The feeling of faking a terminal illness.

I was lying in bed and when I opened my eyes it was a whole lot of white, scary white.

Even if I close my eyes and don't look, there is still some pungent smell of alcohol around me that keeps reminding me.

I am in the hospital.

And the frequent syringes in my hands, weak body, and being wheeled out in a wheelchair to the sun. I was reminded of that.

I am a terminally ill patient.

I've been in this hospital for over six months.

Every day I wake up to this ceiling and the same smell of alcohol.

The nurses and doctors do routine checks on me every day, but my health continues to deteriorate.

I sometimes envy those who are sick but not conscious at the same time.

At least they don't have a clear idea of what they are going through, they just feel that life is repetitive, but they can also take it for granted.

But not me, I'm awake.

I know what the doctors and nurses are doing every day, and I know what their reactions mean.

I know every day how my body is doing, my increasingly weak arms and legs, my increasingly limp body.

I knew every day that no one associated with me would be at the door of the ward.

Even though I was still young, my illness was enough to make me lose everyone.

And I did lose them all, none of them left.

The patient in the bed next to mine was terminally ill, just like me.

The difference was that he was delirious and didn't know what the daily cycle of life represented every day.

The difference is that he has a lot of family and friends who love him and are willing to walk with him through the last part of his life.

To be honest, not to the point of jealousy, but very envious.

To what extent?

I would rather be him.

Not to get the love of family and friends, but just to, not so sober.

It's a terrible thing to watch yourself gradually die.

That day I suddenly fainted, I was sent here, and after that, I actually never left.

In the beginning, the doctors were active in helping me with chemotherapy and actively looking for a solution to my illness.

Slowly, perhaps they were hit too hard, or they had tried everything.

The doctors stopped running for my illness and even took the initiative to discuss with me to stop the chemotherapy and just live the rest of my life.

My family and friends, who were not very close to me, have been avoiding me like a snake since I got sick, hating that they never knew me.

I could have left the hospital and spent the rest of my life in peace and quiet, there is nothing wrong with that.

But I was getting weaker and weaker, and I couldn't even walk on my own.

There was no one to take care of me, so the hospital continued to take me in.

For more than six months now, everyone has been ignoring me, so maybe they've forgotten about me.

It is said that people go through three deaths in their lives, the first is a cardiac arrest; the second is a funeral send-off; the third is when no one remembers you anymore.

I looked at myself in the mirror, breathless and withered, maybe soon I will experience all three deaths at once.

In fact, death is good, since the terminal disease is incurable, why should I continue to live in this world, wasting resources and watching myself die a little bit?

I still insist on living, just to see if there will be a miracle, if the terminal disease can be cured? Will they come to see me?

I don't think so.

Miracles are not absent, but now it seems that it will not happen to me.

It would be better to leave with dignity, even if it does not leave evidence of survival in this world, it is not a waste of a journey ......

The nurse carried me to the wheelchair, filled the medicine bottles and respirator, and then pushed me out into the sunlight, a once-a-day sunbath.

And after putting me in the warm sun, the nurse would sit on the bench and take a nap.

That's now.

With the respirator and syringe removed, I was in the sun, eyes closed, and a long-lost smile at the corner of my mouth.