The car ride to the hospital was tense, filled with an uncomfortable silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Mum kept fiddling with the radio, never settling on a station for more than a few minutes. Dad's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. In the backseat, Meri and I exchanged glances, neither of us quite sure what to say.

It wasn't often that we visited the hospital as a family these days. Usually, it was just me and one of my parents for my treatments. But today was different. Today, we were going to see Jackson.

Jackson, my cousin, who was waiting for a liver transplant. Jackson, who'd always been the life of the party at family gatherings, now confined to a hospital bed. Jackson, who was only nineteen and facing a battle I understood all too well.

As we pulled into the hospital car park, I felt a familiar knot form in my stomach. It wasn't just the usual anxiety I felt coming here for my own treatments. This time, it was mixed with worry for Jackson and a strange sense of guilt. Here I was, still fighting, still hanging on, while Jackson...

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. This wasn't a competition. We were all just doing our best to survive.

We made our way through the familiar corridors, the smell of disinfectant making my nose wrinkle. As we approached Jackson's room, I saw Aunt Sarah and Uncle Tom huddled together outside, speaking in hushed tones with a doctor.

Mum hurried over to them, wrapping Aunt Sarah in a tight hug. Dad hung back a bit, looking uncomfortable, as he always did in hospitals. Meri stuck close to my side, her hand finding mine and squeezing tight.

"How is he?" I heard Mum ask softly.

Aunt Sarah's face crumpled a bit. "Not great," she admitted. "The doctors say... they say if he doesn't get a transplant soon..."

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. But we all knew what she meant. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

Uncle Tom cleared his throat. "But he's hanging in there," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Our boy's a fighter."

We all nodded, because what else could we do?

After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, we were allowed to go in and see Jackson. The room was dim, the blinds drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. The steady beep of monitors filled the air, a constant reminder of where we were and why.

Jackson was propped up in bed, looking pale and drawn. But when he saw us, a shadow of his old grin flickered across his face.

"Well, if it isn't the whole Reid clan," he said, his voice weak but still carrying that familiar hint of mischief. "Come to liven up my five-star accommodation?"

I felt a lump form in my throat. Even now, even here, he was trying to make us laugh.

We gathered around his bed, pulling up chairs and perching on the edges. For a while, we just talked. About nothing important - the weather, the latest family gossip, the ridiculous daytime TV Jackson had been subjected to. It was almost normal, if you could ignore the hospital setting and the tubes snaking out from under Jackson's blanket.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics, a collective effort to lift the heavy atmosphere. Aunt Sarah started reminiscing about family holidays from years ago, her eyes taking on a distant, wistful look.

"Do you remember that camping trip we took when you two were about ten?" she asked, glancing between Jackson and me.

Jackson's face lit up with a weak smile. "Oh god, the one where Dad thought he could be the next Bear Grylls?"

I couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "Uncle Tom, didn't you try to catch fish with your bare hands?"

Uncle Tom's cheeks reddened slightly. "I'll have you know, that's a perfectly valid survival technique."

"Maybe," Aunt Sarah chimed in, "but not when there's a perfectly good fishing rod in the car."

We all chuckled, and for a moment, the beeping monitors and sterile hospital smell faded into the background.

"And remember," Mum added, her eyes twinkling, "how Beth and Jackson decided to 'improve' the tent by cutting extra windows in it?"

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "I'd almost managed to forget about that."

Jackson grinned. "Hey, it was a brilliant idea. We just didn't account for the rain."

"Or the mosquitoes," Dad added dryly.

The laughter that followed was genuine, a welcome respite from the worry and fear that had dominated our lives recently.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a nurse hovering by the door, a tray of medication in her hands. She smiled apologetically. "Sorry to interrupt, but it's time for Jackson's next round of meds."

The mood in the room shifted, reality crashing back in like a cold wave. We all watched in silence as the nurse efficiently administered Jackson's medication, and checked his vitals.

As she worked, I found myself studying the various machines surrounding Jackson's bed. Each one had a purpose, each one was helping to keep him alive. It was both fascinating and terrifying.

"What does that one do?" I asked, pointing to a machine with a rhythmic beeping sound.

The nurse glanced up, seeming surprised but pleased by my interest. "That's monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure," she explained. "It helps us keep track of how his body is coping with the stress of liver failure."

I nodded, absorbing the information. "And that one?" I gestured to another machine with a constant, low hum.

"That's actually part of his dialysis setup," the nurse said. "When the liver isn't functioning properly, it can affect the kidneys too. This helps to filter his blood, doing some of the work his liver can't right now."

As she continued to explain the various equipment, I found myself fascinated. It was incredible how much medical science could do, how these machines could support life when the body was struggling.

But at the same time, it hammered home just how precarious Jackson's situation was. How much he needed that transplant.

Once the nurse had finished and left, an awkward silence fell over the room. The brief reprieve of laughter and reminiscence was over, and we were all too aware of why we were really here.

Jackson, ever the one to break tension, spoke up. "Well, that was educational. I feel like I should be taking notes. There might be a quiz later."

I smiled at his attempt at humour, but I could see the fatigue in his eyes. This constant battle was wearing him down, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

"Jackson," Meri spoke up suddenly. "Can I show you something?"

We all turned to look at her. Meri had been quiet for most of the visit, overwhelmed by the hospital environment.

