It is said that cigarettes are killers that travel in packs. Such a staunch conviction perceptibly roots from escapades of cigarette smoking, and my rationale is prototypical. I tried to quit smoking by telling myself I just didn’t want to smoke, but I didn’t believe it myself. The pleasure it gave me as a smoker seemed gratifying and sensual. Here I am now, lying on a fraught bed in an accustomed room labeled “330A”. The milieu is quite a mind-numbing span with walls so dull that they seem to express my misery through their pale vacuity. The floor as it appears, is customarily inhibited with patients linked from wealthy situates disbursing their nearing moments, awaiting their demise. I further recall overhearing someone once terming this section as “the last phase”. I am a patient suffering from the final stage of lung cancer on this floor. Evidently, they are all perceptive of my nix stipulation; nevertheless these ‘white dressed familiars’ struggle to negotiate their patient’s survival.
It all began almost a year ago. I was encountering substantial coughing and was visiting my family doctor repeatedly at his clinic. The doctor directed me to conduct specified blood tests since my cough had been prolonging for a long time. The results of my tests concluded my immediate departure to the hospital. After some more momentous tests, I was assured of my nearing fate and specified estimated months to my eradication. The ‘Second Stage of Lung Cancer’ explicated my physicians and I was agitated when they further clarified my narrow chances of survival. The feeling I tell you, could have outweighed any other emotion that could possibly exist. It was me whose execution had been sentenced, and plainly it was awfully difficult to digest. My therapies went on, but it seemed that even these mediations and machines had given up on me. Eventually I became more accepting of my circumstances and began to formulate my own diplomacy.
By nature, I am the sort of person who does not accept any sort of setback as far as my life is concerned. Days kept passing by and the curious solitary inside me explored every possible cancer related webpage on the Internet. Calls after calls went through, numbers being scratched over on paper, and at times similar numbers hastily being repeated. One thing was cryptic; I felt no unusual from the inside. I was neither in pain nor was I sick, yet fruitless thoughts constantly delimited my mind. Nonetheless, it made me apprehend of what an important role human brain plays in scheming every aspect of the body. Indulging in the art of the brain system and its technicalities, I came across a strange functioning called the ‘brain erasure’. The webpage did not explain much but gave a general prospect, explaining the removal of any unwanted memories inside a human brain. The idea seemed quiet perilous yet appealing to a character like me. Spontaneously, I scheduled an appointment with the head physician of the department to discuss the prospects of the therapy and my relevance to it. After the doctor thoroughly explained me the practice, it seemed quiet like the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. My reminiscence would be erased; all that had to do with me being a patient of cancer and a devotee to smoking would vanish, after this eerie formula. At first it sounded quiet daunting. I had yet not revealed to my family or friends of me being a victim of cancer, nor did I enlighten them of my plans undergoing brain erasure.
Reading the brain erasure manual my doctor provided further specifications, which revealed that the therapy would last just six to eight hours and bears no possible side effects. After all the substantial facts, I became content with the therapy. It was not an easy decision, but I followed what my circumstances led me to. My doctors were now the only liaisons. They strictly instructed me to discard every cigarette or packs in my possession to prevent the possibility of them becoming mementos. The key idea of the operation was to expunge specific memories in my brain that stockpile my affiliation as a smoker and consequently a lung cancer patient. I would wake up where I would be no longer a smoker nor would I recognize my self as a cancer patient.
I was scheduled for my ‘brain erasure’ therapy two days later. I primed up for it, since the therapy would at least allow me to live my restricted countable days in serenity. It would be a fresh start, with of course no escape from my forthcoming demise. At least I would live capitalizing my days free of any traumas or any miseries. Whilst disposing my very last pack of cigarettes, I cursed it until I developed a very odd perception of cigarettes. Sure, these cigarettes are killers traveling in packs, but at least the health signs on the pack warn you before they eat you up from the inside. As a great author puts it “The greatest ignorance is to reject something you know nothing about”. I realized that at least cigarettes apprise human beings before they harm them, contrasting ‘us’ who just wisp them off and turn them into ashes. Tears from my eyes glided to my cheeks, I began envying cigarettes. In a few minutes I would be departing for my ‘psychotherapy’. I know my eventual health stipulation would soon set me out to a dreary room in a hospital where I would be recalling everything, but at least it would allow me to live the interlude in merry. It appears as if I would be existent in my dreams for an elfin period until I wake up. I can visualize my friends and family surrounding my remorseful bed, expressing regrets and concerns and my writing would be recapping my not so long, unorthodox voyage.