Today

I feel the smell of medicine and decay as I exit the elevator. There is movement in the corridor. People dressed in blue walk slowly. White scrubs rush their way between calls and alarms. I feel like someone forced to attend the opera while having a perforated eardrum. I have been here before and don't want to return, but they told me it might be my last opportunity, so here I am. It's funny how we react to the last chance when we should have paid more attention to all the years before today. But this is not about what happened; it's about today. I walk to the desk, where a blond nurse looks at me, almost surprised about having someone before her. I ask for a room number, my father's. She asks me his name, and when she hears it, she does not need to look at the computer. She tells me to continue walking. His room is the last in the corridor. As I reach the door I see my aunts and one of my uncles."He's sleeping," says one of them.

"He might not wake up. We're waiting for the doctor," says someone else. 

Everything around us is white. There is so much light crossing the glass that the linens seem to shine. It hurts my eyes, but I keep on walking in his direction. His sisters let me walk by his side, but no one leaves the room. He does not seem peaceful; it seems he is trying to run away from this room, from his own body. I know he's not sleeping. He's in an induced coma. I'm standing by his side, but no one leaves the room, and I don't have the strength to tell them to disappear. That's what I want and need, but no one cares about my needs or wishes. I'm not the one that matters. He is, even if he seems to be gone.

I need to tell him how unfair this is. His family is dragging me across the world to see this. He isn't. He does not care what happens to me after today. Selfish. I want to scream at him. I want to hug him. I want to have what I can't. But I don't matter- not today. Today is about him.

A woman in a white coat arrives in the room with some papers in her hands. She asks for the responsible adult, someone to sign, to consent. She says it's time to disconnect the machines and explains how things will go afterward. It's the right thing to do, the humane way to deal with this. It can take minutes, hours, or days. Each body is different.

Body. He's just a body.

I move to the other side of his bed and realize I haven't even touched his hand. I try to move my hand towards his, but now, too many people are around, even more than before. I don't know many of them, friends I've never met. Someone tells me how much he loved me, and I wonder when or how he said such a thing. Nothing matters. Not today.

Loved. He said he loved me.

My aunts are discussing music. Someone says he'll pick up his favorite CD and a player. And candles. A woman I don't know wants to bring candles. I want to hug my father, but the room looks like an ant farm: too many people are moving, and now I am trapped in a corner. The doctor walks towards the machine and switches it off. There are no more beeps, but there is no silence either. I want to speak with him, but nothing makes sense anymore. All I hear is names of bands, types of candles, and a discussion about the blinders in the room. He does not care about that. I don't either. I look at his pale face. His skin is almost transparent, and his eyes are closed but seem bigger. His fingers are skinny. His body seems like someone else's. Around us, there is only noise, and I cover my ears with my hands.  

The doctor leaves the room, and some others follow her. There is less noise. I feel better. I look at him, and before I can say anything, he looks at me. He opens his mouth and gasps. His fingers grab the bedsheet, and I step back. He keeps on gasping, looking for air. This is not calm, this is not peaceful, not humane... My aunt pushes me over and hugs him while yelling for help. My back is against the window. People rush in and out of the room, and I move towards the door, slowly. I look at him and see his hands trembling. A woman cries, another shouts. The nurses in the corridor urge everyone to calm down. The patients in other rooms are starting to cry. I leave the room, with my back still against the wall, and collapse. I sit on the cold floor and break crying. My chest hurts. My eyes burn. My throat is closed. I cannot breathe... and no one sees me. I think I'm going to die in that corridor. My head is about to explode, and my hands shake so much that I cannot even clean the tears on my face. 

Someone stops in front of me. I see the shiny black shoes and look up, but he is too tall. I cannot see his face. He lifts me, and I can see him, recognize him. I had not seen that man, my godfather, since I was a little girl. I cannot stop crying, but I manage to say something:

"He's gone." 

He hugs me. He is so tall and big that I feel tiny between his arms. I am crying and trembling, and his jacket is now all wet because of me.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He keeps me in his arms while nurses argue with family members, and a new cry starts by the door. Grandma. A mother and a daughter, each crying on one side of the door. It's almost poetic.

"It will end soon." He tells me.

But I wonder if this ends like this. Today.