The doctor had told me that I had twenty-one days left to live. At first, I had denied him. I figured I had years left to live. My disease could not be that bad, could it? I did not feel as one who is transferred to palliative care would feel; I felt fine.
The next day, I could tell that he was right, as if there was a shift in my very soul, caused by the words he had spoken to me just hours before. The light sleep I had received did nothing to lessen the pain I felt as I hobbled out of bed, reaching for the yellow plastic tube with the white cap beside my bed table that contained my pain meds. Instead of one, I took two with shaking hands.
As I progressed through the twenty-one days, I noticed that each morning waking up was harder to do, and I knew in the back of my mind that the aches and pains that had long plagued my body were now coming to a head. My partner seemed to notice as well. With each passing day, it was as if she became more and more aware of what was happening, and before long she stared at me with such hurt, as if she knew the pain I was going through as my body deteriorated, failing me. I think she finally accepted when on the tenth day I could not get out of bed any longer. The pain was just too great, and I could see the tears in her eyes as she helped me take a second pain pill. My hands were too shaky, too frail to continue on my own.
That night, when she returned from work, she called my mother. She was afraid I would not make it the full twenty-one days.
She told me in a loving voice that my mother was coming as she helped me ingest another pill, washing it back with a glass of water as I had done for hundreds of days since. It was like swallowing razor blades dipped in battery acid. I was too weak to respond other than nodding my head slowly, closing my eyes as the very sensation of nodding brought intense nausea to my mind.
My mother arrived on the twelfth day. Her face wrought with anguish and sorrow as she stared down at me from beside my bed, which had now become my room, my home, my world. She didn't leave my side, holding my hand in hers. They shook as she tried not to show she was crying, though even through my closed eyes I knew the tears ran down her face in constant streams.
On the seventeenth day, My partner stopped working indefinitely, focusing solely on me. Her and my mother seemed to have a silent agreement about me, as they would take turns watching over me and make sure I was comfortable. They had never really enjoyed one another's company; my mother said my partner was a waste of space using me for my money; my partner said my mother was a bitter old bitch who couldn't get over the fact that I'd found my soulmate, something she had never done. But now, as I grew weaker and weaker, it was as if their bond grew stronger and stronger, and I even caught them sitting together silently through barely open eyes, as the light hurt me too much to open my eyes fully now.
They seemed to sense this, and my room was thrown into darkness. Never again would I see the familiar neighbourhood that I had lived in for the last five years, the perfect mowed lawns in a row along the block, trimmed weekly by the houses' occupants, myself and my partner included.
The fleeting thought passed once, and then never again. I could no longer focus on thinking for long, as even that felt as though it would render my mind immobile, as my body was.
On the nineteenth day, I was told by my partner during my only conscious moment that I stopped breathing in the night shortly, before coughing and continuing my life of pain. I felt as though it would have been better to die then, as the pain pills no longer worked to ease the pain, even if I took in upwards of five a day. I felt as though I was wasting away, and wasting time. Wasting their valuable time. Not just time, but medicine as well. It hurt to even lift my arms to receive the pills in my hand and transfer it to my mouth, and after the second one, my partner fed them to me, tilting my head so I could drink feebly from the small cup of water that she kept full beside my bed. Surely this could not be helping me, merely delaying the inevitable.
And now, it was time. The medicine had done its work.Day twenty-one had begun.
At this point, I don't know why I even kept track any more, as if it would matter to me for much longer than the few hours I remained alive.
My partner and my mother both sat on either side of me in my room, listening grimly to my feeble breaths, gravelly and thin as my lungs struggled to continue their losing battle.
My vision had blurred to mere colours before me, and I could dimly make out the shapes of either beside my bed.I no longer had the strength to swallow on my own, as my partner found after trying to feed me another pill, the last one in the small yellow tube.
That evening, the pain became excruciating. My body felt as though it were being set on fire, and I cried weakly as the sickness began to complete its final crusade of my aching body.
And then, nothing.
Darkness, and the feeling as though I was under water, or just woken from a heavy sleep. I tried waving my own hand in front of my face, but it was so dark, I could not see it. I could not even feel my own senses, or hear my own voice. As much as I tried to scream, no sound would come out.
And then, I felt as though my feet had touched something solid, as if I had finished drifting downward in the dark water I which I was submerged. I tried walking and found I could with increasing ease.
I had not walked in twenty-one days, and I felt the wobble as my limbs began to regain some of the strength that had been lost in this time. I imagined myself as a newborn colt, struggling to walk across the grassy plain as my mother mare watched in amusement at my attempts to walk in a straight line.
And then suddenly the strength returned, and I felt as though I had purpose once more. The darkness had begun to lift, and I felt the strength returning to my body. I began running, slowly and awkwardly at first, but soon I was sprinting.
Ahead of me was a light that grew larger and brighter as I ran towards it. I had read and watched all those old books and TV shows and the like where the character dies and enters the light, but had never imagined I would one day be doing it myself. I had never considered myself particularly spiritual, but it didn't matter now. Now I was running towards the light.
"Step into the light, friend." A comforting voice said, and I nodded my head.
"Thank you." I responded, and then the light overtook the darkness, and I was bathed in it.
I stood, bathed in sunlight in a field of golden wheat that blew softly in the warm breeze. It ruffled my hair as well, and brushed against my naked body.
In the distance at the end of the wheat field I could see a dirt path, and at the path's end lay a golden gate. It seemed simple enough, but even I knew what would soon happen.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, ready to begin my final quest.