She was wheeled through the winding corridors of the regional hospital in a chair…
“Where to?” one nurse whispered to another. “Not a private room, surely? Maybe the general ward?”
I felt a pang of worry. “Why the general ward when theres a private one available?”
The nurses glanced at her with such genuine pity that I was stunned. Only later did she learnprivate rooms were for the dying, spared from the eyes of others.
“The doctor said private,” the nurse repeated.
I relaxed. And when I finally lay on the bed, a strange peace settled over me. No more obligations, no more urgency. All responsibility had dissolved. The world drifted away, its noise irrelevant. Nothing mattered.
For once, I had the right to rest. Just me, my soul, my life. The endless chase for trivial things seemed laughable against the vastness of eternity, against Life and Death, against the unknown waiting beyond.
Thenreal Life surged around me. Birdsong at dawn, sunlight creeping across the wall, golden leaves waving through the window, the deep blue of autumn skies. The hum of the waking citycar horns, clicking heels on pavement, rustling leaves. God, how beautiful it all was! And only now did I truly see it.
“So what?” I told myself. “At least Ive seen it. And I have a few days left to drink it in, to love it with all my heart.”
This surge of joy and freedom demanded release. So I turned to Godcloser now than ever.
“Lord!” I laughed. “Thank You for letting me see how wonderful Life is, for teaching me to love it. Even if its at the end, Ive learned how good it is to live!”
A quiet happiness filled me, a harmony of calm and soaring lightness. The world shimmered with golden light, thick with divine Love. It pulsed through the air, heavy and honey-slow, like breathing underwater. Everything glowed.
I Loved. It was Bachs organ thundering and a violins flight in one.
A private room, a diagnosis of “acute leukaemia, stage four,” the doctors certainty of my bodys irreversible failurethese had perks. The dying could have visitors anytime. Relatives were told to gather for the funeral, and a procession of grieving faces came to say goodbye.
I understood their strugglewhat do you say to someone who knows theyre dying? Their awkwardness amused me.
I was glad to see them all! And more than anything, I wanted to share this love for Lifehow could anyone not be happy with that? I joked, told stories, made them laugh.
By Gods grace, they roared with laughter. The farewells were joyful.
By the third day, I was bored of bedrest. I walked the room, sat by the window. The doctor found me there and panicked.
“You cant be up!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It wont change anything.”
“Exactly. So why not?”
She hesitated. “Your bloodwork is you shouldnt even be alive, let alone walking.”
The four-day deadline passed. I wasnt dying. I devoured bananas and crisps, perfectly content. The doctor was baffled. My blood was pale pink, yet I wandered to the lounge to watch telly.
I pitied her. Love demanded joy for others.
“Doctor, what numbers *should* my bloodwork show?”
She scribbled something on a slip of paper. I didnt understand but studied it carefully. She muttered and left.
At nine the next morning, she burst in.
“How are you *doing* this?!”
“Doing what?”
“Your bloodworkit matches what I wrote!”
I shrugged. “No idea. Does it matter?”
They moved me to the general ward. Relatives had said their goodbyes; no one visited now.
Five women shared the room, all facing the wall, silently, grimly dying. I lasted three hours. Love was suffocating. Something had to be done.
I rolled a watermelon from under the bed, sliced it open, and announced, “This helps with chemo nausea.”
The scent of fresh snow filled the room. Hesitantly, the others crept to the table.
“Really works?”
“Mmhmm,” I said knowingly.
Crunching followed.
“It *does*,” murmured the one by the window on crutches.
“Me too and me”
Satisfied, I nodded. “Had a similar thing happen once Know the joke about it?”
At 2 a.m., a nurse glared in. “Will you lot *stop* laughing? The whole wards awake!”
Three days later, the doctor approached meekly.
“Could you switch rooms?”
“Why?”
“Everyone here is improving. Next door has critical cases.”
“No!” my roommates cried. “She stays.”
So I stayed. Soon, other patients drifted in just to chat, to laugh. I knew why. Love lived here. It wrapped everyone in warmth, made them glow.
My favourite was a sixteen-year-old girl in a white headscarf tied at the nape, its ends sticking out like a bunnys ears. Lymph node cancer. At first, I thought shed forgotten how to smile. A week later, I saw itshy, lovely. When she said treatment was working, we threw a feast. The night doctor gaped.
“Thirty years here,” he muttered. “Never seen this.”
He left. We howled at his expression.
I read, wrote poems, watched the world outside. Loved everythingbooks, juice, the old tree, the car in the car park. They injected me with vitaminshad to inject *something*. The doctor avoided me, shooting odd looks.
After three weeks, she muttered, “Your haemoglobins 20 units above normal. Stop improving.”
She seemed angry. Logically, shed misdiagnosed me. But that was impossibleand she knew it.
Once, she confessed, “I cant justify your diagnosis. Youre recovering without treatment. That doesnt happen.”
“So what *is* my diagnosis?”
“Havent figured that out yet,” she whispered, leaving.
At discharge, she sighed. “Wish you werent going. So many still need help.”
Our room emptied. Ward mortality dropped 30% that month.
Life went on. But my perspective had shiftedlike viewing the world from above, everything in clearer scale. Lifes meaning was simple:
Learn to love. Then limits vanish, wishes come trueif those wishes are born of love. No lies, no envy, no spite. Simple. And impossibly hard.
Because its trueGod is Love. You just have to remember in time.
