I honestly don't know why I was inspired to write this but for some unknown reason I was. I'm also not entirely sure that I've got Tara's voice right but I've tried. Reviews are always appreciated and thank you to anyone who reads this.
It's just a bed.
That's what I want to tell them. The people who walk passed it, glancing at it a little sadly; their eyes tracking to the sign behind it. It is still exactly as I left it. A water jug stands on the table, abandoned and forgotten. It doesn't matter anymore, I no longer need it.
On the bedside cabinet, are the gifts; gifts from my families. I was lucky to have so many people around me, prepared to hope on my behalf. For so long I was in denial, frightened to admit the consequence and reality of my diagnosis. Those around me, tried to bring me out of it; to face my truth. And yet in the moments after my denial was shattered, suddenly they developed a blind hope. A blind hope for a miracle; a miracle I knew wouldn't happen.
The memory of the moment is hazy. The moment I realised that I wouldn't survive. That my beautiful new husband would be left a widow after less than 24 hours of marriage; that my parents would lose their daughter. But I knew. I knew that I wouldn't come out of the surgery. I knew it and it pained me that they didn't. That they had hope for my survival; when I knew it was improbable.
But the blind hope spread beyond my parents and my husband. The blind hope extended to colleagues; to the boss who knew the grim reality of my diagnosis to the mentor whose admiration I courted. It's strange to see the people you knew react to your demise. To see the sadness in their eyes, the way their shoulders slump as they whisper the words to those who don't yet know.
But the bed seems to have become some strange monument to me. The way they look at it, almost as if they expect to see me lying there in recovery or sat huddled as I had done before my surgery. The way they slow as they pass by as if whispering a silent prayer.
I have watched them all. My boss, tall and stoic; a man of character with a good heart, though many would doubt it. He is deserving of the respect he commands. His sadness at the news of my death touched me.
Then there is my mentor. Her head bowed slightly, her hair falling slightly in to her face. Behind her, walks a nurse. A truly beautiful man, both inside and out. I can see in the way he moves, watching both her and the bed, how much he cares for her. How he wishes to push the hair from her eyes and take her hand, in a gesture of comfort. She won't let him know, but I can see that she wants it too. Her mouth moves slightly, words I cannot hear but I feel something in the shimmer of my new self. Words of praise not given in life but offered to my memory.
The others come too. Some I worked with only briefly, people I passed on the stairs or talked to in the elevator. But still they come. Heads bowed, words whispered. They talk between themselves. The injustice, the loss of the young.
Then I see her. The auxiliary. She is young but looks stressed. She pushes with her the linen trolley. I probably passed the girl numerous times, as she went about her work but the auxiliaries are skilled at slipping in to the shadows, the background of the ward yet a vital part of its heartbeat.
The young auxiliary shudders as she approaches the bed, behind her a small crowd at the desk watching her movements. She is aware of them, of the whispers and the eyes. She bows her head. I watch as she removes the water jug, emptying it in the sink and then placing it on the trolley.
Slowly she strips the bed, the place where I set. Sheets which still contain elements of the person I was. She works quickly, but there is something respectful. She wipes down the bed, removing traces of me. It's almost as if she is wiping me away. She makes up the bed, quickly. Fresh white sheets, corners crisp and neat.
Her eyes dance between the bedside cabinet and the name board. Slowly she goes to the cabinet, removing the gifts and placing them on the trolley, she'll deal with them later. She checks for any remains of my things but they seem to have gone. Only the gifts remained. They were no longer needed. There was nothing to celebrate.
Then she takes a wipe from her pack and I sense tension. She breathes deeply. Her eyes fixed. She walks to the name board. The last place to contain my name in life. She sighs, her hand moves slowly as she wipes the name away.
The bed is needed for another patient. It is no longer mine. She turns to look at my colleagues, at those wiping tears hastily from their eyes. Some of them try to hide it, while others are not so discreet. They all stand there, on ceremony. Watching as the makeshift memorial point is wiped away. There is another patient, another life which needs to be saved.
It was only a bed. And yet seeing the elements of myself removed, makes me feel more distance, less connected to the place I had been only hours ago. I knew what was going to happen, but now I feel it. I feel my presence fading.
Despite myself, I feel tired. I feel myself pulling away from this place. I close my eyes, blocking the view of the empty bed, the name board wiped clean. I let myself go.
In a few moments, a patient will be wheeled on to the ward. They will be clerked and admitted, they will sit on the empty bed, their name will be written and they will never know; they will never know that the bed was my last physical connection to the world. My heart and my soul was pulled to my family, my husband; and there they will stay as the shimmering form of my body slips away, quietly from the ward and job that I loved.