We Drew Straws For My Death Chapter 1

My sister and I both had leukemia. Mine was worse.

There was only enough money in our parents' savings to treat one of us, so they decided to draw straws.

I thought it was just a cruel twist of fate, an unbiased hand of destiny. But then I heard them arguing through the thin bedroom door, their voices raw and strained:

"The longer straw went to Norah! She’s the eldest, and she’s the sicker one. We have to treat her first!" my father argued, his voice thick with a desperate logic.

My mother’s voice broke, a jagged, agonizing sound. "We have to treat Grace first! Think about how many times Norah has been sick since she was a little girl!"

"But Norah's body... she’s always hovered right on the edge of death. We can't let her drag Grace down with her!"

I froze in the hallway.

My mother wasn’t wrong. I had been fragile my entire life, constantly slipping from one medical crisis into the next. We used to be a comfortable, middle-class family, but my illness had stripped them of everything, leaving them buried under a mountain of medical debt.

To keep us afloat, my parents each worked three jobs. They pushed themselves to the point of collapse, both of them ending up hospitalized from sheer exhaustion more than once.

Through the crack in the door, I saw my mother cover her face, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. "If we don't save Grace first, I swear I’ll end my own life! I have to save at least one of my girls!"

My father’s voice cracked, a heavy, choked sob. "Helen, you’re putting a knife to my throat."

I didn’t want to be the knife anymore. To save them from making an impossible choice, I spent weeks hoarding my sleeping pills.

…

* * *

My parents didn't know that even without the straws, I would have stepped aside for Grace.

Though she was my younger sister, Grace had always felt like the older one. She accommodated me in everything, always putting my needs before her own. Whenever I was hospitalized, she was the one who stayed by my bedside, tending to my worst moments, cleaning up after me without a single complaint.

Because of me, she turned down her hard-won acceptance letter to Boston University. A girl with a brilliant future ahead of her chose to stay home, working as a remote customer service representative just so she could be near to care for me.

During the dark nights when the pain became too much and I tried to end it, Grace was always there to pull me back from the edge.

She would kneel at my feet, clutching the fabric of my sweatpants, crying until she couldn't breathe.

"Norah, please. I’m begging you, don’t do this."

"If you go, what happens to Mom and Dad? What happens to me?"

"As long as you're here, this family has something to fight for. If you leave, we have nothing left."

My parents, too, would weep at my bedside, their tears hot and heavy on my skin, pleading with me to hold on. They told me to trust that medicine was advancing. They begged me to believe I would get better.

If those tears hadn't burned themselves into my heart, I would have surrendered a long time ago.

From the hallway, I heard the front door click open.

My mother called out toward my room, her voice carrying its usual weary edge:

"Norah, your father and I are heading out to work. Dinner is on the table."

I opened my bedroom door just as they walked out into the humid summer evening. Standing on the threshold, I managed a soft smile and called out after them, "Okay. Stay safe out there, Mom, Dad."

That was my last look at them.

My last time calling them Mom and Dad.

My last smile.

My last goodbye.

After tonight, I would no longer be a burden.

I walked over to the dining table, holding the small amber bottle of sleeping pills tightly in my palm.

On the table sat pan-seared salmon—Grace’s favorite—and garlic green beans, which I loved.

I emptied the pills, crushing them into the warm rice.

I ate. I forced down every bite, swallowing the bitter residue of the medication along with the food.

When I couldn't eat another bite, I dragged myself to my bed and lay down. I didn't even have the strength left to write a note. I simply closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me.

I didn't know how much time had passed when the sound of the front door unlocking woke me—or rather, woke whatever was left of me.

My father’s heavy, exhausted breathing and my mother’s familiar, fretful sigh breathed life back into the quiet house.

Then, my mother saw my empty plate and unwashed fork sitting on the table.

Instantly, her irritation flared. She marched toward my bedroom door, her voice sharp with exhaustion:

"You can't even rinse your own plate? Having leukemia doesn't make you royalty, Norah!"

"Your sister is sick too, and she’s online working all day, yet you can't bother to wash a single dish!"

"You don't think about anyone but yourself. Sometimes I think you're trying to drive me to an early grave."

She muttered as she clattered the dishes in the sink, her movements loud and deliberate, radiating resentment.

I sat up, reaching out to open my bedroom door, only to find my hand passing straight through the wood. My vision blurred as I drifted through the paneling, standing suddenly in the middle of the living room.

That was when I realized I was dead.

"I’m sorry, Mom," I whispered.

But the apology was nothing more than a vapor, leaving no trace in the air.

Grace walked in just then, her face pale but her expression gentle as she tried to soothe our mother. "Mom, Norah probably just wasn't feeling well. You know she usually helps out when she has the strength."