All is well, but dying is exhausting…

The person I angered has forgiven me. He came home, and we ate together as if nothing had happened. This morning I laid my head against his knee and played with my hair. He held me, and I laid my head on his shoulder.

I don’t have an infection. Why my breathing is noisy is inexplicable to me. I keep leaking fluid and wet myself too.

My specialist is in charge. My family doctors completely failed me.

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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