They gave me only 8 minutes.

The doctor gave me only 8 minutes.

8 minutes to think about how I ended up in this place.

8 minutes to look at my mother’s beautifully stained eyes instead of the fluorescent lights.

8 minutes to look at my father’s sincerely sad smile instead of the IV attached to my arm.

8 minutes to listen to them weep delicately instead of the hostile heart monitor.

8 minutes to hold them tight instead of the crumpled bed sheets.

8 minutes to tell them it truly is going to be okay.

8 minutes to tell them I am finally ready.

The doctor gave me only 8 minutes.

8 minutes to say goodbye.