They wheeled her down the corridors of the regional hospital in a chair… “Where to?” one nurse asked another. “Maybe not a private roomperhaps the general ward?”
I grew anxious. “Why the general ward when a private ones 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 apart so the others wouldnt have to see.
“The doctor said private,” the nurse repeated.
I relaxed. And once I was on the bed, I felt a strange peace, simply because there was nowhere else to go, no one left to answer to, no responsibilities weighing me down. The world around me faded into irrelevancenone of it mattered anymore. Nothing and no one held my interest. I had earned the right to rest, and it felt good. Just me, alone with my soul, my life. Only *me*. All the problems, the rush, the pressing questionsgone. The endless chase after trivial things seemed laughable compared to eternity, to life and death, to the great unknown ahead.
And thenreal life surged around me. The singing of birds at dawn, sunlight creeping across the wall above my bed, golden leaves waving from a tree outside, the deep blue of autumn sky, the hum of a waking citycar horns, the click of heels on pavement, the whisper of falling leaves. Good Lord, how wonderful life was! And only now did I truly understand it.
“Fine,” I told myself. “But I *have* understood. And Ive still got a few days left to savour it, to love it with my whole heart.”
This rush of freedom and joy demanded release, so I turned to Godcloser to me now than anyone.
“Thank you,” I whispered, giddy. “Thank you for letting me see how beautiful life is, for teaching me to love it. Even if its at the end, Ive learned how glorious it is to be alive!”
A quiet happiness settled over meserene, free, weightless. The world shimmered with golden light, thrumming with divine love. It was everywhere, thick yet soft, like an ocean wave. Even the air felt heavy, slow to fill my lungs. Everything I saw pulsed with that golden energy. I *loved*. It was Bachs organ thunder and a violins soaring melody, all at once.
A private room and a diagnosis of “acute leukaemia, stage four”along with the doctors verdict of irreversible declinehad its perks. The dying got visitors anytime. Relatives were told to gather for farewells, and a parade of grieving faces filed in.
I understood their discomfort. What do you say to someone whos dyingwho *knows* theyre dying? Their bewildered expressions amused me.
I was glad to see them all. More than anything, I wanted to share this love for lifehow could anyone not be happy with that? I cracked jokes, told stories. Soon, everyone was laughing, and our goodbyes were bright with joy.
By the third day, I was bored of lying down. I paced the room, sat by the window. The doctor found me like that and nearly panicked.
“You cant be up!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Your bloodworkits barely alive. You shouldnt even be breathing, let alone walking.”
But the four days theyd given me passed. I wasnt dyingjust eating bananas and ham with relish. The doctor was baffled. My blood, pale as water, didnt change. Yet there I was, watching telly in the hall.
Poor woman. Love demanded joy, even for her.
“Doctor,” I asked, “what *should* my bloodwork look like?”
She scribbled something on paper. I didnt understand the numbers but pretended to study them. She muttered and left.
At nine the next morning, she burst in. “How are you *doing* this?!”
“Doing what?”
“Your bloodit 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 came now.
Five women shared the room, all silent, facing the wall, grimly dying. I lasted three hours before suffocating. Love needed air.
I rolled a watermelon from under my bed, sliced it open, and announced, “This helps with chemo nausea.”
The scent of fresh snow filled the room. One by one, they crept to the table.
“Really works?”
“Mm-hm,” I said sagely.
Juicy crunching followed.
“Its gone,” said the woman by the window, on crutches.
“Me too,” another murmured.
I nodded, satisfied. “Happened to me once. Heard the joke about it?”
By 2 a.m., a nurse scolded us. “Youre keeping the whole floor awake!”
Three days later, the doctor hesitantly asked, “Could you switch rooms?”
“Why?”
“Everyone heres improving. Next doors full of critical cases.”
“No!” my roommates cried. “She stays.”
They kept me. Soon, patients from other wards drifted in just to chat, laugh. I knew why. Our room was full of lovegolden, warm, wrapping everyone in calm.
My favourite was a sixteen-year-old girl, a scarf tied at her nape like rabbit ears. Lymph node cancer. At first, she never smiled. A week later, I saw itshy, sweet. When she said her meds were working, we threw a feast. The night doctor gaped.
“Thirty years here. Never seen this.” He left. We laughed at his face for hours.
I read, wrote poems, gazed outside, talked, walked. Loved everythingbooks, juice, neighbours, the old tree beyond the window. They gave me vitaminshad to give *something*. The doctor barely spoke, just glanced oddly as she passed.
Three weeks in, she muttered, “Your haemoglobins 20 points above normal. Stop raising it.”
She seemed furious, as if Id tricked her.
Once, she confessed, “I cant confirm your diagnosis. Youre healingbut no ones treating you. Thats impossible.”
“What *is* my diagnosis?”
“Havent decided,” she murmured, walking off.
At discharge, she sighed. “Wish youd stay. So many are still suffering.”
Our whole room had recovered. Ward fatalities dropped 30% that month.
Life went on. But my perspective had shiftedlike viewing the world from above, everything smaller, simpler. The meaning of life was clear: learn to love, and possibilities become endless. Desires manifestif shaped by love. No lies, no envy, no spite. So simple. So hard.
Because its true: God is love. We just have to remember in time.
