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Today I remembered that I am going to die.

Don't get me wrong, I know everyone will someday. My due date's just a little sooner than most. The funny part is that despite all effort, I don't feel anything about this. Apparently that's the denial speaking, but I'd say my parents are the delisuional ones. Ever since they heard the news, I've been dragged from one consultant to another and been forced to sit there watching them, these people who are so used to being in control, begging, pleading with doctors to do something, anything, that will make their little girl well again. Nearly demanding that some miricle cure be pulled out of the bag. One they know will never come.

It's a sad sight to watch. And it doesn't help the colours surrounding their bodies. The colours I've seen all my life that no-one else seems to notice. They start off so bright and hopeful, often grass-green mixed with rose pink or threads of gold, but by the time we're walking out the door all I see is whirlpools; slow spiralling patterns filled with the dull, livid shades of angry water.

On the ride home I'll see a new idea, possibly the memory of an old contact or the recollection of a pioneer surgeon, drop into one of their minds. A red herring. Then after a short discussion, mum will turn to me and explain her latest plan with the vocabulary of a five-year-old. And the process will begin all over again.

What do they think I am? I may have a tumour the size of a golf ball eating away at my brain, but I'm not stupid!