1 I don't want to die
17th August 2021
Tuesday
The doctor just informed me that I might die soon.
Like a six-month type of soon. My teenage self would be ecstatic to leave this terrible horrible world, but almost after seven decades of living, I hate to admit that I am pretty attached to the feeling of life. Maybe I don't have the best relationship with my children. Maybe my so-called attitude made them put me in an old age home. But I do love living.
The smell of cookies, the first sound of birds chirping early in the morning, those lines around people's eyes when they smile, despite sounding awful cliche, I love it. Besides everyone loves me in the home. Even my grandchildren, most old enough to now visit me on their own, dote on me. I do not understand why my children hate me so much.
Oh well.
Life.
I have osteosarcoma, to those who do not know what it means, it's the scientific term for bone cancer. Despite the rates of survival being pretty high, this is the third time it has attacked my body. After all, there is only so much my body can take. This time the tumor has spread to the bones in my ribs and my pelvis, in addition to my entire left leg, making me feel like my complaining about period cramps in my youth, seems like an absolute joke. Now I don't want to spend the few more months of my life moping around like some loser, but my left leg is almost always in constant pain. Now, I might be using that as an excuse to not walk around with my bald head and a crutch, out in public. Hey, a girl's got to have her insecurities right?
Okay, I'll stop being a boring old woman, delving into my quirky disease. I need a game plan, especially considering the six-month deadline. Maybe, I could be the first woman to travel the world in just her crutches. It seems very attractive at this moment, but I don't do well in the wild. Or maybe I should use my intellect to find out an effective cure for cancer, in particular this bone cancer. Okay, I admit it, I'm not a great scientist nor do I particularly enjoy science. Maybe, wait this is a good idea, I should publish a book.
But a book about what exactly? Should I write about my experience in my years in the Sahara, being a zookeeper, or my wonderful experience in the south pole, sleeping with polar bears during my free time? [the above sentence was sarcasm I do not understand people who assumed otherwise] I did not have an amazing childhood, neither did I live out my life, despite people yelling at me to "Live in the Moment." and "Life is too Short.", I just could not bring myself to do so. According to my therapist, whom I happened to meet three years back in a cancer survivor group, it was my perspective of the world that made me feel so miserable. Hey, I don't say she's completely wrong, but I can't help it. Maybe my uneventful, bland life was my fault, but it's kind of too late for me to do anything about it.
Yes, I understand, I need to stop throwing pity parties for myself. I should go out, maybe get some air, or play some Go with Ren. A fictional story, perhaps a romance, perhaps a mystery, or maybe a mix of both. There are so many options to choose from, my undecisive-ness is not helping at this point. I prop myself up on the fluffy pillow, my back aching like there is a construction man drilling holes through my abdomen. Not the best analogy, I am aware. I take my crutches and wobble into the common room.
A TV sits across the room, playing Friends reruns. John, a man who had fought in the Vietnam war, [I know right, so impressive!] sits there gazing at the television, his mouth slightly open, drool forming at the edges of his mouth. The room is mostly empty, except for myself and John, and an unfamiliar face knitting at the corner. I walk down the common room and under the archway, leading into a long corridor, in one of which Ren lives. I walk determinedly, trying to recall which one she lives in. After failing to recall anything, I choose a door that feels the most familiar [my intuition is accurate at most times, believe me] and to no one's surprise, it is the right one.
"Hi Lena, what happened?" Liu says, opening the door, a radiant smile on her face.
"Hey there, Ren, just wanted to play some Go. Oh and also, the doctor came to visit me. Turns out, I'm going to die anytime within the next six months. Isn't that exciting?" I say, my voice coming out more high-pitched than intended.
"Oh you poor thing, come on in, I'll make you a cup of coffee.", she says.
I walk in, ducking my head at the door, my crutches making a rhythmic sound, as I limp across the living room. I manage to sea myself with very little effort, my crutches leaning across the armrest of the couch. "Milk or no milk?" Ren yells from the kitchen. "Milk please.", I yell back.
She soon returns with two cups of coffee, her face lined with concern. "Hey are you okay?" she asks me, worry pouring out through every syllable. "And don't give me any of your fake ecstasies, I know you well enough to know when you do that.", she says, a hint of a smile on her face.
"Okay fine, fine. I don't want to die. It's as simple as that. I don't want to die because of a lame disease. I always thought that I'd die an adventurous death. Maybe while paragliding, or swimming amongst sharks, or something cool you know? But now, I'm stuck to this wretched home, and those stupid crutches.", I say, jerking my head towards the crutches. "I know that I'm acting like a child right now, but I don't love that after I die, no one's going to know that I existed on this planet, for almost seven decades. I mean that's a feat in itself, right? Ugh, I don't want to talk about it.", I say, looking away from Ren, hiding the tears forming at the edges of my eyes.
