30 hours. That's how long I had to live. The doctors had warned me that this day would come about 3 years ago. But I didn't believe them. They've said it before, several times in the last 3 months, and yet it never did happen. But this time, everything was real. Reality had fianlly hit me. I was going to die. That was it. That was the last time I would ever doubt myself again. People surrounded the outside of my hospital room. But no, not my dad. He could care less. I'm only 17, geez Dad. The least you could have done was call me or send me an email or something. But I didn't know until last week. He had disapeared. The last someone ever saw of him, he was leaving Los Angeles, on a plane to Chile. Didn't make any sense. My parents had gotten divorced when I was 12, right about when I got sick. The disease then spread rapidly throughout my body, making me feel weaker and weaker with each step of the way. I have a disease called Ebola, a highly deadly disease. It can't be cured. I didn't know I had it. But why me? I'm just a simple girl from Idaho, who lives on a potato farm, and practically live off potatoes. We don't grow them anymore, because my dad was the farmer, and, as you all know, he left. He was our last hope at getting money in for my insanly high medical bills. But he left. And I'm kinda glad.