Samsara

My body is riddled with disease, but I have to hang on. Jerry needs me. And the kids. They're grown, but you never stop needing your mom. Mother relies on me, too. I was the oldest of six, so I grew up fast, making sure my brothers and sisters had breakfast in the morning and clean clothes and massaging my mother's shoulders at night when she came home from a long day at the factory, nodding my head while she told me about the boss who kept making passes at her even though he was married with three kids, a note of pride in her voice that men still sought her company at thirty-five. Now, she's seventy and lonely, and she calls everyday to tell me her problems and I nod my head out of habit, though she can't see me on the other end of the phone.

My breath catches in my chest. God, how it hurts to breathe, but I have to hang on. Just two more hours until my next pain shot. Then, I can sleep for a bit and forget. Get Well Soon cards lined up on the table beside the bed. Two of them hand lettered, from the grandkids. My babies are all grown up. Thank the Lord. I couldn't bear to leave them all alone with no mother to look after them.

But what about Jerry? What's he gonna do? When I try to talk to him about dying, big tears well up in his eyes, and I have to change the subject fast. He never could stand to hear me talk about sad things. Plenty's the time I've asked him "What's on your mind, honey?" and we would sit and talk, and he would tell me what he was scared of. I would hold his head or pat his back, and together we would work it out. But every once in a while, when I forget and let him see me cry, his shoulders get all squared up and his face turns red like a child fixing to bawl and he hunkers down in his chair or mutters something like "I can't take this *** anymore!" and then I remember that I am the strong one. God put me here to listen and love and nothing good comes from tears.

Is it day or night? The lights are always on inside this hospital room, and there's no window. Feels like night to me. The nurses are quiet. Haven't seen a janitor in I don't know when. And that angel dressed in black is over there in the corner again. Pretty thing. Dark haired, face as white as Dresden porcelain, soft black wings. An angel like that would only come out at night. The sun would burn her fair skin—

***! It hurts so bad! There's no way I can wait an hour and fifty minutes. I call for the nurse. They aren't stingy here, on the hospice unit. I'm the one who's been stingy. Trying not to take too much pain medicine, so I'll always be awake for my family. The nurse comes in with a syringe in hand. I am so used to the stuff by now that it only dulls the pain, but my breathing feels heavier, and so do my eyelids. I blink.

The dark angel is standing right beside me now. Her smile is so sweet. All the love I ever wanted is there in her face.

I blink again, and on the other side of the bed, to the right stands a knight dressed in black armor carrying a scythe. He pushes back his helmet, revealing auburn hair.

I look back at the angel. "Are you here to take me to Heaven?" I croak. It's very hard to speak, with morphine and tumor robbing me of my breath.

"It's your choice," the knight answers. "You'll live like this for another month unless you do something to end it now."

"What can I do?" I ask helplessly, tears trickling down my cheeks. "It's a sin to take my own life."

"Are you still in pain?"

I nod my head mutely.

"Then call for more pain medication," he says.

"I just got more—"

"Do it!"

His face is so dark and scary, that I obey.

A different nurse walks in. That means it's break time. She is standing right in front of the black knight, but she doesn't see him. The nurse is carrying my chart and a syringe. "Let's see. Your last medication was four hours and fifteen minutes ago." My nurse must have gone on break without charting the last shot. How did the dark knight know?

The medication burns slightly as it flows through my IV. I close my eyes. When I open them again, I am standing beside the bed, where my body lies, looking deathly pale and still. The dark angel holds my left hand, the dark knight has his hand on my right shoulder.

My own nurse ducks her head into the room. She walks past the three of us and calls my name. She checks my pulse. She listens with a stethoscope. Last of all, she takes out a mirror and holds it beneath my corpse's nostrils for a full three minutes, watching for any sign of breath. The glass remains clear.

As she is tidying up my deathbed, she accidentally drops the mirror. It shatters on the floor, slivers of glass flying everywhere.

"Damn it," she mutters. "Seven years bad luck. Just what I need."

My two companions are not reflected in the broken mirror glass. I deliberately step on a shard. I feel no pain, nor do I leave a bloody foot print. I wave my hand in front of the nurse's face. She stares straight through me. I really am dead.

As the angel of death unfurls her wings, I wonder why it seemed so important a few minutes ago for me to hang on. Mother and Jerry and the kids will live their lives. Now, I have to live my death.

Find more by McCamy Taylor in the Author Index.

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