I could hear the fluid draining off and the alien glucose flowing profusely across my veins. My father was lying dead to the world on the sofa, while his restless eyes had their gaze fixed on me. I couldn’t sleep. The cannula prevented me from leaning sideways. The doctors had failed to diagnose my illness, the tests and the machines only added to the expenditure. I wanted to cry but feared that it would wake my father. All I could do was to stare at the wall clock, waiting for the nurse to come and pull out the foreign tube from my body, so I could catch some Z’s. Everyday, she would collect a blood specimen for different tests. My hands had become a resort where the needles came for recreation. A part of me would leave the body and accumulate in an injection tube.
I had never been hospitalized before. It was like a prison cell, the room had consumed me. The medicines did make me feel better after three days of my admission, but I had suffered mentally. The sight of my mother failing in her attempts to hide the lachrymose eyes made it worse. All the amenities offered by the hospital failed to ease my torment. The food was tasteless to the tongue. The visitors brought fruits and pale wishes. Texts from my friends didn’t help.
The only thing that kept me going was my family. I wanted to recuperate for them. I couldn’t help but blame myself. I wanted to end the agonizing ordeal they were going through.
I wanted to live for them.
I hadn’t wished for my life so vehemently before.