IT WAS THE same thing every day. I sat in a chair, the nurses hooked me up, told me to relax, and then left.

They used to make conversation, and I used to respond. But as I died, the conversation did, too. The sessions turned silent, the nurses quiet. They knew. They knew I was going to die soon. From their sympathetic stares to the way they squeezed my hands whenever I coughed, I knew they knew.

But there was some sort of peace, knowing I'd die soon. At least, if I died I would have to stop coming to these sessions. The metallic taste would leave my mouth, my appetite restored, those sleepless nights turning to sleep filled ones.

But I knew it was all just a dream. My hair wouldn't come back, I wouldn't be able to eat more than a few small servings again.

So I sat there, in that purple chair, staring at the other patients in the gray light. They were all so young. Some looked only a few years younger than me, while others looked to be seven or eight years old.

I could only begin to understand their suffering.

It'd been two years since my treatment first started, and the side effects had... Numbed, over time. Be it, it was still there, but it hurt less. It would never stop hurting, I knew, but my body had grown accustomed to it, to the cease in appetite and the ache of my butt as I sat still in that plush, purple chair.

They, the nurses, would flush my port, every now and then. As the medicine ran back into my blood with more force, the nausea rolled in, too. The gut wrenching feeling like someone was punching my stomach repeatedly as my small meals rose in my throat, it would come, and I could do nothing about it. Sometimes I vomited, sometimes I didn't. It didn't matter. They would come, clean up the mess, check my port and my vitals, give a quick word and leave.

The patients would leave, too. Some had been there since my first session, others would leave and never come back.

The knowledge of whether they'd died or lived wasn't given to us.

My family would come a few times. They would hug me, ask me if I was alright.

I never responded.

Do I  look alright?

I didn't have the energy to speak, to give any reaction. The battle was tiring, the fight helpless.

They would say they loved me, that they were here with me, that they understood.

Like hell did they understand. No, they couldn't understand what I was going through. They couldn't taste the metal. They would never feel the nausea, the head aches. The numbness.

Their goodbyes never meant anything. They were all generic, spoken every visit.

We love you.

Stay strong.

We're so proud of you.

The phrases were all said to every person that had cancer. They were meaningless, too used up. It wasn't like I wanted them to say something like, "Oh Estelle, how brave your journey has been, you have fared far too much, and I believe that this tumour will cease to exist." I just wanted to feel supported, like my disease wasn't the only thing about me. It was all they saw, and I just wanted them to love me, and not my disease.

Still, two years and nothing changed. It was the same view, the same chair, the same feelings, the same goodbyes. It wasn't like I expected something to change.

But it wasn't like I was expecting to be diagnosed with cancer, either.