Songs of Life

Time is a funny thing. We don't always realize when we're stuck in a moment. We don't always realize when it's passing us by; when we're running out. Yet we always wish for more. Just a few more minutes. One more day, one more year. We never have enough time.

When we’re young, we think we're indestructible. As the years pass us by, we quickly learn that nothing is invincible, except for the ever flowing fabric of time. 

Like most kids, I tried a fair amount of things I was told not to; many things I was told I would regret when I was older. Eventually, I found myself laying in a long-term hospital bed before I had even turned fifty, listening to the sound of machinery keeping me alive;unsure if I would make it any longer.

The staff were quite accommodating, but I could feel their judgment, their disdain. 

He did this to himself.

He’s just facing the consequences of his actions. 

There are people more deserving of our help. 

Maybe if he hadn’t chosen to smoke and drink his life away, he wouldn’t be here. 

I paid their apparent scorn no mind whenever they cared for me. Instead, I wondered if they kept the rooms a pristine white to try to ward off the darkness that seemed to encompass me.

My roommate, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have a judgmental bone in their body. 

They were young, too; younger than me. Eternally cheerful, a perpetual excitement for the day at every waking moment. Even though we rarely left that dreadful white room, smelling of medicines and sickness and disinfectant, they were happy with just trying to keep our window open whenever possible. Even if just a crack to let the sounds of the outside flow in. It seemed to quiet the terrible mechanisms crying out, complaining of how our bodies were struggling to function on their own. Listening to the song nature played just for us seemed to make our mutual coughing a little quieter.

Every so often, I would wake up in the middle of the night from their coughing turning into a proper fit, with nurses quickly shuffling in to help. It happens sometimes. But I felt no pity for them, as they were probably like me, suffering the consequences of their actions.

After their fits were under control, we would both lay there and listen to the other’s wheezing breaths. We both knew the other was awake, but said nothing. Maybe we both found comfort in hearing the other person breathe. Maybe we found comfort in the lack of silence. Neither of us ever brought it to light.

Thankfully, when you're hospitalized for long enough, you become dulled to the sounds of the beeping and whirring. After a certain point they even become a soft lullaby.

In mid-November my health began to take a turn for the better, surprising to all. 

I could feel the contempt the workers had for me grow ever so slightly; they were ready to be rid of me. There was a sour resentment in the room when they would change my sheets,  bring me meals or give me updates. 

Yet the happiness of my roommate only grew. They seemed to be the embodiment of a fresh breeze blowing over a grassy field in this ever dreary hospital. Ever at peace listening to the sounds of the contraptions keeping us alive and the wheezing of our struggling lungs reminding us we cannot live without these tools. 

Though their health seemed to deteriorate by the second, their joy for my progress seemed to have no limits, even as their physical energy was evidently sapped from them minute by minute.

“You’ll be out of here in no time!”

Wheeze.

“What will be the first thing you do when you leave?”

Cough.

“I’m so happy you’re getting better!”

Cough.

At some point, the lump in the pit of my stomach, caused by their constant glee, seemed it would kill me before this sickness would.

“So, what's your story?” I couldn’t hold back the question any longer.

My roommate was looking out the window, watching the droplets slip down the glass and listening to the melody of the rain drowning our troubles.

“How did you end up here?” I clarified my question when they did not move. 

Feebly, they looked at me with a sobering smile. 

A smile?

I admit, I'm paying for my actions, but I'm not proud or happy about it. How can they smile about being here? How can their apparently endless joy even reach this crappy situation they’re in?

“I was born this way.” 

The words were loud against the muffled room. The rain continued to sing its tune outside, and the machines continued their quiet lullaby, but we did not continue the conversation.

There was no good reason for them to be here. They had done nothing worthy of the price they were paying. Yet their contentment was unmistakable as they listened to the songs around us every day.

Something changed in my roommate's demeanor shortly thereafter. We both spoke about the things we would do once we were out, of the places we would go and the people we would meet and the songs we would hear. They were particularly excited to hear the cicadas come summer. We even talked about meeting up again with each other.

But some things aren’t meant to be.

While I grew healthier by the day, my roommate seemed to grow worse by the hour. Soon, they could no longer get out of bed for walks to get some fresh air away from our room. 

Though, even as their life was slipping from them with every breath, they never lost that cheerfulness. 

They would always ask me how it was outside after I'd come back from my walks. We continued to discuss what we would do after we got out. They would tell me about the life they wanted to have. 

This whole time, I've been feeling sorry for myself, listening to only my own pitiful anthem I had brought upon myself. The whole while, this person had never lost their smile, even as they knew that their melody would not leave this hospital bed. 

After one particularly distraught night, I came back from my morning walk to my roommate barely conscious. Their eyelids were heavy and barely open as they struggled to turn their gaze my way; but, they still asked me how my walk was. They still asked me what I saw, what I smelled, what I heard, their eyes already closing again. 

And I began to feel tears slip down my weathered cheeks as I described the color of the now browned grass, how the leaves had all fallen and left the trees bare and how they crunched beneath my feet, how the crisp wind sounded as it made the naked branches dance and whisper. 

There was a moment of silence and my roommate turned their head ever so slightly, the motion seeming to take a great deal of effort, to look into my weeping eyes. And smile at me. This person, who knew they were running out of time, still gave me one of their fleeting moments to reassure me, a pitiful excuse of a human being, with their ever pleasant smile. 

While I had been sitting here wasting my time feeling sorry for myself, sorry for my roommate, they continued to live every day to the fullest. Like it would be their last. And like everyone good, their last came sooner than they deserved.

The empty bed looked so large. The room so quiet. I no longer heard the lullaby of two sets of machinery, just the irritating chimes telling me my pathetic life wasn’t over just yet. 

I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, waiting to hear my roommate's coughing, yet I didn't. 

I did hear their whispers in my mind though. 

“Just focus on breathing.”

“You’ve already come this far, what’s a few more treatments?”

“You’re going to make it through this.”

“Only a little longer now.”

I left the hospital in late April, three months after my roommate had. As I walked out those doors for the last time, I took a deep breath of the fresh air. I could smell the flowers, feel the sun on my skin, hear the chattering of cicadas. It was so much more tumultuous than when we had the window open. So much more deafening.

Even though I may have seemingly paid for my actions, not everyone gets to sing the song of life as long as they deserve, and I will choose to keep performing like it is my last. 

Although in different ways, we both finally left that place. I began to treat every day like the mercy it was. No matter how much we cry, scream, or even beg, we just have to keep hoping for one more minute. One more day. One more year.