"Hey, it's okay to cry, Lena. Emotions are normal, you know? Especially after a piece of big news like this, it's best to cry everything out. Now, what can I do to help you? A game of Go? Or chocolate? My grandson left a box full of truffles, if you'd like some.", she says, knowing that I'm never going to cry in front of anyone.
"Yes, please. You read my mind on that one.", I say, laughing. Gosh, I'm so thankful that I have her. "Okay, I'll go get them, be right back, sweetie.", she says. My mind wanders again, wondering what in hell can I do to make this life memorable?
************************************
After an evening spent solely with Ren, I decide I should go get some rest. Maybe then I can brainstorm a book idea. Or manifest my legs into killing all the cancer cells. Both seem like pretty wonderful options to me. I walk, or shall I say limp, to my room, my left leg in agony. I struggle to open the door to my room, and finally, as I unlock the door, I fall face-first into the room. I drag myself to my couch, the door still open, and seat myself. My chest heaving due to adrenaline rush, sweat dripping down my back, I felt like an absolute wreck. And at that moment, the delayed shock of my death sentence hit me with such force, that I broke down, door open and everything. Tears rolled a steady stream down my face, my body aching like crazy. Why did the universe have to curse me with such a horrible death? Why couldn't he let me live a normal life, with normal children, and die with family around me? Why should my last meal consist of bitter medicines and not my favorite foods? So many questions and no one was there to support me, not one shoulder to lean on. Where's the love and happiness that I assumed everyone's life is full of?
And so I wallow in self-pity for the next half hour, before I realize my door's open and quickly go shut it. I then spend the next quarter-hour, hyperventilating over the fact that I just had a mental breakdown with my door open. The walls here are made of cardboard, if not paper. What if anyone heard me? I compose myself soon enough, convincing myself that during the rest of my very short life, I am not going to cry or have a mental breakdown. I've done the for a long time already and that's not what I want my last memories to consist of.
Needing to take my mind off of things, I decided that I am going to go and read something. Possibly a romance novel, or anything with a happy ending. I go rummage in my bookshelf when suddenly an old shoebox catches my eye. I gaze at it, placed on the topmost shelf, and decide to investigate what it was. I grab one of my crutches and try getting it to slide off of the shelf. My attempt in reaching the shelf was almost comical, but I finally get it to fall. Except for it kind of fell on top of me. Well, at least my plan worked. The shoebox, being pretty heavy, falls onto my left pinky toe, and I jump around, hopping on my good leg, to soothe the pain. I finally gather myself, and glance at the now open shoebox, the lid getting knocked off in its journey downwards.
I place it onto my lap, and see it full of my things from my childhood, tickets to movies, valentine gifts [I was pretty popular if I say so myself], handwritten notes, letters, my old pager, birthday cards, my planners. The reason I have this box remains a mystery, but the reason I began hiding my things, especially ones that I don't want anyone else to see, is because of my parents. I grew up in a pretty strict Christian household, saying Grace before eating, a stay-at-home mother, and a dad with a nine-to-seven job, devoid of anything a child may enjoy. For instance, I was never allowed to listen to music, because my mother was worried I'd "get influenced by devilish music". I was never allowed to wear dark colors or buy my clothes or to watch TV or listen to the radio alone. I had to be back home within a half-hour of school letting out, and they check up on me often during the night, to ensure I never snuck out. To say the very least, they were immensely suffocating. But it's unfortunate that most families, especially during my generation, underwent similar parenting.
What I was allowed and what I did, however, were two different things. On the surface, I was a nice obedient little girl, academically intelligent and well-indulgent in extracurricular activities. Years of living with overbearing parents might seem like hell, but the more you observe, the more patterns in their behavior surface. My parents are predictable, cyclic, and systematic, checking up on me once before they sleep, and once during the night. The time frame, however, remains constant, allowing me four full hours of bliss during the night. I cram in as much music, as much "forbidden" books, as much socializing as one can imagine, in those hours. Those days were so much fun, owing to the thrill of sneaking out, the window creaking as I open it, the roof tiles slipping and sliding as my feet touch it, my mind focused on not falling with a crash.
There wasn't a rave or party that was conducted during those hours, that I didn't attend. Oh, the good old days. This was all before my Father's accident before she turned into a monster. Nope, she does not deserve to be thought about, especially when I promised I will not throw myself pity parties anymore. I shut the shoe box and lie down on the couch. I find my knitting kit, my fingers working around the loops of yarn, my mind drifting off to the days when homework was the only thing I worried about.
