They wheeled her through the corridors of the regional hospital in a chair… “Where to?” one nurse asked another. “Not a private room, surely? Maybe the general ward?”
I tensed. “Why the general ward if theres a private one available?”
The nurses exchanged a look of such genuine pity that I was utterly baffled. Only later did I learn that private rooms were reserved for the dyingkept out of sight from the others.
“The doctor said private,” repeated the nurse.
I relaxed. And when I finally sank into the bed, a deep peace washed over me, if only because I didnt have to go anywhere, didnt owe anyone anything, and all my responsibilities had vanished. I felt oddly detached from the world, utterly indifferent to whatever was happening in it.
Nothing and no one mattered. Id earned the right to rest. And it was good. Just me, my soul, my lifenothing else. No problems, no chaos, no pressing questions. All that frantic chasing after trivial things seemed so petty compared to Eternity, to Life and Death, to the great unknown ahead…
And thenreal Life bubbled up around me! Who knew it could be so wonderful? Birds singing at dawn, a sunbeam creeping across the wall above my bed, golden leaves waving at me from the tree outside, the deep blue of an autumn sky, the sounds of a waking citycar horns, the click-clack of heels on pavement, the rustle of falling leaves Good Lord, how glorious Life is! And only now did I truly see it.
“Fine, so what?” I told myself. “At least Ive realised it now. And Ive still got a few days left to drink it in, to love it with all my heart.”
This overwhelming sense of freedom and joy needed an outlet, so I turned to Godbecause, lets face it, He was the closest thing to me now.
“Lord!” I rejoiced. “Thank You for letting me see how beautiful Life is, for teaching me to love it. Even if its just before death, at least Ive learned how wonderful it is to be alive!”
A quiet happiness filled me, a mix of serenity, freedom, and something shimmering and weightless. The world hummed and glowed with golden light, pulsing with divine Love. It was everywherethick yet soft, like an ocean wave, saturating the air until even breathing felt slow, heavy, like swallowing liquid light. Everything I saw was bathed in it. I was in Love! And it was like the soaring power of a Bach organ piece mixed with the flight of a violin melody.
The private room, the diagnosis (“acute leukaemia, stage four”), the doctors grim prognosisthey all had perks. The dying got unlimited visitors. My family was advised to call relatives for the funeral, and soon a parade of mournful faces filed in.
I understood their strugglewhat do you say to someone whos dying? Especially when they know it. Their flustered expressions amused me.
I was delighted. When else would I see them all? More than anything, I wanted to share this love for Lifewho wouldnt be happy about that? I cracked jokes, told stories, did my best to lift their spirits.
Thank God, they all laughed, and the farewells unfolded in warmth and cheer. By day three, I was bored of lying down. I started pacing the room, sitting by the window. Thats how the doctor found mepromptly having a meltdown about me being on my feet.
I blinked. “Will it change anything?”
“No,” she admitted, flustered. “But you cant walk.”
“Why not?”
“Your readings are corpse-level. You shouldnt even be alive, let alone upright.”
My supposed expiry datefour dayscame and went. Instead of dying, I devoured sausages and bananas with gusto. I felt great. The doctor, not so much. She was baffled. My tests hadnt budged; my blood was barely pink. Yet there I was, strolling the hallway to watch TV.
I almost felt sorry for her. Love demanded joy, after all.
“Doctor, what would you like these tests to say?”
“Well, at least this.” She scribbled some numbers and letters on a scrap of paper. I had no idea what they meant, but I studied them earnestly. She muttered something and left.
The next morning, she burst in, demanding, “How are you doing this?!”
“Doing what?”
“Your tests! They match what I wrote!”
“Oh! How should I know? Does it even matter?”
They moved me to the general ward. My relatives had said their goodbyes and stopped visiting.
Five other women shared the room, all silently, gloomily, and very busily dying. I lasted three hours. My Love was suffocating. Something had to be done.
I hauled a watermelon from under the bed, sliced it open, and announced, “This cures chemo nausea.”
The scent of fresh snow filled the air. Tentatively, the others drifted over.
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm,” I confirmed, expert-like.
Juicy crunches followed.
“Its working,” murmured the woman by the window, the one on crutches.
“Me too Me too” the others chimed in.
“See?” I nodded smugly. “Reminds me of this one time Oh! Ever heard the joke about?”
By 2 a.m., a nurse stormed in. “Will you lot stop cackling? Youre keeping the whole floor awake!”
Three days later, the doctor hesitantly asked, “Could you switch wards?”
“Why?”
“Everyone in heres improving. The next wards full of serious cases.”
“No!” my roommates shrieked. “She stays.”
So I stayed. Soon, patients from other wards crept in just to chat, laugh, soak it up. I knew why.
Our room was filled with Love. It wrapped around everyone like a golden wave, warm and safe. My favourite was a sixteen-year-old girl in a white headscarf tied at the back, its ends sticking out like bunny ears. Lymph node cancer. At first, I thought shed forgotten how to smile. A week later, I saw itshy, sweet. When she announced her meds were working, we threw a feast. The on-duty doctor gaped at us.
“Thirty years here,” he muttered, “and Ive never seen this.” He walked out. We collapsed laughing.
I read, wrote poems, gazed out the window, chatted, wandered the hallsloving everything: books, jelly, my neighbours, the car outside, the old tree. They injected me with vitamins. Had to inject *something*. The doctor barely spoke, just side-eyed me. Three weeks in, she muttered, “Your haemoglobins 20 points above normal. Stop increasing it.”
She seemed cross. Logically, shed misdiagnosed mebut that was impossible, and she knew it.
Once, she confessed, “I cant confirm your diagnosis. Youre recovering without treatment. That doesnt happen.”
“Then what *is* my diagnosis?”
“Havent decided yet,” she whispered, leaving.
At discharge, she sighed. “Shame youre leaving. Weve still got so many critical cases.”
Our whole ward was discharged. That month, the death rate dropped by 30%.
Life went on. But my perspective had shiftedlike viewing the world from above, everything in a new scale. The meaning of life was so simple, so obvious.
Just learn to love. Then your possibilities are endless, your wishes grantedif theyre born of love. No lies, no envy, no grudges, no ill will. Simple. And impossibly hard.
Because its true: God is Love. You just have to remember in time.
