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Five Months in 1985
I had just been diagnosed with lung cancer, and that I'd have a little over three years to live. I was distraught, confused, desperate, and afflicted with chest pains that would never stop. I had lost all hope and began to contemplate on whether suicide seemed to be a viable option. Or if I had let go of my sanity and was to slowly whither away. I used to lay around at night wondering and balancing my alternatives. I was caught between a rock and a speeding truck. But on one fateful evening in 1985, I was sent to the hospital out of the complexeties of my cancer.
It took almost five months to recover and the results of my numerous testings seemed slightly brighter. But still dimmer than a burning match from miles away. So I would lay in bed for the first three months, wanting to tell the doctors to let me go and fade away in comfort. But those last two months something happened inside of me, a neuron sparked setting fire to my brain. That fire held ideas of hope and change, of life and love, of regrets and joy. For the final months of my stay I asked if I could interveiw other teminally ill people. Seeing that I was still fit enough to walk on my own. I sought to gather their storys before death erased them forever.
My first interveiw was of Miss. Hopa. She was a rather young women, no children, no husband, only her mother to accompany her on her weakest days. She could not easily move and not readily speak. But she had agreed to speak to me as much as she could. She told me of her youthful days, how she wanted to be a judge and serve justice to evil doers throughout the world. How her view of life was so impeccable as a child, and even in her teen years she found it difficult to smudge her perspective of life, even deliberately. I asked her what hope she had for the future, and even though she knew the future held only grim thoughts, she told me she hoped that her mother wouldn't take her death to seriously. She wishes her mother would stop worrying so much and just live life for her. That her brother would surface at least one more time before she passed. I listened and I wrote everything, but a doctor pulled me aside. I told her to wait for me in the morning, that I'll be back. Miss. Hopa died the following night.
Although her death was sad, and she was the only person close to a friend in that hospital, I felt I still had to carry on. So I went on to give Miss. Hopa's mother her interview and left quickly not even letting Mrs. Hopa thank me. As much as I wanted to stay and talk about her daughter, her story was only a small fraction of the history behind that hospital.
Mr. L' Amour was next. He spoke in a very heavy French accent and seemed to age gracefully. He told me he was here because of smoking. He had lung cancer as well but even with that news, continued to smoke despite the risk. I asked him if he cared for his life or his health even the slightest, and his reply was inspiring. He told me although he knew the risk - it was all worth it. It was worth it to meet his lover in a smokey bar in Paris, to share cigarettes and half drunk wine bottles with his lover. To make love and share the end result of that ecstatic moment in a cloud of smoke. Mr. L' Amour had no children as he was sterile, but he also told me his wife was enough to keep him happy in his time of need. He mentioned that if it were not for cigarettes, he may not have walked into that hazy bar on one sunny afternoon. He told me all of this while puffing on a cigarette, hiding it as much as he could from the doctors. He asked me if I wanted one and I politely declined. Soon after a nurse walked in and scolded him like a little boy for smoking. She asked me to leave while she had a long talk with Mr. L' Amour.
As I walked away passed my room I reflected on Mr. L' Amour's attitude toward life and his health. Although he knew he was slowly killing himself, he enjoyed what he loved with someone that he loves so very much. He had no regrets and I bet if he could go back and change anything from the past he would blow smoke in your face. With that thought I continued onto to my next interview.
I had walked into another wing of the hospital, it seemed to be almost empty except for a few nurses tending to very ill adults. Most of whom looked to be in very agonizing pain. The look on many of these patients faces seemed to be that of my own when I used to lay in bed indisposed of my own cancer. I continued down the hall trying my best to ignore their fatigued, almost skeleton like bodies. I made my way toward his room and opened the door, his name was Mr. Nost. It was very difficult to determin his age, his eyes looked young but his body seemed to have aged horrifingly. His skin was thin and papery, his hair like brown metal wire, and his bones shown clearly almost as if they were going to rip through his skin at any moment. His eyes followed me as I took a seat next to him, I took out my pen and pad and began to speak.
Mr. Nost told me of his family, how he divorced his wife after two years, how his children don't care for him much. He told me his father had passed and his mother was in a home for the elderly. He began to ellaborate on his life, he used to drink to much, dabble in drugs and attend leery partys. At some points he was homeless and other points he wandered aimlessly looking for his next fix. In his mind he always thought society saw him as the waste of civilization, but he never cared. But now unlike Mr. L' Amour he wishes he could take back all of his mistakes, all of his regrets. He wishes to replace all of his regrets with joy, wishing he wouldn't have divorced his wife, or take foreign substances. He wishes he could've held onto a normal stable life. But most of all he wished he could've seen his chilren more. I asked him where his life went awry. He didn't answer.
Lastly I asked him what wing this hospital was. He looked at me, confused and began to answer but fell asleep before he could. I left feeling sorrow for Mr. Nost. I headed toward the only nurse not tending to sickly patients. I asked her what wing I was in, she told me I was in the only wing of the hospital solely dedicated to one purpose. The care and treatment for patients with Aids.
Leaving the wing I felt the most bleak I have ever felt. I especially felt sorry for Mr. Nost, for his tragic life and his unfullfilled wishes.
For the rest of the two months I spent in that hospital, I would interview anyone and everyone. In between tests and treatments I would always make time to speak to someone. If I ran out of patients to interview, I would interview doctors and nurses. Collecting stories for the future, making copies to hand out to loved ones of the afflicted. I would not rest until everyones story has had a chance to shine in the light. Some days the stories depressed me, other days the stories gave me faith, and other days I felt my cause was pointless. Although sometimes I would not have the courage to speak to the terminally ill, I still pushed on.
Now I sit here on my computer writing this story for whomever to read. The date is June 26th, 1996, twelve years since I was told I only had three years to live. Now that I've beat the odds and faced death itself, I'm afraid it was only deceptive and death has finally caught up to me. I've relapsed and the cancer shown once more, this time more agressive than before. So I write this small portion of my life to share with you. In hopes that you the reader will consider this one of my last interviews, one of myself.
Wednesday June 26th, 1996, 9:02 P.M. Grand Rapids, Michigan.
