I have looked back on my life many times, and when I do I see a roller-coaster of strong emotions combined with the faded memories of a long life; rain, anger, a small doll, family, happiness, care-free, love, broken glass, cloudless skies, sadness, a painting, a smile and laughter. I lived a full life.
I think back on the memories that haven’t yet faded as I sit in this dreary room. The horribly soft mattress below reminds me constantly that I have been here for a week now and that stench of chemicals that always seem to be masking the under-current of death, urine and faeces no longer bothers me. The shrill intermitted beeps crying from all the machines that surround me ensure that the bags under my eyes grow deeper and darker whilst my mind tries desperately to shut down. I do not want to die in this hospital.
The nurses have been friendly enough although there is one who is particularly rude to me. I must have done something to insult her at some point but my drug addled brain cannot remember such an occurrence. I never seem to actually see my doctor though. It seems to me that the nurses treat me and that he gets paid to look good and do surgeries…
This reminds me why I am here. I am to go into theatre tonight to have more tumours removed. You see this disease has slowly been eating away at my body for the last four years. It has caused pain and misery and heartfelt dread. It has taken away my pride, disfigured my beauty and aged me beyond what I care to mention. This is the life of a woman living with cancer. A woman who has watched her hair fall out in great big clumps, a woman who has sat and watched doctors pump her full of a poison that may or may not help, a woman whose life has been destroyed by a simple mutation.
And as this disease consumes me, it comes to define my life. I plan my life around chemo sessions and choose my place of residence based on how close it is to the nearest hospital. There is always ginger beer in the fridge, the dagga cookies await my return home and there is a bucket next to my bed. My life is not a life; it is a compilation of feeling alternately sick and poisoned, it is an up and down emotional fuck up and it is lonely. Oh so lonely.
I’m starting to get anxious. My operation was supposed to start about an hour ago and this horrible gown is so scratchy. Where is my doctor?
He’s told me this operation will help. He’s said that it will lessen the pain and help return my life to some form of normality. As if normal was an option for me but his concern is admirable. He’s actually not too bad as far as doctors go. He’s been friendly and gentle when on rare occasions he has graced me with his presence. Where is he?
One of the nurses is walking towards us. Why is she frowning like that? This doesn’t look good.
“Your operation has been cancelled. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
When the doctor finally did come to talk to me all I heard was a slurred mumbo-jumbo of words that made no sense to me and slowly faded into the background. He didn’t need to tell me, I already knew. We had reached the end of the line, run out of options. This was to be the end of my fight. This was what my life had amounted to. These were to be my final couple moments on this earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment