The withered man sat propped up in his hospital bed, monitors beeps numbers, flashed graphs monitoring his vital signs, his frail arms had been punctured with numerous needles. And a breathing apparatus was fixed to his face, to ease his breathing. He knew life was ebbing from his body, but he prayed to the divine, to live long enough, for the moment he had been waiting for. The room was dark, black out curtains having been drawn to block out the sunlight. Except for the psychedelic illumination produced by the moving images on television, from a neighbouring patient.
The duty nurse sat on a chair beside his steel bed, dosing off intermittently. Lights from the open door to the patient room sparkled his quadragenerian eye's, as he watched the lady in a midnight blue knee length cocktail dress, with lace short sleeves, and matching midnight blue high heels shoes approach.
The persistent buzzing of nurse call button had the nurse awake from her stupor and scurry off to the patient in the adjoining bed. The patient was complaining at the delay, despite the relentless ringing of the buzzer, and those adjacent were complaining that the buzzing were disturbing them.
The lady in midnight blue, sat where the nurse once was with her eye's tawny brown looked sympathetically at only him. "How may I be of service to you Mr Desai" said the Tawny eyed Devi.
She came to complete his last wish, to write a letter to his mother his love and his heart felt apologies for not taking the time to go back home.
Not long ago was he able to walk freely and make his own decisions. But that day it all crashed.
That day. The corridors of the all Bengali medical institute were deserted at this hour. The doctor had requested Mr Muumin Desai to meet him urgently, as the tests had returned.
Muumin now sat in his office, waiting as if accused and awaiting the final order of a judge or jury.
"you have lung cancer Mr Desai" the doctor said sympathetically. "but I don't smoke" complained Muumin. Almost hoping his usual salesman powers of negotiation and persuasion, would get the doctor to agree that he didn't have the dreaded disease.
"it isn't only smokers who get it. You live in a highly polluted atmosphere, the blackened exhaust fumes from motor vehicles can be just as deadly. It can be any number of things that can cause it, smoking, passive smoking, asbestos, air pollution, carcinogens even genetics".
I haven't had any symptoms till now" said Muumin defending his life as if in a court room.
"around 13% of cases like yours have small cell lung cancer, which spread too quickly before symptoms show and unfortunately current treatments do not cure the cancer" Explained the doctor gently.
"Will I live?" asked Muumin, suddenly aware of his mortality. The doctor shook his head slowly, "miracles do happen Mr Desai, unfortunately we did not pick up the symptoms early enough, that the cancer has metastasized, at this stage neither surgery or chemotherapy would be of much help, however there are clinical trials to improve treatments and quality of life for the people with disease, which may even extend your life longer".
"How much time do I have doctor?" asked the disheartened Muumin. The doctor shrugged, shaking his head again in the same slow demeanour. "I can't say for sure as it is difficult to predict someone's mortality. My guess would be 6 months at most, maybe a few more with the treatment".
Devastated. His world came crashing down. He pleaded with the doctor, are you sure there is nothing I could do? The doctor shook his head again, "miracles do happen Mr Desai, Clinical trials are an option".
Handing Muumin a clinical trial document, the doctor says, "have a read through this and then call the clinical trials nurse, her number is below", pointing with a pen to the contacts of Ms Saroj Choudhory. "In the mean ti.."
"I'm leaving now, I've got too much to do?" interjected Muumin. The doctor puzzled "Listen wait we need to admit you to hospital, we need to monitor your.." again interjecting Muumin says "Listen doctor there is nothing glorious about dying, anyone can do it. The ambulance can bring me in when I'm at deaths door. As he briskly walked out the doctor's office. Onlookers watched the now pale shaking Bengali, murmur to himself as he exits the hospital, into his last freedom to drive his Jaguar saloon, back home to his luxury work provided flat, to vent his anguish.
His wife and toddler laughing and giggling, but his insides wanted to lurch. His head spinning now, he raced to his bedroom. His wife called after him, as she glimpsed a light paling of the face, and the horror like expression set on his face. Alarmed she put her child down and rushed after him "What wrong dear!" banging against the door. She was in hysteria, she could hear her husband sobbing behind the confines of there bedroom. She called out to him much louder, her arms turning red from knocking against the bedroom door. She stopped as he returned a response with a little whimper, "please my love, give me 5 minutes, I'll be down, to talk to you". Muumin, undressed and walked like a shattered soul to the shower, and just let go.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for getting this far in the story.
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The Letters Written
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