Dancing With Death
Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death.
It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden
door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy
smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.
Hell’s hallway is
elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack
my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a
love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while
he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a
fickle S.O.B.
Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I
slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored
robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had
thought to bring my bottled water.
Fingering the
delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three
sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I
consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other
material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is
surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it
tightly about my waist.
With my footsteps
whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed
couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a
bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking
the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a
3-D puzzle laying on a table.
Someone new
must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and
move back towards the couch. Either that
or they think they can bore me to death.
Glancing back
at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep,
not only would it bore me to death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then
again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the individual who
defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in hundred degree
temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being forced to
listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you, and not
being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another, the idea
of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be the
epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of it.
Today, Hell was
the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to
talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that
luxury, because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our
daily dance.
Death’s
assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its
design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me
as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant
almost bashful.
“You okay,” he
asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the
chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit
area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely
furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small
boom box.
Averting my
gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip
free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.
“I’ve got
something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly
embarrassing.
Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been
meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six
weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it
out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.
Hopping I don’t
look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally
bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but
Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I
can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.
His angular
face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases
as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but
is it okay if I have someone watch today?”
Taking the
small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to
laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a
wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at
my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.
Clearing his
throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.
“I’d hoped
you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just
anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting
to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want
anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.
“I don’t know
about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,”
I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself
blinking back tears.
Carefully
reading the words HOPE etched along
the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned
voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way,
you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”
He gives me a
blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks
we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.
Whenever I come
into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my
hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together
so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my
exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.
“—and now
you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty
deed,” I tease.
His ears flush
a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,”
he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway
mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable
being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal
hands on training process.”
For the first
time, the room feels awkwardly silent.
“Thank you,” I
whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is
instantly broken.
Pocketing my
new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and
ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold
table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My
nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice
aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles
together and I am tethered to the table.
My focus soon
turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician
enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just
a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.
It is time.
The door closes
with a whoosh.
I am alone.
The soothing
lull of the radio hums in the background as the machine clicks to life with a
soft hiss. I must not move, for to do so will be extremely detrimental.
Instead, I stare up at the lighted mural above me and contemplate the artist’s
thoughts with a new perspective on life and ignore the deadly rays of radiation
entering my body.
As I scrutinize
the picture, I like to think that the majestic mountains carved in granite
reflect the beauty of God’s almighty hand. They are a testament to the jagged
lines and deep slopes of life’s tolls and trials. My eyes squint to take in the
rugged beauty of the changing colors etched throughout the landscape, for I
have come to believe these vibrant shades represent the synopsis of my life. Each
season is but a small granule of time that is ever constant and changing, and
yet, it is here that I find hope, peace and life.
I know it will
not last. It never does, for death has found a way to mock me.
Like the charm
in my pocket, the fragile hope we all grasp on to and call mortality is just
that . . . hope, and much like Death,
it can be a fickle bitch. I know this for a fact because reflected behind the
lighted mural is the glaring reality of death mirrored in the lifeless corpse
of a trapped fly.
“You will die. Everyone dies.”
The voice is
silent, but all the same, it is there, accompanied by Death’s mocking laughter.
It taunts me, trying to make me feel used, cheap and worthless as I lay
helpless to his ministering attentions.
I repress a
shudder and feel Deaths arms sweep around to encircle my back. His killer eyes scan
my exposed flesh, the metallic stench of his antiseptic breath whispering
across my face.
One, two,
three.
Breathe in.
Four, five,
six.
Breathe out.
He sighs
dramatically before drawing back two steps, turns, than pivots back once more
to face me. In this deadly dance I recognize him for the master that he is, for
his movements are gracefully poetic as he circles, spins and twirls.
“Embrace me,” he softly whispers, “for
you are mine.”
My fingers curl
into fists around the metal rod. His words causing a fresh wave of terror to smother
me like a blanket. My pulse hammers, the fear suffocating as it nearly
overtakes me. Damn it, my life isn’t
supposed to be like this!
With each round
I face off with Death, he seems to take a piece of me until I hardly recognize
myself.
I hate him!
My eyes sting
with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. He swings back to face me,
and I won’t look him in the eye. The bastard has taunted me repeatedly with
fears of the cancer. It wasn’t enough that he took my breasts, my uterus, my
hair, my confidence? No! It still isn’t enough for him. The worst part is that
I know he won’t be satisfied with me just feeling ugly and worthless. Knowing
Death as well as I do, I know he won’t be content until he has all of me.
A growing doubt
begins to swamp me with the fear that I’m not sure I can beat him in this
deadly dance. Even as the words flash into my consciousness, my mind is racing with
the statistics and the odds of winning the battle against the cancerous demon
inside of me. Suddenly I want to howl and scream, because I don’t want to be
another number or data figure added to Deaths growing list of conquests.
Please God, I can’t die. I can’t die, I silently chant. Praying
if I recite the words enough times, I can make them my reality. I only stop
when I hear Death chuckling at my feeble efforts. Self-doubt crawls along my
spine and I realize that he sees my words for what they are . . . useless.
His mocking laughter
causes a stab of pain to spike through me, but utter panic gives me strength.
Thinking of my children, I conjure up their beautiful faces. I relive some of
the scenes of their lives that I have shared as their mother from walking and talking
to learning how to ride a bike. Suddenly I cannot picture me not being with them. The music on the
boom box shifts to a different tune, and I close my eyes as the sound builds in
crescendo. Within me, I feel the beat of the music and hear Death chanting, “Give up. Quit the fight.” His words echo
in my thoughts as my hands tighten around the pole. Tears prick my eyes, and I
find the cool metal I am holding on to grounds me with both a promise and a
desire. Give up? Quit fighting for my life? It is then that fear shifts to
anger as I take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm. Gathering my
will, I give a mental push at Death’s mocking awareness. Not only is it just
wrong of him to try and make me feel cheap and worthless, but it is despicable!
Never, I answer myself, my elbows tingling
with pain, my fingers growing numb.
I will live! I
will beat you and the cancer, I silently scream at him.
It is then I
feel the slightest brush of his confusion as he retreats, or maybe it’s just my
imagination as the deadly machine finishes with its latest round and final
rotation of radiation.
With pained
determination I release my hold on the metal rod. Shifting my shoulders I take
a breath, but I am aware that Death has suddenly grown strangely silent as our
daily dance comes to an end.
Another round over and done with.
Another day to spend with those that I love.
Another day to live, hope, breathe and be thankful that I
am alive!
Yes I am alive,
and with that thought in mind a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I think
of the HOPE charm in my pocket, and I
am at peace for the first time in a long while as I wait for Death’s assistant
to come release me from his ties of bondage.
Yes, one day I
will surely die, but not today! Today it is I who am the victor in our deadly
dance. Taking a breath, I relax my muscles, extend my middle finger and salute
Death.
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