I am slowly becoming aware of reality and leaving the world of dreams. I recognize the sound of wheels scratching the floor while the sound of metal is heard on them in which I recognize cutlery. I can now imagine myself being approached by serving carts that bring with them different scents of morning food and drink together raising the murmurs of human voices of other comrades.
“Good morning!” – I recognize the nurse’s voice.
I refuse the order and turn in bed carefully enjoying the pleasant feeling of the half-sleep state. A limbo state that still calls me into a world without pain and suffering. I try to take as much time as I can so as not to wake up in a bizarre reality where the only possible choice is simply to accept.
“Come on, breakfast!”
At the second shout I notice that I have to get up. There is no point in waiting any longer. Things need to be accepted. I open my eyes.
The whiteness of the room envelops me and in the middle of it I see a yellow stand, a moving table and a blue appearance that follows me with a stern look. The yellow stand is right next to my bed. That 3-wheeler load that I can’t get rid of. At its top drips a clear and cold liquid that enters my bloodstream and freezes my veins.
Gradually I get up in a sitting position. I look at the familiar blue phenomenon. She watched intently as that bald thirteen-year-old boy prepared to determine his next step. He was wearing colorful pajamas that remained on him all day in that situation.
After thinking for a while, I decide to ignore the already familiar feeling of nausea in my throat. Feeling as if an empty stomach wants to turn around. A feeling that pushed and overcame other needs. Which paralyzed. A feeling that provided despair.
“Marmalade and tea.” I say firmly.
I push the moving table close to me so I can sit on the bed and eat. I get all the necessary ingredients and the blue entity disappears from my vicinity. I take the knife and begin to slowly dip the knife into the jam and shape it into a thin surface on the bread that was on the plate. For some reason, it provided a certain kind of comfort. I had a feeling I had at least control over that action.
I take the marmalade, I spread.
I feel a growing aversion to that little piece of bread that turns purple.
I take, I spread.
Give up?
I take, I spread.
Bread and marmalade unite and become my main enemies.
I take, I spread.
“Something will stay inside you already” – A voice in my head echoed.
I take, I spread. I take, I spread. I take…
No more marmalade.
I look at my masterpiece with utter contempt, aware that after a short time it will become just one mixed fluid in the kidney tray. That metal twisted container that wants to be touched as little as possible because that would mean that the insane body gave in to all those toxins that were pushed into it to return it to normal state. I look at the enemy and sighed deeply.
“At least something will stay in me” – said the voice in my head
I collect the remnants of my will and I try to manage and control my body. With utter disgust, I take that piece of purple whiteness and bring it to my mouth.
Bite.
I move my jaw while the fight lasts. I destroy my work of art which, despite my aversion, I accept. Suddenly, I feel a wave of lifting all over my body. Everything wants to jump out of me.
I stop. Deep breath… And exhale. Easier.
I continue to move my jaw carefully. I shift the lump to the other side of mouth. The disgusting sweetness mixes in my mouth and becomes more and more watery.
Now is the time. I swallow. And I feel food traveling down my esophagus to my stomach that is tired of food, that has lost its basic function, and that doesn’t seem to be a part of my body. I look at the rest of the food. What to do? Give up?
In normal situations, this dish becomes a pleasure. In a normal situation someone can’t wait to eat a delicious slice of marmalade. Some time ago, I could hardly wait for it. And ungratefully enjoyed all the charms of my senses that brought me pleasure. We sat at breakfast me, dad, mom, sister… There was laughter. There was hope that life was only happiness and that horrible forces did not exist. We felt that we were separated from the fact that our whole world and the reason for our existence could collapse at any moment. How naive we were.
“There will always be at least something left in you.” – Suddenly those words echo from an unknown source. I return to the present.
“The sooner I do that, the sooner the torment will be over.” – I try to motivate myself and gather strength. Deep breath… Exhale.
I take the bread in my hand and start biting. I take one piece. I chew and stretch, I bite, I swallow… Second… Fifth. The tenth piece. I take the last atoms of my strength to chew and swallow as quickly as possible. Empty hand. Still a bit sticky from the traces of marmalade. I succeeded. It’s over.
But I notice inside the creepy disgust that I feel when the food in my stomach starts to stir. The vortices and cramps in it create restlessness that makes me instinctively look at the metal kidney tray. That last line of defense. The stomach stops cooperating and starts giving up. He doesn’t agree with me.
Ah… How could he not after all he had chewed. I remember a time when there were 25 pills a day each of which is smaller than an ant, and each of which provides confirmation of acceptance of that unjust condition that is happening to me. Unfairly. Why me? Did I wish someone bad?
Worst of all, you can’t even blame anyone. A feeling of extreme sadness overwhelms me. I lower my head. I look down. All my friends are playing now. The sister is having fun. Everyone is fine at school now. This is where I should be now. But now I am in a struggle for my life. All alone.
Suddenly I feel vibrations not far from me. I recognize the sound of my cell phone on which a message came. I look.
“It’s mom. Son, hold on, we’re with you.
And with those words, I realize how selfish I really was and how there has always been someone by my side. Mom, dad, sister, family. I remember friends from elementary school, who called me. I’m not alone. They all support me, hold me and invite me to join them. This, however, is only a short-term phase to be pushed through. That’s how I should think.
Still, the hardest thing is to put the hope in the wait when every day seems the same in that endless loop.
I straighten up. I feel that the inevitable is coming and that I have no choice but to accept the situation. The restlessness gets bigger as I start to feel food coming up my throat. Already at the first sign of a familiar instinct, I take the kidney and decide to cooperate with the stomach. My stomach clenched abruptly and in the next moment everything in it moved into that metal container I kept under my head. I moved it on the table. I push the table away. I decided to lay on my bed.
I close my eyes. How much longer will it take? Nobody knows. No one knows what’s going on. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, nor what happened. And what date is today anyway? I decide to look at the date on my cell phone. Ah…
Exactly one year. Twelve months of fighting in which the war has not yet been won. Everyday struggles and pain in walking, brushing teeth, showering, moving, watching, sleeping. 365 days in which every little hope meant survival. It means re-believing that life has meaning. Even though dreams seem distant and unreal, that was sometimes the only thing we can do. Dream. To dream that it will be better. To dream of the transience of bad things and to direct hope to the sky that stretches across the entire horizon that overlooks the other side of that window glass.
I imagine myself standing at the other side in the future and laughing. I tell myself it’s just an instructive part of my life. I put on a slight smile.
“At least there’s something left in me,” I tell myself.
Now that after more than ten years, I find myself on the other side of that window glass, it’s hard to believe that that was me. Over time, I have learned to accept and embrace my 13-year-old self, and those memories seem so distant and somewhat unreal, as this present moment was unreal to me then.
Despite everything, I am grateful and appreciative of this 13-year-old. He left me the most important thing. The written emotions stopped in time. Diary. Reading it always brings to me questions of life and death, meaning, and reality. Gives me creepy moments and tingles, but also moments of laughter.
Every time I read it, I am amazed because I realize how my 13-year-old self always shows me life lessons and guides me on the right path.