IMPATIENT PATIENT

Most people would agree that committing suicide is cowardly, but I can’t entirely agree. I’m sure it requires a lot of guts to do it. Other people would say you’re a coward if you commit suicide, but if you did, why would you care what they think if you’re already dead?


Of course, I’m not an expert on the subject. I would have to kill myself to be an expert, but then, I wouldn’t. I’d just be dead. One thing’s for sure. You’d be a coward if you killed yourself to avoid confronting personal problems. There’s nothing brave about it.


Before discovering my illness, my wife and I shared many happy years. But then, as often happens, we disagree about our desires and goals. We began to spend time apart, even in the same house. The incompatibility grew, pushing us further apart.


I began to think, ‘What if I’d taken the other path? What if I had said yes to my other option, to the other candidate I had before we met each other?’


My wife was probably having similar thoughts.


Deep inside, I wanted her to love me back again and show me more love, but perhaps I was getting what I deserved. Our love didn’t disappear entirely. We just became reluctant to show our love. It became a stupid game of “if you don’t show your love, I won’t show mine.”


Eric, my doctor, had dated my wife before I married her, but we continued our friendship. He was a good friend. I trusted Eric with my life, and I was sure he was doing his best to save me, even if I was beyond salvation.


I knew he was doing his best for his other patients, too, so that removed the label of being a ‘special case’ from me. Undoubtedly, his compassion and desire to lessen my suffering were sincere.


I didn’t want anyone to notice my pain and desperation because I didn’t want anybody’s forced compassion. I got depressed thinking about my hopeless situation. It was almost constant. I often cried when I was alone. Solitude brought pain to my soul. It reminded me of the cruel reality. But being alone was my preferred choice, so my pain was constant. The only consolation I had was that my pain was only mental.


Absurd thoughts came to my mind often, too. One day, I wished I could die before my life ended. As silly as it sounds, that would have been perfect.


I felt like I was drowning, and people were throwing heavy anchors trying to save me. I also thought of asking God for a miracle, but it was useless because I knew he had already sealed my fate.


My wife was a good person with a great heart. It was all my fault that her exuberant love for life decreased with time. She was a better person before she met me. I felt responsible for her change, and I would take all the blame for that.


I wasn’t feeling sick when my wife, Lydia, told me she had made an appointment for my annual check-up. Eric called me a few days later to let me know the results were ready.


My wife was with me when Eric broke the bad news to me. He said I had probably less than a year left. Eric mentioned how long I had had it, the treatment involved, the drugs I needed to take, and its side effects. He said it was aggressive and advanced. My head was spinning the whole time. I also heard he mentioned a horrible word, ‘cancer’.


My world fell apart.


Eric was a couple of inches taller than I. He had an athletic build, was handsome, and smart, too.


One day, as I was waiting for a doctor’s appointment. I noticed a little church near the doctor’s office and decided to talk with God. I’ve never been a religious man, but my declining health was screaming for help.


A non-believer shouldn’t ask for miracles, but I did anyway. The empty church looked comforting. I came in and knelt.


“I came to ask for an extension. I don’t want to leave this world. You’re asking me to vacate your property, but I refuse to comply with your decision. What are you going to do about it?”


No, that was wrong. I needed to approach the situation differently, doing so with humility.


“I love the life you gave me. Please, don’t take it so soon. You can come up with a trick or two. Let me wake up and find my predicament was just a dream. Or make the nurse realize her mistake — she just took a medical record from another patient.”


I felt like a hypocrite. How can I convince God if I can’t even convince myself? I know I’m not good enough to influence his decisions, but I am not bad enough to deserve such a fate. I just wanted God to postpone my death for another thirty years.


I wish I didn’t know I was dying.


I finally became a selfish bastard, always wishing good things for myself. That was probably the reason God wasn’t listening.


A priest came out of the confession booth a few feet from the pew, scaring me a little.


“I’m sorry, son, I overheard your conversation. Do you want to confess? I’m sure God can help you.”


“No, father, I have a dentist appointment. It’s getting late.”


“Are you leaving?” the priest asked.


“Yes, I’m leaving this world soon. A confession won’t help.”


“God works in mysterious ways. What’s your affliction?”


I’ve always disliked the phrase: “God works in mysterious ways.” It sounded so hollow.


“I want to communicate with God, but without any mysteries.”


“I hear the anger in your voice. Tell me, what’s wrong?”


“Nobody can help me, Father. I’m dying, and there’s no solution. Unless he grants me a miracle.” I pointed to God on the cross. “It would be a miracle if He granted a miracle.”


“Nobody can belittle God. He was our creator,” the priest said.


“If he created me, he’s reclaiming me too soon. I think I’ve been robbed, and God appears to be the thief.”


“We’re all passing by on this earth. We should all be thankful He’s allowing us to be here, even briefly. Remember, in heaven, you’ll be happy for an eternity.”


“That doesn’t sound too convincing. I still think God is unfair.”


When I stepped out of the church, the cold air burned my eyes. Crying was always useless, too.


We all have a special friend we can trust with our deepest secrets. A friend you can call to bail you out of jail at three am, one you can trust with your medical history, one who’ll never betray you, even if you tell him you just killed somebody, a friend who will never hurt your feelings.


Daniel was that kind of friend to me. He didn’t belong to my social group, but we confided in each other about things I wouldn’t discuss with anyone.


He knew I was dying. He knew about my fears and thoughts of death and suicide. He knew more about me than my mother. He knew how much I loved life. He would do anything for me, and I would do the same for him.


