They wheeled her chair down the corridors of the county hospital… “Where to?” one nurse asked another. “Maybe not a private roommaybe general?”
I panicked. “Why general when theres a private one available?”
The nurses looked at her with such sincere pity that I was utterly baffled. Only later did she learn that private rooms were for the dyingkept away from the others.
“The doctor said private,” repeated the nurse.
I relaxed. And when I finally settled into the bed, a strange peace washed over me, simply because I didnt have to go anywhere, didnt owe anyone anything, and all responsibility had evaporated. I felt detached from the world, entirely indifferent to whatever was happening in it.
Nothing and no one interested me. Id earned the right to rest. And it felt good. Alone with myself, my soul, my life. Just me and me. Gone were the problems, the fuss, the big questions. All that running around for trivial things seemed laughably small compared to eternityto life and death, to the unknown waiting for us.
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 through the window, the deep blue of autumn skies, the hum of the waking citycar horns, the click-clack of heels on pavement, the whisper of falling leaves. Goodness, how marvelous life was! And Id only just realised it.
“Oh well,” I told myself. “At least I figured it out. And Ive still got a couple of days to enjoy it, to love it with all my heart.”
This overwhelming sense of freedom and happiness demanded an outlet, so I turned to Godwho, at this point, felt closer than anyone.
“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 live!”
A serene joy filled mepeace, freedom, and a strange, soaring lightness. The world shimmered with golden light, as if bathed in divine love. I felt its energy pulsing around me, thick yet soft, like an ocean wave. It saturated everything, even the air, which seemed to flow into my lungs like slow, rippling water. Everything I saw glowed with this golden light. I loved! And it was like the power of Bachs organ music fused with the soaring melody of a violin.
A private room and a diagnosis of “acute leukaemia, stage four”along with the doctors verdict that my body was beyond repairhad their perks. Visitors were allowed anytime for the dying. Family were told to call loved ones for the funeral, and a parade of mournful relatives filed in to say goodbye.
I understood their strugglewhat do you say to someone whos dying? Especially when they know it. Their bewildered faces amused me.
I was delightedwhen else would I have seen them all? More than anything, I wanted to share this newfound love for lifehow could anyone not be happy about that? I entertained them as best I could: jokes, stories, whatever worked.
Thank heavens, everyone laughed, and the farewells unfolded in an atmosphere of joy. By day three, I was bored of lying down. I started walking around the room, sitting by the window. Thats how the doctor found mepromptly launching into a fit about how I shouldnt be up.
I blinked. “Will it change anything?”
“No,” she admitted, flustered. “But you cant walk.”
“Why not?”
“Your bloodworks cadaverous. You shouldnt even be alive, let alone standing.”
The four-day maximum passed. I wasnt dyingjust cheerfully munching sausage and bananas. I felt great. The doctor, however, did not. She was baffled. My blood remained a faint pink trickle, yet Id started wandering to the lounge to watch telly.
I almost pitied her. Love demanded spreading joy.
“Doctor, what *should* my bloodwork look like?”
“Well, something like this.” She scribbled letters and numbers on a scrap of paper. I hadnt a clue what it meant but studied it gravely. She muttered something and left.
At nine the next morning, she burst in. “How are you *doing* this?!”
“Doing what?”
“Your bloodwork! Its exactly what I wrote!”
“Ah! How should I know? Does it even matter?”
They moved me to a general ward. The relatives had finished their goodbyes and stopped visiting.
Five other women shared the room. They lay facing the wall, silently and grimly dying. I lasted three hours. My love was suffocating. Action was required. I rolled a watermelon from under the bed, heaved it onto the table, sliced it open, and announced, “Watermelon eases chemo nausea.”
The scent of fresh snow filled the air. Tentatively, the others drifted over.
“Really works?”
“Mm-hmm,” I confirmed, expert-like.
Juicy crunches followed.
“It *does* help,” said the woman by the window, who used crutches.
“Me too… Me too…”
“Swhat I thought,” I nodded smugly. “Reminds me of this one time… Oh, and have you heard the joke about?”
At 2 a.m., a nurse popped her head in, scowling. “Are you lot *ever* going to stop cackling? The whole wards awake!”
Three days later, the doctor hesitantly asked, “Could you… maybe switch rooms?”
“Why?”
“Everyone in heres improving. Next doors full of critical cases.”
“No!” my roommates chorused. “She stays.”
So I stayed. Soon, patients from other wards drifted in just to chat and laugh. I knew why. Love lived in our room. It wrapped everyone in golden warmth, soothing and safe. My favourite was a sixteen-year-old girl in a white headscarf tied at the nape. The loose ends stuck out like bunny ears. Lymph node cancer, and at first, I thought shed forgotten how to smile. A week later, I saw itshy, utterly charming. When she announced her meds were working and she was recovering, we threw a party, piling the table with food. The on-call doctor gaped at us.
“Thirty years here,” he said faintly. “First time Ive seen this.”
He turned and left. We howled laughing at his expression. It was glorious.
I read books, wrote poems, gazed out the window, chatted, strolled the hallsloving everything I saw: the book, the juice carton, my neighbour, the car outside, the old tree. They gave me vitamin shotshad to stick *something* in me. The doctor barely spoke, just side-eyed me when passing.
Three weeks in, she muttered, “Your haemoglobins 20 points above a healthy persons. Stop… improving.”
She seemed cross. Logically, shed misdiagnosed mebut that was impossible, and she knew it.
Once, she complained, “I cant confirm your diagnosis. Youre recovering, but were not treating you. Thats not how this works.”
“So what *is* my diagnosis?”
“Havent figured that out yet,” she muttered, walking off.
At discharge, she admitted, “Ill miss you. Weve still got so many critical cases.”
Our room emptiedall discharged. Ward mortality dropped 30% that month.
Life went on. But my perspective had shifted. It was like viewing the world from aboveeverything looked different. And lifes meaning turned out to be absurdly simple.
Just learn to love. Then possibilities become endless, wishes come true (if you wish with love), and youll never lie, envy, resent, or wish harm. So simple. So hard.
Because its true: God is love. You just have to remember in time.
