, Mom," I whisper as she continues to pray. "More than anything in this world."

Her arms tighten around me, and in this moment, I wish I could believe in miracles one more time—not for my sake, but for hers.