SAVING GRACE

Chapter I - Dear No One

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

Resting my head on the crusty disinfectant smelling hospital pillow that I got used to, I watched the rain slam itself on my window hoping its relaxing effect would let me fall asleep comfortably in this hard foamed bed. Staring at empty spaces is a hobby of mine. Technically, a developed hobby of mine. What else would a sick girl do in a four walled hospital bedroom? Oh yeah, sleep. Another hobby I have to fight boredom. "Please let me sleep." I sighed quietly pulling my blanket up to my shoulder while I shifted my body now completely facing my window. 

Closing my eyes, I imagined myself running around under the rain while feeling it touching my skin.  Doing something exciting or fun in my dreams is what saves me in this shitty reality of mine. Satisfying my cravings for the real world through dreaming is a little depressing I know, but I don't really mind it that much. Actually, I find it interesting. Some people say that it's one of the signs that you're really giving up on living, but I guess for me, it's the opposite.

THAT'S what makes me alive.

When you look on the brighter side of dream dependence, I think you would really change your point of view. Like mine. One, I can have unlimited stamina. I get to do everything I like; running, shouting, dancing, -without getting tired which is a big no-no for me. Two, if things get scary in my dreams or when I'm experiencing nightmares, I could just wake up from jolting and realize they're not real and consciously making me know of my true feelings. My desperation hanging on to my own reasoning that I really don't want to die.  And lastly, I can dream that I am sincerely happy with my life. Contented, no complains, and just purely happy.

Although right now you think I'm saying something sad, I can say I'm not depressed. Atleast I don't think I am.

Now that I feel like sleep is finally welcoming me in a warm embrace, that's when my doctor decided to come in. Great.

"How are you?" My doctor asked as he entered the room. He looked stressed. 

"Fine before you came in." I sat up leaning on my bed's headboard and looked at him.

"Sorry. Were you sleeping?" he walked towards me sitting down after he grabbed a chair and placed it beside my bed.

"I look Ok more than you." I replied.

"I'm Ok now knowing that you're Ok." He smiled making his eyebags more visible. Day by day I can see the growing wrinkles on his forehead and on the sides of his eyes. I guess doctors have it hard too. 

Dr. Willard has been my doctor for 4 years now. He's a cardiologist. I was diagnosed with Heypertrophic cardiomyopathy  when I was 15 years old. I suddenly experienced chest pains and I fainted after our PE subject one afternoon because of my difficulty in breathing and when they rushed me to the hospital, BOOM. That's where they found out that I had a heart disease. The cause is still unknown but Dr. Willard and his team of cardiologists are still looking into it. You can consider me a lab rat for their research to look for a cure.

This old looking man who I think is already in his mid-40's or early 50's has an abundant color of gray-white hair in his head and I guess a bachelor because of the absence of a wedding ring in his middle finger. Not even once did I ever see him wear a ring on his finger. He's a good man for chocolate's sake. What do women can't see in him? I guess working for long hours here in the hospital took it's toll on him. This poor man basically lived here.

I stared at him while he was checking on my medical chart. We had this comfortable relationship where even silence doesn't make us awkward. We've known each other for 4 years. He's basically like a father figure to me and a weird daughter to him. Looking at his toned long fingers while it stroked past the paper he is writing on, I swallowed hard and tried to pull another string of courage inside me to ask him a favor I've been pestering on for years now.