I felt a little anxious. I was almost seven months pregnant. Mom and Dad had discussed having me delivered by cesarean section. At that point, life and death were no longer my decision.
The doctor told Mom not to get out of bed and to urinate and defecate in bed, otherwise the baby might not survive. The doctor's tone was stern.
Mom asked, puzzled, "Didn't they say the fetus was healthy? How could it suddenly become so serious?"
She became agitated, "I followed the doctor's instructions to care for the baby and took every injection to maintain it. How could he not survive?"
I was my sister's hope. The doctor said I was never going to survive in the first place and that medication was used to force it.
Mom was furious and scolded me again. She called me a loser and a worthless person. But soon she had no time for me.
My sister fell ill and was admitted to the ICU. But Mom, despite the doctor's advice, got out of bed. My parents watched my sister through the glass door. Mom was grief-stricken and her grief directly affected me, but I felt only annoyance. After all, I was just an innocent baby. I didn’t want to live for my sister.