They wheeled her chair through the dimly lit corridors of the regional hospital.
«Where to?» one nurse whispered to another. «General ward, maybe? Not private?»
A flicker of worry stirred in me. «Why general when theres a private one available?»
The nurses exchanged a glancesoft, pityingand for a moment, I didnt understand. Only later would I learn: the private room was for the dying. A place to spare the others the sight.
«The doctor said private,» the nurse repeated.
Relief settled over me. When I finally sank into the bed, an odd peace washed through my bones. No more obligations, no more running. The weight of the world had slipped from my shoulders. I felt detached, floating, indifferent to whatever chaos unfolded beyond those walls.
Nothing mattered. No one.
I had earned this rest.
And it was good.
Alonejust me, my soul, my life. No more noise, no more urgency. All those frantic little struggles seemed laughable now, meaningless against the vastness of what waited beyond.
ThenLife roared back.
Suddenly, everything was achingly beautiful: the birdsong at dawn, the slow creep of sunlight across the wall, the golden leaves tapping the window, the deep blue of autumn sky. The hum of the waking citycar horns, the click of heels on pavement, the whisper of falling leaves.
Oh, God, how glorious it all was.
And Id only just realised it.
«Fine,» I told myself. «But at least I *have* realised. And Ive got a few days left to savour it, to love it with everything Ive got.»
The joy inside me needed release. I turned to Godcloser now than ever.
«Thank You,» I whispered, laughing. «Thank You for letting me see how beautiful life is. For letting me love it. Even if its just before the end, at least I *know* now.»
A quiet euphoria filled meserene, boundless. The air itself seemed thick with golden light, heavy with love. It pulsed like an ocean wave, slow and luminous. Everything I saw shimmered with it.
I *loved*.
And it was like Bachs organ thundering in my veins, a violins melody soaring toward heaven.
The private room, the diagnosisacute leukaemia, stage fourthe doctors grim certaintyit all had its perks. Visitors came and went freely. Family gathered, preparing for the worst.
I watched their strained faces, their clumsy words. What do you say to someone who knows theyre dying?
But I was *happy*.
When else would I see them all like this? And all I wanted was to share this love, this wild, blazing joy. So I told jokes, stories, anything to make them laugh.
By the third day, I was bored. I got up, wandered to the window.
The doctor nearly fainted.
«You cant walk!» she hissed.
«Why not?»
«Your bloodworkits *corpse* levels. You shouldnt even be *alive*!»
Four daysmy supposed limitcame and went. I ate bananas and ham with relish. The doctor scowled at my unchanged tests, my stubbornly pinkish blood. She muttered theories under her breath.
One morning, she burst in, wild-eyed.
«How are you *doing* this?!»
«Doing what?»
«Your bloodworkits *normal* now!»
I shrugged. «No idea. Does it matter?»
They moved me to the general ward.
Five women lay there, silent, facing the walls, drowning in their own misery.
I lasted three hours.
Then I hauled a watermelon onto the table, sliced it open, and announced, «This helps with chemo nausea.»
The scent of crisp winter air filled the room. One by one, they crept over.
«Really?»
«Absolutely,» I said, mouth full.
Crunching echoed through the ward.
«It *does* work,» murmured the woman by the window.
Soon, laughter followed.
At 2 AM, a nurse scolded us. «Youre keeping the whole floor awake!»
Three days later, the doctor hesitated.
«Could you switch rooms?»
«Why?»
«Everyone in here is improving. The next ward is full of critical cases.»
«No!» my roommates cried. «She stays.»
So I stayed.
Soon, others drifted injust to sit, to talk, to laugh. I knew why.
Love lived here.
It wrapped around everyone like sunlight, warm and safe.
My favourite was a sixteen-year-old Bashkir girl, a white scarf knotted at her neck, ends sticking up like rabbit ears. Lymph node cancer. At first, I thought shed forgotten how to smile.
Then, one daya shy, dazzling grin.
«The medicines working,» she whispered. «Im getting better.»
We threw a party. The doctor on duty gaped at us.
«Thirty years here,» he muttered. «Never seen anything like this.»
He left. We laughed until our sides hurt.
I read books, wrote poems, watched the world from the window. I *loved* everythingthe pages, the juice, the women beside me, the old tree outside.
The doctor avoided me, baffled.
«Your haemoglobins *twenty points* above normal,» she snapped once. «Stop whatever youre doing.»
When discharge day came, she sighed.
«Shame youre leaving. Weve still got so many sick ones.»
Our entire ward had recovered. Deaths in the unit had dropped by 30%.
Life went on.
But I saw it differently nowas if from above, the scale shifted.
The meaning was simple: *Love*.
Thats all.
Do that, and the world opens. Wishes come trueif theyre made with love. No lies, no envy, no bitterness.
Easy.
And impossible.
But its trueGod *is* love.
You just have to remember.