Jackson nodded, curiosity flickering across his face. "Sure, kiddo. What've you got?"

Meri rummaged in her backpack, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed it out carefully before holding it up for Jackson to see.

It was a drawing, done in Meri's distinctive style. It showed a figure that was clearly meant to be Jackson, standing tall and strong. Around him were various symbols - a liver shape, a sunrise, a tree with deep roots.

"It's you," Meri explained. "After you get better. The liver is your new one, the sunrise is new beginnings, and the tree... well, that's because you're strong."

For a long moment, Jackson just stared at the drawing, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Then, with a visible effort, he reached out and took Meri's hand.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "That's... that's beautiful, Meri. I love it."

Meri beamed, carefully placing the drawing on Jackson's bedside table where he could see it easily.

The simple act of kindness seemed to shift something in the room. The heaviness that had settled back in after the nurse's visit lifted slightly. We all looked at the drawing, this tangible representation of hope and love.

"You know," Aunt Sarah said softly, "I think that drawing captures exactly what we all feel. You are strong, Jackson. And you have all of us, your family, supporting you."

Uncle Tom nodded, clearing his throat gruffly. "That's right, son. We're all here for you, every step of the way."

Jackson managed a small smile, though I could see how drained he was. "Thanks," he said. "All of you. I don't know what I'd do without you lot."

As I watched my family rally around Jackson, offering words of encouragement and love, I felt something stir inside me. A mix of emotions - sadness at seeing my cousin so ill, fear for what the future might hold, but also a deep, abiding love for my family.

As the conversation lulled, Jackson's eyes found mine. There was a look there, an understanding that passed between us. We were members of a club no one ever wants to join.

"So, Beth," he said, his voice softer now. "How are you holding up? Really?"

I felt everyone's eyes turn to me, and I resisted the urge to squirm. "I'm okay," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "You know, taking it day by day."

Jackson nodded. "Yeah, that's about all we can do, isn't it?"

For a moment, we just looked at each other, volumes passing between us without a word being spoken. Then Jackson's face lit up with a spark of his old energy.

"Hey, remember that time at my ninth birthday party when we snuck out to the garden shed and found my dad's old guitar?"

I couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "Oh god, yes! We thought we were going to be the next big rock stars."

"Until he caught us and told us we sounded like a couple of cats fighting in a bag," Jackson added, chuckling weakly.

We fell into reminiscing then, sharing stories and memories. Mum and Aunt Sarah chimed in with embarrassing tales from our childhood, while Dad and Uncle Tom rolled their eyes good-naturedly. Even Meri, who was too young to remember some of the events, got caught up in the laughter.

For a little while, it was like old times. The hospital room faded away, and we were just family, sharing jokes and love and laughter.

But reality had a way of creeping back in. As the afternoon wore on, I could see Jackson getting tired. His responses became slower, his eyes heavy-lidded. A nurse came in to check his vitals, reminding us all too clearly where we were and why.

As we prepared to leave, Jackson caught my hand. "Beth," he said quietly, so only I could hear. "Don't give up, okay? No matter what happens to me, you keep fighting."

I felt tears prick at my eyes. "You too," I whispered back. "We're strong, remember? We're too stubborn to quit."

He managed a weak grin at that. "Damn right we are."

The drive home was quieter than the journey there, but it was a different kind of quiet. Not tense, exactly, but thoughtful. Each of us lost in our own reflections on what we'd seen and heard.

As soon as we got home, I made my way up to my room. I needed some time alone to process everything. Seeing Jackson like that, so weak and yet still trying to be strong for all of us... it had stirred something in me.

I sat at my desk, opening my laptop. Before I knew it, I was back on the organ donation websites I'd been researching. But this time, it felt different. More urgent. More personal.

I read about liver transplants, about the long waiting lists and the desperate need for donors. I read about success stories, about lives saved and families given a second chance. And I read about those who didn't make it in time.

As I scrolled through page after page of information, I felt a sense of purpose growing inside me. This wasn't just about me anymore. It wasn't even just about Jackson. It was about all the people out there waiting, hoping, praying for a chance at life.

I thought about what Nathan had said in the park, about how proud he was of me for thinking of others even in the midst of my own struggle. And I thought about what Jackson had said, about not giving up.

Almost without realising what I was doing, I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a folded piece of paper. My bucket list. I'd started it not long after my diagnosis, a list of things I wanted to do, to see, to experience.

Some of the items were big - travel to Paris, learn to scuba dive, see the Northern Lights. Others were smaller, more personal - tell Nathan I love him — already ticked off, go skydiving, go to a drive-in movie theatre.

I unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on my desk. My eyes scanned down the list, past all the dreams and hopes I'd scribbled down in moments of both optimism and despair.

Then, with a steady hand, I picked up a pen and added a new item at the bottom of the list:

"Become an organ donor."

I stared at the words for a long moment, feeling the weight of them. It wasn't just an item on a list. It was a promise. A commitment. A way to make sure that, whatever happened, some good could come from all of this.

I folded the list back up and tucked it away in my drawer. Then I turned back to my computer, determined to learn everything I could about organ donation. About how to sign up, about the process, about how to talk to my family about my decision.

As the evening light faded outside my window, I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I had a purpose beyond just surviving. I had a way to make a difference, to leave a legacy, no matter what the future held.

And that, I realised, was a pretty amazing thing to add to any bucket list.