He tried to convince me to avoid my ominous, abnormal desires in many ways.


He gave me many reasons not to do it. He even made a list of beautiful things I could appreciate and enjoy. He often said I shouldn’t do it for my kids, which made me more miserable.


After many interminable conversations, he realized how serious I was about committing suicide and how impossible it would be to convince me not to do it.


One day, while playing pool, Daniel asked. “Wouldn’t it be great if you could inherit skills or knowledge from someone who just died?”


“What would you like to inherit from me?” I said.


“I admire many things you do, but I’d like to shoot pool like you. I can never beat you. And you don’t even seem to try hard.”


“I’d be glad to transfer all my skills to you. Under six feet of dirt, I won’t be able to use them. I wonder if worms can be friendly.”


We always ended up talking about depressive stuff, mostly about my constant sorrows and my death wish.


“Nothing would make me happier than to help you get rid of the extra weight you’re carrying,” Daniel said.


“Our conversations are therapeutic. Sometimes I wish you had a huge problem so I could help you, but why would I wish you had problems, too? It makes no sense.”


“If I put myself in your position, I know I couldn’t be brave enough to handle it,” he said.


“I can’t stay longer, and I can leave sooner. What a dilemma.”


“I would trade my life for yours just to see you happy. Please tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just tell me,” he said.


Before leaving, he gave me a gun he had in his car. He said he had it in the glove compartment for two months. He also gave me a warm embrace. I bet he knew I wouldn’t use it.

*****

Our kids were the glue that kept us together. I could never be thankful enough for such blessings.


When I learned about my medical condition, my world turned upside down. Then, I realized I should have been a better father. I thought I had all the time in the world to do that. I wanted to fix that, but my priorities changed. After that, I only worried about the little time I had left. And I felt much worse.


After receiving the devastating news from the doctor, I began to make appointments and get disappointed. After bad news, there were worse news, but I never heard of best-case scenarios.


Losing my patience became the norm. I hated waiting in line for any reason. At the bank, restaurant, and the movies, the worst was waiting for my death to arrive.


One time, I received a call from the dentist’s office. They needed to cancel my appointment.


What the hell? It was like postponing an execution to the electric chair because the sentenced person had a toothache. They could only put him to death if he were completely healthy. Can you find a worse contradiction?


Anyway, why would I need perfect teeth anymore?


My physical condition had not changed. My body showed no signs of deterioration yet. Only my mind had taken a beating.


Unnoticed by family and friends, I was constantly watching clocks and calendars. Birthdays, anniversaries, and vacations worried me too. I was concerned that time was passing by so quickly.


If you don’t know you’re dying, you don’t worry about death.


Because of my imminent, gloomy fate, I began to feel immense love for my wife again. I wanted to share more years with her and grow old with her. Even with ten more years, I could do more things than I’ve done so far. I would get rid of all my faults and defects, that’s for sure. I would worship my wife again. Like when I first met her. I would make every minute of my life count.


It was ironically sad that I had a doctor’s appointment on my birthday.


When you have a death sentence, you can’t celebrate birthdays because you think that might be the last. They always turn into sad events.


When I saw Eric, he looked serious. His face had a restrained smile, almost invisible. My wife grabbed a chair and set it beside Eric’s desk.


I felt a bit jealous. Eric and my wife looked like the perfect couple—my wife had a beautiful smile.


“We have good news,” my wife said.
She seemed to be struggling to find the right words to continue.


“What I’m about to say will be a shock, but you must promise you’ll react maturely. Promise?”


What could they possibly consider good news in my fatalistic case? Has someone discovered a drug or vaccine to cure my disease? Were they going to confess their love for each other? That wouldn’t be good news, so I immediately discarded that horrific thought. I quit wondering about stupid assumptions.

“I promise,” I said.


“Don’t speak until I finish,” she paused again. “You are healthy. You were never sick. I planned it all to prevent our marriage from ending. I did it because I was afraid of losing you. I couldn’t imagine life without you. For me, losing your love was the same as you dying, and I didn’t want any of that. I wanted your love. I had to get your love back. Will you forgive me? Can you love me as you did before? I knew you could think about suicide. It was risky. So, I had to stop. I saw you suffering so much. Can you forgive me?”


I could have had a heart attack and died right there. Instead, I kissed my wife. How could I feel mad about it? How could I say it was a terrible, sadistic joke? It was a miracle, nothing but a miracle. My heart was joyful; my soul couldn’t hold so much happiness.


Then I remembered my visit to that little church and my talk with God.


I knew I had to return immediately and offer him my repentance and appreciation. The only place I wanted to be at that moment was in that little church.


My wife and Eric were baffled by my sudden desire to be elsewhere.


On my way to church, I kept thinking about how fortunate I was to have my life back. Then I thought I never had a death sentence and never needed a miracle.

But it was a miracle, and nothing would change my mind about it.


The church had become a beautiful shelter. I realized I was another insignificant mortal eternally grateful to a Supreme Being. The rest of my life would never be enough to show how thankful I was to be allowed a little more time on this earth. I was born again.

With the greatest fervor I had ever felt, I spoke to God:

“I know I’ll never find the proper way to express my gratitude, but I promise you I’ll never doubt your existence again, and I can assure you we’ll be friends for as long as I live.”


When I left the church, my soul was at peace. I was the happiest man on earth.


When descending those steps in front of that little church, I heard something that sounded like a firecracker. Then, I felt a slight pain in my chest.


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my good friend Daniel with a gun in his hand.


Before I could react, I heard another shot.


And that was the last thing I heard.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Aug-2011