Feeble beams from the sun try to slowly penetrate the thick fog stubbornly hanging from the saturated atmosphere. The dense barrier formed, hinders the perfect view of a beautiful sunrise; the kind where one completely loses oneself in the silence and serenity, the type where one weaves a cocoon around one’s body yet feels the feathery touch of the cool breeze. Envisioning this perfect picture only leaves me paining, pining.
It’s almost five now. For about an hour I have been waiting, beside the window, for Dawn, tightly wrapped in a cashmere shawl. The layers of wool protecting my body from the cold are gradually becoming less successful. The cold pricks at my bones. I wail silently. The painkillers are giving in too; I can feel it.
Winter is at its extreme now; it’s easy to decipher from the dimly lit sky. I lie down again. The task is harder than I remember. I am still awaiting Dawn. It’s late. I fear the day when it won’t show up. I pray for that to not happen. With whatever energy I have left, I feed a soft but burning fire of hope – that Dawn shall come.
I must have fallen asleep, for I wake to the sharp smell of medicine, bright white lights and the lifeless white walls of a familiar room. The images are all a blur. I remember Dad picking up my fragile body with ease and carrying me downstairs. I remember him stopping at the pharmacy, asking me with that soft, deep voice of his to wait; the next thing I know, I find myself here on the hospital bed, again.
I really don’t like this place. It reminds of death despite the warmth and hospitality of the kind nurses and doctors. I am losing my faith in them; the last time I came in here, they had promised I would feel better. I still don’t.
Chemotherapy doesn’t make it any better. To make things worse, I have lost almost all of my long silky burgundy hair that I took so much pride in. My skin has lost its glaze; it’s pale and lifeless. The other day I looked into a mirror, and the brightness from my eyes had gone too.
I am very impatient. I missed another dawn and that just makes me angry. The doctor said rage is not good for my health condition, and that I should calm down, but at this point fear has taken the best of me. For what if I don’t see Dawn?
My rage against the doctor rises simultaneously with his pretense of understanding my situation, my pain, my desires; I wonder how he can be sympathetic when he is capable of carrying out agile movements with his healthy limbs? How can he comprehend the feeling of being in a gloomy house whose inhabitants had ominous visages, seeing your parents trying hard to hold back their tears every time they look into your eyes? After all, he isn’t the one awaiting Dawn.
Today is one of those countless days that I wait for the rising of the sun. As my heavy head rests on the pillow, I envision the weak limbs of tiny rays stretching out, trying to pierce the fog that stands firmly like my disease. I imagine the fog engulfing the light, the warmth, leaving behind a dark, cold land. The rays put up a fight but are no match for the fog. I plead to God to let the rays prevail, for Dawn to emerge in all its glory, but I think all my prayers are going to be in vain.
The chemos have given in now. So have the other medicines. My body aches to the bones, and the pain is unbearable. I know I won’t see Dawn, or live in its sun’s brightness and warmth. I know that it’s almost Time. Accepting fate is never an easy thing to do, but I am learning to do just that. If realization had come earlier, that the rays will fail, that the fog was unbeatable, then things would have been much easier now.
It’s almost five now. With my faint vision I can trace the outlines of the apartments in the distance, against the cold, dark sky, while the little flame of hope of a miracle still burns at a corner in my heart. Maybe Dawn will show itself today.