I now struggle with a severe lack of excitement when it comes to my life. You see, I am living out the last embers of my life, and the flame is nothing more than a smoldering shadow of the bright beacon of light it had once been. Flickers and crackles are heard, but they grow fainter and harder to hear as I have begun to lose all the strength in my body, and in my will to live.
Since becoming afflicted with this illness, everything about me has deteriorated: I’ve lost my energy, and with it, my muscle; I can no longer eat anything without vomiting it up; blood routinely paints the tissue I’ve been given to catch it without it spilling everywhere on the hospital gown and bed allotted to me; and every day I wish to die. Death has engulfed my thoughts to such a degree that I routinely whisper to myself that I want to die.
“I want to die. I want to die. Please, release me from these mortal chains that bind me to this fading life.”
The nurse can only take pity on my poor soul. After all, she has no power on whether I live or die, nor does the doctor, or even any of his assistants. If they just pulled the plug, everything about this fleeting life of mine would end in an instant, and it would all come to a close for good. All my pain gone, all my worries whisked away, and there I would sleep in an eternal bliss. But alas, here I am, lying and wasting away as the formations of my body crumble away into nothing more than a garbled mess.
In all of my pain, I must ask: why would God, if He is here, subject me to such a torturous existence? Am I not of His herd, of His stock? Would he not love me enough to simply put me out of my misery and allow me to pass on without the presence of this never-ending nightmare? From the way the machine next to me is slowing down in its incessant beeping, I should be able to find out soon enough if He really is there. When I get up there, I’ll have many questions to ask him, but for now, there is only one that is relevant to me:
“How long do I have to live?”