She was a nucleus of light

Beans

# She stared at the small white pill she had pinched between her thumb and index finger, the painkiller that her doctor had advised her to use sparingly unless absolutely necessary. She wondered who had discovered the secret within this tiny thing that could alleviate his pain, and how and when it had been discovered. Was it the result of intense research, superior intelligence, or merely a coincidence? She had never been interested in such things before. She had even learned that the science that studies the origins of drugs, how and in what forms they are effective, the ailments they treat, their characteristics, and their side effects is called pharmacology. When one falls into the grip of illness, one not only appreciates the value of health but also inevitably learns a lot about hospitals, doctors, treatments, medications, and those cold, unwelcoming medical instruments. Remedies for ailments: colorful pills, liquids, capsules, syrups, injections, vaccines, operating rooms, surgeries, and doctors. Being dependent on them was difficult... It made one feel powerless and helpless.

As She pulled her gaze away from the white, small, round painkiller, She closed her eyes just as slowly and moved her hand towards her lips. Her tongue first moistened her dry lips, then touched the small white pill with its tip. It was as if she were trying to understand the mystery, she couldn't grasp by looking or touching by tasting it with her lips and tongue. With a taste in her mouth, she couldn't liken to anything, she reached for the glass next to her with a sorrowful, defeated look in her eyes. She had always found it difficult to swallow these small round things called pills. Again, she struggled. She drank a whole glass of water to swallow it and then waited impatiently for the pill to enter her bloodstream and free her from the pain that darkened her world...

One pill: one hour of painless, peaceful sleep. But what about two pills? Three, four, five pills? The whole box? Could taking the entire box open the door to another world where she could sleep deeply all night without having to get up frequently to pee, eat delicious food with just the right amount of salt and spices, and live her dreams without needing medications, machines, doctors, or nurses? She didn't want to live a life without joy, taste, or choice, trapped by an affliction. The life She carried was a burden to herself and others. She had to find a way to rid herself of this burden. Death was the shortest and most certain way, and it had been crossing her mind often lately...

When Zehra learned the cause of her illness that day, her swollen, pale face with lifeless eyes looked in shock at the doctor who said, "The problem is in your beans." When she gave him a puzzled look as if to ask, "What beans?" She had said, "Your kidneys... your kidneys aren't working properly." Her heart had pounded in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage of flames with the fear of dying, then trembled like leaves about to fall as a freezing wind began to blow inside her, struggling not to fall, but she couldn't manage it and quietly rolled into a frightening, cold darkness, losing consciousness. When she opened her eyes after the necessary intervention, the doctor's demeanor, trying to emphasize that her illness was insignificant, smiling at her occasionally while writing something on the paper in front of him in barely readable handwriting, could not hide the anxiety that briefly appeared in his eyes. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she had sought refuge in her father, Hasan Baba, who had never left her alone, and had left the hospital with him.

As these thoughts passed through her mind, her eyes fixed on the photo of the commando with the blue beret on one of the shelves of the bookcase. Looking at the photo with longing eyes, she murmured, "Come back safe and sound, Ismail, I need you so much..."

Ismail was the first boy she had fallen in love within high school, the first one to hold her hand, the first one to kiss her, and the man she married. He was the son of Demirci Hasan Usta. She didn't want Ismail to worry about her illness or think about her. While fighting in the mountains, fearing for his life, God forbid, if he got distracted, he could become a target for a treacherous bullet. As she looked at the photo of her strong, handsome soldier husband, the sadness of being a sickly wife who couldn't properly fulfill her role as a woman grew. They were unfortunate because he had a sickly wife like her, a woman with malfunctioning kidneys. She got up from where she was lying, took the framed photo of her husband from the bookcase, and pressed her lips to the lips in the photo with a longing for the fire those lips had ignited in her body, but the glass was cold. She dropped herself onto the chair by the window. She remembered the days when she always thought of Ismail, always wanted to be beautiful for him, felt the breeze of youth blowing through her head, and believed she couldn't live without him...