Life doesn't end here

The huge upstairs window at the Morningside home for the terminally ill served as a big screen TV on which every event that took place in the garden could be observed – no matter how insignificant. It could be the bookworm who normally lazed on the lawn with her picnic blanket, umbrella and unusually thick book or the fight that broke out between the jealous Terry and Davin because of his suspicion that Davin was trying his luck with his girlfriend.

This all occurred on the luscious, green carpeted stage where the ever-changing events provided a colorful viewing programme in which all the other inmates played a role. He felt like he lived the life of one of those elderly members of the community who had nothing better to do than occupy the space on one of those antique rocking chairs in front of one of their windows. It’s a pity there wasn’t a ginger cat or two to complete the picture, but then again it would probably cause a breakout of epidemic proportions in this hellhole. He shuddered at the thought of the terrible discomfort that started with itchy, spotty rashes that would then turn into painful, blistering sores leaving him completely bed ridden for a month. Not that being in bed would be a major change from the usual routine but it would allow more time to count the little creatures painted so carefully into the scenery on the ceiling. It’s always the main topic of discussion whenever a newcomer sees it. It’s such a tired, boring story to him, but maybe its interest-effect was worn thin by seeing it everyday when the male nurse hoisted him back into bed from his wheelchair every night. The only activity interesting enough to watch around here was watching everybody else from the bedroom window. At least it changes from time to time.

It seemed so foolish to even get up in the morning. All that awaited these detainees was another cruel day in what was left of their short, dismal lives. Another day of vitamin shots, painkillers, intensive treatments, experimental drugs and, of course, the peppy nurse that always said it would be okay. Sure. A terminally ill patient is going to believe that one.

Still, it was heartbreaking to witness a twelve-year-old girl experience all this too. She would wheel herself out across the well-kept lawn, weaving her way between the people already there, but even from the window you could see her struggle to make her muscles work. A half lame body occupying its stationery position behind a protective layer of glass window would be of little help to her. No person should have to go through the torment of feeling such helplessness.

Just then a quick knock came at the door. An unusual event, as visitors were a rare event at this room. It was cellmate-Jenna coming back from her daily pilgrimage to the far end of the garden. It was the most private and peaceful place for her to lose herself in her painting. She had once described the magnificent, deeply emotional process she would go through when she felt her painting was something worth a second look.

Today had been a good day. Her parched lips could hardly hide the excited smile that kept creeping onto her pale face as she delicately laid her prized possession on the bed to be view by her favourite critic. Well, here it goes. Hope this one was worth the crack in her lip from the smile she flashed so foolishly.

The painting rested on the duvet – naked and honest. No shiny glass. No frills. Just the simple, abstract piece in its most original form.

Though simple, the painting held so many emotions. It touched, where no emotion had been sensed in so very, very long. As it was admired, so it led on a journey of self-discovery. Philosophical questions were being answered. The mind was being introduced to a higher plane where thoughts and feelings were much, much deeper. It might seem silly to some to see so much in this explosion of colour upon colour, but maybe certain experiences allow one’s eyes to have a special connection with what the painting represented. Could it be an ability we acquire as we near the end?

The realisation hit home hard.

This body was being suffocated with self-pity and regret. The spirit suffered as a result. Time was precious. There wasn’t that much left. Hatred started growing with this revelation. Its taken so long to realise this and at what cost? He had pushed his family away for so long, not wanting them to see his diminished existence. Not sure if it was to spare them the grief of not being able to do anything or if it was just the selfishness of hurt pride. Another glance at this naked expression of truth brought back the insight that had just been discovered. Dwelling on what isn’t is exactly what has been holding back what could be. He was not here to watch others live, he should be out there living it. Even if it was just companionship, it was worth living for.

He saw the phone and realised that the first step was always the hardest. He needed to call that estranged family in the hope that those severed ties could be repaired. Life would grow from there.