Deathbed

Perhaps I have become so preoccupied with facing my own death that I have forgotten to live………

Imagining the scent of roses and smell of formalin isn’t easy for me. I wake up every morning and thank my lucky stars that I am still breathing and anticipate as well that any second from now I am bound to die in a not-so-painful death. Leukemia is taking my strength and my youth--- a piece of me I can never retrieve even if I breathe as fast as one million cpm. This is a hard truth that I have to swallow at a very young age.

Even though I am cooped up in my hospital room. Marnie always blubbers about how Anne gets herself engaged with a lawyer and Cynthia, who now dates the quarterback and the cutest guy in Bayville High, transforms into the most envied creature in the planet. At least her visits make my little word less monotonous (monotonous means uninteresting or boring as a result of being repetitive and unvaried) and less confined.

Not that I pity myself too much but I used to be a pretty girl, with pretty blond hair and rosy cheeks. But the plague has taken the best from me. Chemo has made me bald while the disease has eaten my flesh. I cannot distinguish if I look more human-like or skeleton-like. But I have gained a few pounds over the last few months…..at least it masks my impending appointment with the grim reaper. Life at the hospital isn’t so bad; people wearing white give me a glimpse of what my destination will appear to be (at least that’s what I imagine heaven would look like). Aside from the daily visits of doctors and nurses, there is my daily dose of the Oprah Winfrey Show. TV is my only window to the outside world. I am actually thankful that I am still alive while hundreds of children from Africa are starving to death but a part of me still longs to be a normal kid. Free to walk, free to feel the breeze against my face, free to stroll by the scene and taste the morning. I do wish that before I die, I can once more experience the best things the world has to offer. But for a terminally ill person, even the simplest wishes requires a high price to pay. You know what? We are all going to die in the end anyway, so why delay? Yes, I am prepared to die…..until he has knock at my door and offered to have my vital signs taken.

He stands there, looking at me with eyes luminous and transfixed. At first, I thought it was pity. I get that all the time. With my balding head and pale complexion, who won’t? I know people talking behind my back, saying that I am hopeless but at least I am trying to survive.

He is silent while taking significant information from my almost-skeleton frame. He did not introduce his name but I read from his nameplate that his name is Rio Nicholson. He must be new in this hospital, I have never seen him before. After he has completed taking everything, he asks me if I am feeling any pain. I say no. but actually, I am in pain……it hurts when people see you as a diseased and hopeless case but not seeing what’s beneath the sunken eyes and hospital gown. I feel churning in my stomach as I watch him leave my room. Perhaps he pities me so much. I can see it in his eyes.

The next day, Rio visits my hospital room again. Now, he is on a cheery mood. I found out that he is still a nursing student and that today is his second day of duty. I do not really understand but something about him is vaguely familiar. It is like I already have met him in years before I can’t remember when. He stays with me during his entire shift except when he is called by his instructor to “chart” my data. Perhaps he pities me so too much that he has decided to stand vigil to monitor if I am still alive.

As the weeks passed, Rio and I became close. Although he isn’t on duty in the hospital, he finds time to visit me there. He always tells me how difficult school is while I lecture him to value life because death is as instantaneous (instantaneous means occurring immediately or almost immediately) as it is rumored to be. Days go on and I start to have feelings for him. I may be weak but I certainly am not made of stone. But I have to suppress my feelings. I have to get things back where they belong. I am dying and that’s all there is to it.

To accomplish my plan, I have to appear detached and withdrawn. I have to make him feel that I hate seeing visitors and talking to him makes me feel tired. I also have to appear angry and temperamental. I was great actress back in junior high. I can easily push him aside.

My plan was great success. As months passed, his visits became infrequent (to my satisfaction and to my dismay). What I am doing isn’t easy but I have to do it….for his own good and to appease my gnawing conscience. Sometimes he sends me cards but I often do not read them and file them instead in a bedside cabinet. One day, perhaps it is by fate that I am able to open a card that stands out from the rest. It has been dated a month ago. As I read the card, tears start streaming down my eyes. The card says:

Dearest Abby,

Thank you for giving me a short glimpse of what heaven really is. I know you sense that I look familiar. We played when we were younger when our moms joined a leukemia support group. I choose not to undergo treatments and chemotherapy. I bargained to God that if I ever see you again and be with you for a while, I am prepared to die. My health is now failing. I can’t visit you anymore. I might even be dead the moment you read this card. Death is just the next adventure and I am now prepared to get on with it because I already tasted the best thing the world has to offer--- you.

Rio

As I finish reading the tiny card with smudges of ink all over it, I began to pray earnestly. I can’t remember the last time I prayed but that very moment, I surrender. I thank God for giving me what I ask for, the best thing that life has to offer--- love. Now, I am truly prepared to face death.

--Love this story... But I forgot who wrote it... but I was inspired of this...--