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| Death Become Me |
I hurt all the time.
Each breath I take is well earned because I fought tooth and nail for it. I sit upright speaking, laughing and yet I'm drowning.
"You look good". My neighbor affirms as she studies me from across the table. I want to ask, is that a compliment or her way of saying, "There's nothing wrong with her. She's making stuff up"? Sometimes I think it's a way of people glossing over death and dying. If you look okay on the outside, you can't be doing too badly on the inside, right?
I hear her sentiment echoed often from the people I love who know about my conditions. Notice the plural? So many times, in fact, that it begs the question, "What does death look like?" Should everyone who is ill and dying all wear the same kind of suit of clothing? Should we perhaps attach calendars or clocks to our backs to denote an expiration on our lives? Would it be better if we stopped being seen in public? Or moved around listlessly moaning and groaning? People are not alike. Do you truly expect the way people react, or look or feel when dying to be carbon copies?
My hair is white as snow. Thanks to one medication or another that keeps my heart ticking, it sweeps down in a thick cloud to the middle of my back. My eyes were once a dark velvety brown. I loved my eyes. Thanks to yet another medication, my eyes are now a dark gray. To me, I look odd; burnt sienna skin, white hair and gray eyes. I miss the old me. I don't complain. Things could be much, much worse. I could be lying underneath all this beautiful green grass that stretches for miles in every direction outside my window.
"Oh look! Storm!" I heard one day.
"What the hell is that?" I inquired.
"You know, Storm from the X-Men?" was the reply. Now I remember. Where is a Doctor Xavier to patch me back together when I need him.
A few people will be surreptitious with their stares. A quick glance here or there and then off they go. But they are the minority. Maybe moving to the butt crack of civilization wasn't such a bright idea. At the time, all I wanted was freedom and peace.
The majority will gawk as they point at me. They speak in staged whispers...or not...to make sure I hear them. They loudly, and with much ignorance, speculate on everything from my race to my eye and hair color. I must be wearing contacts, a weave, a wig, a bronzer to make my skin tone slightly red. On and on it goes.
Then you have the bold ones. They walk right up to me and ask where I came from, what race am I, are my hair and eyes truly that color? Just yesterday a woman stomped right up to me in the supermarket and lectured me on "sisters" trying to be something they were not. Where does it end?
Oh, oh...I've gone off the rails again haven't I? Back to my cozy circle.
"You look good." My neighbor, friends and family say. They don't witness the sleepless nights filled with pain. They don't see me when I'm on the floor or the couch, shaking and cold, for hours upon hours because my body doesn't have the oxygen or strength it takes to get up. I don't eat or drink much because the pain is not worth it.
"You look good." They say, as I forget their names or that I spoke with them yesterday or an hour ago. They are not there when I throw things in frustration because I constantly lose things around the house. Or can't, for the life of me, remember a simple word like telephone or mailbox today. Would I still look good if they had seen me breakdown and cry? A few weeks ago I found a receipt which showed I had gone shopping, but I couldn't find any of the purchased items. To this day, I'm still searching but I have to admit, it's a wasted effort now.
"You're still pretty." My doctor consoles as he pats my head, after telling me my condition has gone from moderately severe to severe. I am not illegible for a heart transplant. My memory lapses are going to increase. And chances are great I will lose my sight altogether. Huh, forgetful, blind and panting like a dog...but I look good.
Yeah...death really becomes me...
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