“Life is pleasant, Death is peaceful; its the transition that’s troublesome” – Isaac Asimov.
The hospital is a contradictory world; it is filled with things like: sadness and laughter, sane and insane people, life and death, healthy and sick people, cyanide and morphine et al. I hate being there, especially because of the awful smell and the sight of blood. But there comes a time when you become helpless and against all odds you find yourself there; on a white sheet with monitors beeping around you, and that drip that keeps dropping bit by bit into you through the intravenous needle inserted in your hand. Sometimes you wish you could open the valve that controls its flow and the whole thing rushes off.
The night is usually long off, hearing the amplified sounds of drip as they drop from the receptacle. It seems they would never finish dropping. You hear the voice of the nurses from the reception as they giggle and told gossips about almost everyone they knew.
I want to live, enjoy life when it is really worth it. I have gone through long years of work, and its now time to rest; to enjoy the fruits of my Labour. I sometimes wonder why some people try to kill themselves when there is a lot to enjoy in the world; sometimes, they fail and they end up in the hospital with all those smell and those chalks they call drugs surrounding them.
The truth is that; this has not always being my thought. I was once like them; losing all hopes and wanting to die. Let me tell you my little story
I am like a rodent who has worked tirelessly throughout the summer burying food for the winter with a rested heart. All of a sudden at the beginning of spring while stretching in the grass on a bright morning, an eagle came along carrying the rodent off as a food.
The truth is that I had always wanted to die. I have had a rough life; a life in which poverty was me!
One day while alone in my one room apartment which I owned rent. I had kept begging my landlord, thanks to my sugar-coated mouth which I had been able to push forward empty promises for the past two years to my landlord. It was during this period my mother died. There was no way out; I wasn’t expecting any money soonest, I didn’t even have a JOB.
I found a fibre rope and made a knot with it, and then I tied it to the ceiling. I was going to hang myself! My landlord was coming that day. I had nothing to give him, and I can’t bear the realities of being thrown out to live on the streets. I had to die, after all there was nothing to live for.
My eyes began to drip close. The fibre grip around my neck was increasing in stiffness. For a second I wished I hadn’t hanged myself, but there was no going back now because I had pushed the chair off my foot. I couldn’t just remember what happened next, all I saw afterwards was blank. I was surrounded by white clouds, with joyful voices calling my name and telling me to come closer.
Suddenly I heard a harsh voice from my back. I opened my eyes wide. It was my landlord; he was shouting
” Give me my money before you die o”
The news spread like wild fire. Everyone coming forth to see me with their eyes, soon I became a public child; a child for all to cater for and that was how I met the man that helped me.
The truth is that wasn’t the only time I tried killing myself. I had tried the same stupid trick two years earlier.
Death has always being something that draws fantasy to me. It is as if I am a prostitute and my sex was DEATH. I always wanted to die; to me there was no much to live for. You know a life void of money is no life at all; that was my thought then, and I am sure that’s what many people still think till now, but their is a real deception in that.
It happened a long time ago. I guess it was in part two at the university. Then all was blank; I had no money, my CGPA was crashing down at a rocket speed. I must confess I was on probation.
I had known cyanide for some time now. I was used to reading Agatha Christie and her novels, so the uses of cyanide, arsenic, and thallium as a lethal poison were not new to me. I read in a book of history how Hitler killed himself while he bit a cyanide pill and subsequently shot himself with a pistol. The thing is that getting a cyanide or arsenic pill wasn’t an easy thing. Toxic chemicals like that have serious rules their restricting sale.
Luck did shine on me during chemistry practical on toxicity. We were asked to see the action of Arsenic, Cyanide and some other Elements I can’t recall now. I was smart to slip two pills of cyanide inside my pocket.
The zeal to kill myself wasn’t coming forth that night. It wouldn’t be until two weeks later when I collected my previous semester result that I tried the infamous stunt. Don’t let me say what my result was like. I just walked into my hostel room and locked myself in. I went to my wardrobe and took out the pills. There wasn’t anyone I suppose cared for me. So there was no need for a suicide note.
I took the cyanide pills; it was supposed to disrupt my cells ability to produce ATP leading to asphyxiation, but the result was terrifying. The goddam laboratory technician must have deceived us during the practical. We must have been given nauseating pills instead of cyanide pills. No wonder why the rats didn’t die that day. I spent the whole day in toilet; my bowels turned to musicians and they blew trumpets with my anus. The death I so much fantasised became a thing of hate because of the pain associated with it.
It had been 72 hours since I slumped while playing with my daughter. You should know that she is only three years of age. She is my joy and my only heir. It is very tiring out here, with the odd looking faceless monitors with beeps all-over them. The doctors kept coming and going, examining my eye, nose, and all sort of physical hypothetical test. It was my joy that they diagnose what was wrong with me, so I could go back and enjoy my life while it last with all these accrued wealth.
Today the doctor called my wife from my side and they went away for a very long time. The doctor entered first and he told me to take heart. I was using an extra life he said. I have less than two months to live. I would be bed-ridden for those two months, as my paralysis the doctor said “cannot be healed”.
I want to live, enjoy life when it is really worth it. It had been long years of work, and its now time to rest; to enjoy the fruits of my labour. But then life and death can be so funny. Both are at peace, but the transition is the problem. I that wanted to kill myself many years ago have now become one who is willing to pay the mercenary angels for protection if they do exist. They don’t exist I gather.
I close my eyes and wait for the angel of death to strike……