**Diary Entry October 12th**
She was wheeled down the corridors of the Royal Hospital in London in a chair… “Where to?” one nurse asked another. “Should we put her in a shared ward or a private one?”
I grew uneasy. “Why shared if theres a private one available?”
The nurses looked at her with such genuine pity that I was stunned. Only later did I learn that private rooms were reserved for the dyingkept apart so the others wouldnt see.
“The doctor said private,” the nurse repeated.
I relaxed. And when I finally lay in bed, a strange peace settled over me. No more obligations, no more responsibilities. I was untethered, indifferent to the world outside. Nothing and no one mattered. For the first time, I had the right to rest. And it felt good. Just me, my soul, my life. No problems, no hurry, no grand questions. All the trivial pursuits of the day seemed laughable next to the vastness of eternity, life, deathwhatever lay beyond.
And then, suddenly, life roared back. How had I never noticed the birds singing at dawn? The sunlight creeping across the wall above my bed? The golden leaves waving at me from the tree outside, the deep blue of the autumn sky, the hum of the waking citycar horns, clicking heels on pavement, the rustle of falling leaves. Good Lord, how beautiful life was! And Id only just realised it.
“Better late than never,” I told myself. “At least I know now. And I still have a few days left to love it with all my heart.”
This overwhelming joy needed an outlet, so I turned to Godcloser to me now than anyone. “Thank You,” I whispered. “For letting me see how wonderful life is, even if its just before the end. At least now I know what it means to truly live.”
A quiet happiness filled me, a mix of serenity, freedom, and something luminous. The world shimmered with golden light, as though love itself had thickened the air, making each breath slow and heavy. Everything I saw pulsed with that energy. I loveddeeply, wildly. It was like the swell of an organ in a cathedral, or the soaring note of a violin.
The private room, the diagnosisacute leukaemia, stage fourhad its perks. The dying were allowed unlimited visitors. Relatives were told to gather for the funeral, and soon, a stream of grieving faces filed in.
I understood their discomfort. What do you say to someone who knows theyre dying? Their awkwardness amused me. I was just glad to see them all one last time. More than anything, I wanted to share this love for lifehow could anyone not be happy knowing that? I cracked jokes, told stories. Soon, the room was laughing. Goodbyes shouldnt be grim.
By the third day, I was bored of lying down. I wandered the room, sat by the window. When the doctor found me, she nearly had a fit. “You cant be walking!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It wont change anything,” she admitted, flustered.
“Exactly.”
“But your bloodworkits barely human. You shouldnt even be alive, let alone up and about.”
The four days theyd given me passed. I wasnt dying. I was devouring sandwiches and bananas, feeling perfectly fine. The doctor was baffled. My blood was still faintly pink, yet here I was, watching telly in the hall.
She looked so lost. Love demanded joy, so I asked, “Doctor, what would you *like* my bloodwork to say?”
She scribbled something on a notepad. I didnt understand it, but I studied it solemnly. She muttered something and left.
The next morning, she burst in. “How are you doing this?!”
“Doing what?”
“Your bloodworkit matches what I wrote!”
I just shrugged. “No idea. Does it matter?”
They moved me to a shared ward. The relatives had said their goodbyes; no one visited now.
Five other women shared the room. They faced the walls, silently, grimly 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 helps with chemo nausea.”
The scent of fresh snow filled the air. Slowly, the others crept to the table.
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” I said, authoritative.
The watermelon crunched under eager teeth.
“It works,” murmured the woman by the window, the one with crutches.
“And me… and me…”
I nodded, satisfied. “Knew it. Oh! Heard the one about the oncologist and the priest?”
By 2 a.m., a nurse stormed in. “Will you lot *ever* stop laughing? The whole wards awake!”
Three days later, the doctor hesitantly asked, “Could you… move to another room?”
“Why?”
“Everyone in here is improving. The next ward has critical cases.”
“No!” my roommates shouted. “She stays.”
So I stayed. Soon, patients from other wards drifted in, just to chat, to laugh. I knew why. Our room was filled with lovea golden warmth that wrapped around everyone, easing their fears.
My favourite was a sixteen-year-old girl from Yorkshire, a white scarf knotted at her nape, the ends sticking out like rabbit ears. Lymphoma. At first, I thought she never smiled. A week later, I saw itshy, radiant. When she said her treatment was working, we threw a feast. The night doctor gaped at us. “Thirty years here, and Ive never seen this.” He left, shaking his head.
I read books, wrote poems, watched the world outside. I loved every bit of itthe novels, the juice, the woman in the next bed, the old tree swaying in the wind. I got vitamin injectionsthey had to do *something*. The doctor avoided me, shooting odd glances. Finally, she muttered, “Your haemoglobins 20 points above normal. Stop… improving.”
She seemed almost angry. Logically, she mustve misdiagnosed me. But that was impossible, and she knew it.
Once, she confessed, “I cant confirm your diagnosis. Youre healing, but were not treating you. That doesnt happen.”
“What *is* my diagnosis?”
“I havent figured that out yet,” she whispered.
When I was discharged, she sighed. “Shame youre leaving. Weve got so many sick patients.”
Our whole ward had recovered. Mortality rates in the unit dropped by 30% that month.
Life went on. But my perspective had shifted. It was like seeing the world from aboveeverything looked smaller, simpler. The meaning of life? Easy.
Learn to love. Then, suddenly, everything becomes possible. Every wish grantedif its made with love. No lies, no envy, no spite. So simple. So impossibly hard.
Because its true: God *is* love. You just have to remember in time.