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18th August 2021
Wednesday
I wake up to the sound of a cat getting strangled to death, or some noise of that sort. I fell asleep on the couch the previous night, so my body ache is nowhere near better. I do want to sleep for longer, but considering that noise, it's almost impossible for me to sit peacefully without wanting to rip my ears off, disregard falling asleep. So I get up, and slowly limp outside, my crutches clicking on the linoleum floor.
In the common room, sat Penelope, a fifty or so, a woman who loves cats. So the cat strangling possibility is not what's contributing to the noise. I glance at Penelope's hands and there I find the culprit to the unbearable sound. She is trying to play some songs on the violin, but the outcome is not very pleasing to the ear. "Good gracious, Penelope. It's seven in the morning, what makes you think playing the violin, that too admittedly horribly, is a good idea?", I snap, annoyed that she was the reason my precious sleep got disturbed.
"Look like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed. Relax Lena, just listen to me play. All your worries will go away.", she says, eyes closed, head resting on the violin.
"Pen, no offense, but your cat strangling music is what's making me worry right now, for your mental state. Play it anywhere other than here.", I say, my voice almost pleading.
"Fine, fine, woman, I'll go. Don't come complaining that you want to hear my music after I get better.", she says, and walks away in a huff.
Thank god. Now that the music, or shall I say noise, has stopped, my head has stopped throbbing as much as it was before. I go back to my room, now fully awake. I take a quick shower and decide to break the news to my favorite and only grandson, Peter. I have three kids, all of whose children are girls. Peter, however, born to my first child Maria, is the only one who enjoys my company. Despite his mother's pleading and warnings over how much of a "horrible person" I am, he is very much attached to me, and him being the only grandchild of mine still in touch with me, I very much think he deserves to know of my death sentence.
I call him, struggling to punch in the numbers steadily. I dial and wait for him to pick up the phone. "Hey Grandma, what's up?" he asks, laughing through his phone. "Hi Peter, I think I'm going to die soon.", I say, in as steady of a voice that I can muster. "Stop pulling my leg, Grams. What's up?" he asks, sounding skeptical. "No really, Peter. The doc informed me yesterday. Six months is my deadline. And I want to live life before RIP-ing. Like even if not through proper adventure, at least impact the world in some manner, you know, to at least satisfy my soul?" I say. "Oh fuck no, please tell me you're joking. Don't die yet, Grandma, I'm coming over right now.", he says. "Language, Peter, and no it's fine, I just wanted to vent. Call me as soon as your classes are over. By the way, how's college going?" I task, trying to change the topic. "Stop changing the topic, Grandma, college is fine. How are you? What's your plan to impact society?", he asks. "I thought of writing a book, but there are so many different topics, happy, sad, funny, so many different genres. How could I possibly choose? And the storyline? And the deadline? It's just so stressful.", I say.
"Hey, hey, relax. So what if you're going to end up in a coffin soon? Life while you have it, Grandma, trust me. You could write a book about your college or school like, you know? I mean high school kids are some of the most dramatic people ever. Even the most objectively lame kids have so much going on during that time, not implying you're lame, just saying. Or mash up the storylines of your favorite movies? That would work.", he says, trying his best to be helpful.
"Thank you for your advice, Peter, I'll look into it as soon as possible. Now, chop chop, go have some fun while you get the time, death ain't going to wait for nobody.", I say, a smile growing on my face. "Oh and thank you for this talk, I appreciate it.", I add.
"No problem, Grandma. If you need anything, call me anytime, I'm almost always free.", he says. I could almost hear his grin through the call. "Bye, Peter. I love you.", I say and cut the call. He does have good ideas. Hmm, storylines of my favorite movies? That would again be hard to choose between. I go sit on the couch, legs crossed, my mind running through the possibilities. A mixture of Jurassic Park and Mean Girls does not sound very appealing in my mind. [Peter made me watch them and I surprisingly enjoyed them so much] Maybe a slasher? That does sound interesting but not very appealing because I do not enjoy gore. Gosh, this is so frustrating, I need some wine.
I go to the kitchen and get out my wine glass, and some white wine. Not my favorite but it's going to have to do. That's when I stumble upon the shoebox from yesterday night. I didn't put the box back after going through the stuff yesterday, so I decide now's the best time to do so. As I put all my old memorabilia back into the box, I discover my old diaries. What I then assumed to be planners, was indeed my diaries, disguised as planners. Yet another tactic to ensure my parents don't go through my stuff. I take the shoebox and the wine back to the couch, where I begin reading it.
Suddenly, Peter's words run through my mind. I should write about my school days, drama was my middle name back then. Peter is wise for his age after all. But what should I write about? I pick up one of the diaries randomly, and a page opens. I scan the page and I make up my mind. I am going to write about my first love.
