Unafraid
By Laura Davies
They say that public speaking and death are the most common fears of the human race. Public speaking is not problem, but death! Ah, now there's the sticker. The last thing I expected was to be spending all of this time in bed contemplating my own mortality.
It seems like only yesterday that I graduated from high school at the top of my class with my entire future ahead of me. I'd been accepted to a great college. Hell, I even had a full scholarship. Now I'll be lucky if I make it to my twentieth birthday.
My freshman year started okay. You know, with all of the normal problems that come with leaving home for the first time. I was homesick for my dad and my little brother, but these things pass, right? I know what you're thinking--you want to know how my mom fits into the picture. Well, the answer is that she doesn't. See, Mom died when Jamie and I were little. Dad was absolutely devastated, but that's another story. Life goes on… or so I've been told.
Anyway, the first semester of my freshman year was normal. I made some good friends, fought with my roommate, and even almost failed a couple of classes because I spent too much time partying. Then I went home for Christmas and didn't come back.
I can see what you're thinking again--you think I was in some sort of accident, but I wasn't. I'd been sick on and off all last term, but we put it down to the "freshman flu". After all, I'd never lived in dorms before and truthfully, I don't think my father wanted to believe it was anything serious. I'm still Daddy's little girl.
So here I sit, day after day, in bed. My nineteenth birthday was last week and my old roommate came to see me. I think she was shocked by the fact that I don't have hair anymore. The doctors say that I could kick the cancer, but I'm not sure I believe them anymore.
I've heard about an old legend that says that it's given to every person to know their death. I think I've met mine. I can't even bring myself to care anymore. My dad keeps saying, "Abby, honey, you have to fight this."
I'm trying for his sake, but I'm not sure that it matters anymore. He's the one who named me. My name is Abigail Sariah, by the way. It means "my father's joy" and "princess of the Lord". I am his joy; and when I leave, I will be his sorrow.
I don't know what most people believe about life after death, but in my position, I want to believe it. I want to believe that when I die, I'll be going to meet my mother again; I barely remember her. I'd like to believe that I'm going home.
I want to believe that Wordsworth was right. I've always loved that passage anyway. I bet you know what I'm talking about--it's required reading in most literature classes.
You know what he wrote: "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul that rises with us: our life star, hath had elsewhere its setting and cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God who is our home…
"Our home is very far away; when we'll return we can not say. But if our father we'll obey, we'll be with him again someday. And trailing clouds of glory, trailing clouds of glory, trailing clouds of glory will we go to God who is our home."
I love that imagery. Can't you just see it? Trailing clouds of glory… Wow, what a picture! It's one of the phrases that I've run across that gives me a case of the shivers, "trailing clouds of glory will we go to God who is our home." Awesome. What can I say? I have lots of time to think when the medication isn't forcing me to go to sleep.
A girl can only watch the mindless drivel on daytime television for so long. I want my life back. I want to go outside and play soccer with my friends. I'd like to spend a day in the park and swing on the swings like I did when I was ten. I'd like to go pick a fight with my little brother. I'd like for the pain to stop. I'd like them to stop pumping my full of medication that's supposed to make me better but makes me feel worse. Hell, who am I kidding? The medication hurts.
The thought came into my head the other day that I'm dying. Do you want to know what the next thought was? It's that I'm not sure I care anymore one way or the other. I'm just as apathetic to the concept of living as I am to the concept of dying. Everything hurts. I know my dad just wants me to be well again, but the medical bills have to be piling up. I've been stuck in this hospital bed for months and there's no end in sight. I made sure that there's a DNR order on my chart--if I die, then I die. I signed my organ donor card, too.
Maybe there is some non-cancer-ridden organ in me that can save someone else's life. I won't be using it. The doctors say that I'll get better, but I can tell that they're lying. Every time they say that their smiles are too bright. I'm so tired. I think I'll sleep now. I've been staring at the wall too long while I've been talking to you and the nurses are starting to give me funny looks.
When my dad comes in to see me after work, I need to tell him that I know--and that I want to be at home when I die. From one home to another; I'm not afraid.
