The Waiting Room of Life

What do I even write? I feel my life being drained out of me one agonizing day at a time. I'm always waiting. Waiting for a new test result. Waiting for a new doctor. Waiting for an answer, any answer. Tell me you can cure me, tell me I'm at death's door. I no longer care about the answer. But having an answer has become my white whale. And I shall chase it until I can chase no more.

I may no longer be a child, but I am far too young to be so broken. Day by day my body descends further into decay. Each breath becomes harder. Each step seemingly more impossible. The descent is slow, you hardly notice day-by-day. But over the months and years it becomes clear the most basic of tasks have become more impossible over time. The simple act of leaving the confines of my home has become a Herculean task. My body has failed me, and I have far too many years remaining to live this way.

Time has become irrelevant. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Decades. I can no longer tell one from the next. It's simply one long waiting room. I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for anymore. For the day to finally catch my white whale? To wake up one day miraculously cured? For death to break down my door?