Fear of Our Own Mortality
It may not be on your top five but maybe not much more has provoked the imagination in the human mind than the fear or at least awareness of one’s own mortality. In dealing with an unprecedented world pandemic and growing numbers forced to stay indoors, isolate, even not touch outside objects–let’s take a minute to think about the worse. (You may say you don’t fear death but fear the death of your loved ones. Fair enough. But for the sake of contemplative writing here–let’s stop to think about it.)
You are going to write a letter (rant, personal essay, long unwieldy free form verse) to your community (beloved, children, pet, peers, etc.). One day you have a dry couch, a high fever follows. You are taken to a hospital. You walk in but immediately are wrapped up, hooked up, carried off. You may not look back. There’s no opportunity to say good-bye, give instructions, put things in order. You are about to be put under so there isn’t much time to think about those things. What are the thoughts racing through your mind as they wheel you through the hall?
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Yolanda Orozco March 31, 2020 - 05:40
Things have been blurry the past few days. I felt like shit. I had a temperature, but it went away. Then came back. Somehow I made it here. Where am I again? I look around. I’m on a hospital gurney.
I can’t speak. I realize I have a tube down my throat. F***. It’s choking me. I want to talk. I want to tell the nurse to call my dad. But I can’t get any words out. I’m choking. It hurts. I try to get the nurses attention. Too weak. They’re wheeling me down a hall. They’re talking to each other. Look at me. I’m here. I’m awake. Look at me. Please.
As if she read my mind, a nurse looks down, and I open my eyes as wide as I can. She tells me I am OK. Eyes wide again. Look down. Try to move fingers because some part of me hopes she can read sign language. All I know are letters though. She yells to have someone get restraints. “She’s trying to tear out her tube!”
No! I scream in my head. No! Eyes open wide at her again frantically moving left to right to yell NO with them. She looks closer. I look down towards my mouth and then at her. Again, look down at my mouth and then at her.
Finally, it clicks with her. “Is the tube choking you, hun?” Frantically, I bob my eyes up and down and then look at her. Please help me. She places her hand on my heart and tells me, “Honey, we can’t take the tube out. You’ll die without it. Its breathing for you.”
What?! What!? What did she just say? And then the coughing starts. I feel like someone is holding me underwater. I can’t catch my breath. Cough. I want to tell my dad I love him and thank him for teaching me so much and being my Apa. Surfacing. Cough. Thank him for letting me fall and learn to pick myself up on my own.
Frantically, I look at the nurse. Please help me. I plead with my eyes. Then, I’m pushed back down underwater and the coughing starts again. I want to tell my step-mother, my second Ama, how much I love her and thank her for taking care of me after my car wreck, (Cough) and then offering to take care of my mom before she died.
Struggling to breathe. I want to tell my sister that I love her and no matter what her inner voice tells her, she is strong.
Surface again and I feel lightheaded. I feel like I am going to faint. I struggle to stay here. I want to tell my brothers to love hard, love deep, take care of their health, take care of the family, and I love them.
Another wave of coughs force me underwater again. Coughing. I feel as if I am in a whirlpool. I’m spinning around in this underwater tornado, and I see my mom on the opposite side. She reaches out for me. I can’t. I want to. I’m torn. Someone please tell my partner that I love him, and I pray that he can heal his heart from all of the pains that he suffered before me.
I surface again. Eyes open, a sea of white coats surround my gurney. The white sea parts and I see him dressed in black, and I know why he is here. I’m Ok. I’m Ok. I’m Ok. And then I’m being held underwater again. Wave upon wave of coughing. Struggling. The whirlpool envelops me. Ama smiles and hugs me, and I am at peace.