Cruel Games of Fate

Its October the 13th, exactly a year since the fateful day Walsh, a doctor and a dear friend of mine, informed me I had cancer, last stage. By rights I should have died six months ago but fate didn’t agree with the plan and decided to prolong my suffering.

Normally people would wish to live, too afraid to die and of what’s waiting for them on the other side. I am no different, the unknown worries me too. However, I want to die.

Until six months ago, I woke up every day in this very hospital bed wondering if today was my last day on Earth. At first, the wait was accompanied by fear. As more time passed, I tired of the wait, frustrated. With each new day the pain intensified, my body giving up and dying a little more. I lay there silently watching my family's reactions as I fell apart, literally. I saw how they tried hard to put up a strong front with big smiles and jokes, but their eyes told a completely different story.

Sadly, my family's distress wasn't the only cause for my pain, for my aggravation.

Marc, the man I love, was my biggest worry. The wait for him was the worst, it was pure agony. Oh how my heart ached at his absence. Where was he? Why hasn’t he come to see me? Does he even know? Of course he knows. Faye, my sister, had duly called him up the instant I got admitted. I quietly consoled my heart even as I felt the cuts. As days went by, and there was still no sign of him, I slowly passed into a resigned numbness, numb to the world and people around me. The medicines given to me helped too, but this numbness was more of the emotional sort than physical. I lay there, staring into space wishing for death to just take me, but death was not yet ready to grace me with its presence.

A year before, upon Walsh's request I had come in to donate blood to the hospital. I sat in his office waiting for my blood to be approved, going over the papers that needed to be signed. Walsh had come in, closed the door and asked me to take a seat. I was at once apprehensive, desperately racking my brain thinking of what could possibly be wrong. I am a healthy person with a healthy medical record for as long as I can remember. Walsh quietly repeated his request and asked me to sit down. I refused telling him I preferred to stand.

He had walked up to me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said in a voice I’d never heard him use before, "I'm sorry, Mili, but after going through your test results – well I don't know how to…"

“ Just say it. I mean, how bad can it be, eh?" I tried to smile.

He looked away but not before I saw the tears pool up in his eyes. I wanted to run from the room, but I stood my ground. I had to know.

"Your blood…the results show you have cancer." He finished in a broken whisper.

I couldn’t breathe. I felt as though someone had kicked me in the stomach. Oh God, I had thought frantically, as my hands reached out for something to hold on to and my heart clenched painfully.

"Mili…Oh God, I'm so sorry - !" He began.

"How much time do I have?" I whispered, as silent tears ran down my face.

"Please take a moment. Sit down and breathe."

"No! Tell me!" I cried.

"Five to six months, maybe less." He said in a small voice, eyes downcast.

Three days later, I was admitted to the hospital. Walsh believed the sooner we began the treatments, the longer my life expectancy would be.

A dozen treatments and therapy sessions later, I lie in my bed today, too weak to even sit up on my own. The plan was successful, and I have lived for longer than anyone anticipated. Wonderful, isn’t it?

For the past one year, I have kept a journal by my side, my only confidant, writing in it every day as often as possible. Me, the one amongst all my friends, who hated reading novels and whined like a baby when I received an English assignment. Funny how we change with time.

I color the pages of my journal with my thoughts, my feelings, my hopes and fears, my expectations which are often followed by disappointments, and it's all dedicated to Marc, the man I loved from the very core of my being, the one who broke my heart, shattered my world, and walked away without so much as a backward glance.

Despite his betrayal, I write all this to him. Faye has often scolded me and asked me why I give him such importance. To be honest, I don’t understand it myself. All I know is that I love him, and I have loved him for so long I cannot hate him even if I tried. In my heart, I have forgiven him. I don’t know why he never came, what kept him from me, but he loved me too, and until I know the reason for his abandonment, I will not judge him.

As I lie here now, staring at the ceiling, I think that love is a lot like cancer. In fact it is cancer. It creeps up on you without so much as a warning, sweeping you off your feet. It consumes your mind, body and soul. By the time you realize it, you feel its presence, you are able to acknowledge it, it's too late. You are already infected, and there's no saving you. It slowly kills you, hollows you from the inside out. No matter how much you fight it or try to cure it, you cannot escape it. You may succeed in reducing it to a tiny dot, but it will never completely go away. It lingers, silent and dormant, waiting for an opportunity, looking for a weak spot in your armor, to strike again, with twice the force and pain. The scars never go away; they are forever engraved on your soul, your heart. With a resigned sigh, I look away and smile wryly at my musings.

Yesterday, I made Faye promise me that when I die, she'll find Marc and send this journal to him. She says I'm being pathetic and I have no self-respect or pride. I tell her that I'm going to die soon; I have no need for them. This is me; I love with passion, giving anything and everything I have. I don't believe in holding back when in love. Whatever reasons Marc had for staying away, fact is that he once loved me, and I have to believe that even if he doesn't anymore, he hasn’t forgotten me, that somewhere in his heart he still loves me and thinks of me. It makes me extremely happy to know that he, and only he, would know of my thoughts, that even after I’m gone, he'll be the closest one to me.

I am a woman hopelessly in love, and I wish I could see him, touch him, hear the sound of his strong, deep voice one last time; But we don't always get what we want, do we?

I just wish death would come soon. I cannot bear to go on for another day without him by my side. Cancer has weakened my mind and body, my soul is beaten and my heart broken; the damage can never be fixed. I can't watch my family suffer any longer. The physical pain doesn’t bother me much; it’s the emotions, the sheer power of them that's driving me insane. A weak sob escapes my lips and I raise my eyes to the ceiling again, this time in a silent plea to God, and the voice in my head cries, 'Why am I still here? When will it all end?'

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Three months later, Faye walked in to her sister's room with a bouquet of flowers to find her curled up on the bed, her face turned away from her. Faye quietly walked to the other side and opened her mouth to offer a greeting but stopped when she saw that her sister's hand tightly clenched a picture of Marc's and although she was sleeping now, the tears were still wet on her cheeks. Faye gently touched her cheeks, and was surprised to find them cold as ice. Alarmed, she called for the Doctor while she lightly shook her sister pleading her to wake up.

Mili never opened her eyes again. Her family was devastated by her sudden death. At home, Faye stood in Mili's room, looking at her belongings and cried for her sister who had not only died alone but had till the last moment of her life waited in vain for Marc's return.