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The Diary of a Lost Soul

Hospital Day: 5

Cold. Its what I remember the most. I felt as though I was a human popsicle, getting frostbite by an old refrigerator.  The walls were an eerie white color, that seemed to have no end, like a continuous shield of nothingness that would drag me into a pit of darkness. I glance to my left to see the monitor beeping again as if it was putting me into a trance of emptiness. I return my focus to the ceiling that had a few dulled LED light bulbs, one of which were burnt out. While holding my gaze to the sky I slowly move my hand over my chest, lightly brushing the surface as if I was a fragile sculpture made of the melting ice.




Hot. Everywhere I went on that stage was burning up from what appeared to be hundreds upon hundreds of bulky lights. The lights were lined up side by side in order to give the best illumination possible. But if you ask anyone in the theatre that day they would say it was so they are able to create a free infrared sauna. I sweat as a child does after running around the playground for hours on end with no rules or parents to tell them to stop.


Hospital Day: 10

My friends would come and sit with me and hold my withering hand. They would look into my eyes and try to remember when I wasn’t sick and dying. I could see the pain, sorrow, and fear of losing me with every long gaze. It never mattered how many times I tell them not to worry about me, they always did. When I tell them to keep living life, they always stop to sit with me. When I tell them to party the day I die, they say they will sit together by my bedside like they are now. Some people never change. Alongside the depressing visits that they try to make enjoyable, they always brought me roses. They are my favorite. Roses grow into these royal and beautiful plants to only slowly wither away until they are nothing. I guess the rose and I have some things in common.



My life is always busy. If I’m not running from school to rehearsal, then its rehearsal to dance, or dance to tutoring, or tutoring to voice lessons. Yes I know, I am creating the perfect platform for a heart attack. But it was worth it because I was still always able to see my friends on Saturday nights. We would always go to someone's house --in our pajamas-- and watch movies while eating a bunch of junk food. We always would look around the room and notice one another's gaze. As we look into one another's eyes we could see the future, the graduation parties, the places we would travel, our weddings, and even when we become mothers. It was crazy but in some way, we all knew that we would be together until the end. We were less of friends and more like sisters. They always had caramel and strawberry cheesecake bites; my favorite. The cheesecake seemed to remind me that no matter how crazy life is there are always some elements of it that are sweet. I guess the cheesecake and I have something in common.




Hospital Day: 14

Most days I experience discomfort and just general aches throughout my body. Those are the days I appreciate seeing my mothers weary eyes the most. It would often start with me wincing in pain and holding a part of my body as I curled over to make an odd curve. My mother would grab my two shoulders and maneuver me into a position in which my head was in her lap so she could play with my hair. Today like all the others she would brush her small, soft hands through my hair while humming a Spanish lullaby. My gaze starts to move upward toward her eyes. The bags under her eyes from lack of sleep and peace seemed to become permanent.

“Mom, if we weren’t here where would we be?” I question while my gaze was still fixated on her tired eyes.

“I don’t know honey, where would you like to go?” She says weak and soft, trying to not think about the fact that her only child is sick.

“Spain, Italy, Scotland, France, or even Australia,” I whisper to my mother, thinking that if I say it too loudly my disease will hear of my hopes and crush them. “As long as I’m far away from here, and not attached to a machine, I would be happy,” I mutter. My mother squeezes my arms, pretending to look out the window, but I really know she is trying not to cry.



Though I hate to admit it I would be undeniably lost without my mother. She is like a magical fairy who always seems to know what to do. Like the time I got my foot stuck in a can container or when I handcuffed myself to a door and lost the key. She was there with a chainsaw both times. She always knows how to make life better. We usually make sure to fit in mother-daughter talks in between our crazy schedule so we don’t lose touch.

“Hey, Mom have you seen my keys?” I yell from the top of my stairs.

“They are on the shelf where they belong,” She hollers back. I walk toward the bookshelf to find mounds of books and paperwork. I shuffle the pile of crap around to find a command strip with a hook in the very back of the shelf. And there as my mother said were my keys. Grabbing my keys, I prance down the stairs eager to head to rehearsal.

“You know if you put things back where they belong or just kept your room clean, you wouldn’t have to look for your stuff all the time.”

“Yea but where’s the fun in that?” I exclaim while walking toward the door. I glance back to see my mother pretending to look out the window, trying not to laugh.


Hospital Day: 22

Everyone wants to understand what it feels like to be sick. There is no way to describe the pain and joy I feel every day. There is no way to articulate the feeling of my joints being ripped to shreds or my heart pumping so fast it feels like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. No one understands why I feel so much peace when I see a single rose growing in a garden that has no sun. Or how excited I get when I get to see a sunrise. It means I made it through another day, and sometimes that is how I measure my accomplishments. Did I make it? Am I still breathing? Wait, let me check my pulse just to be sure.

My life is starting to feel less of a gift and more of a burden. It feels as though someone is holding a gun to my head waiting to shoot when I least expect it, doing damage to my body that is irreversible. My day to day tasks feels like I am walking a tightrope: one wrong move and I will fall into an abyss of pain and darkness. All alone. That is what scares me more than anything else: being alone. I can handle the bullets and grenades and knives that cut through my whole body. The physical pain isn’t what I am afraid of. Losing myself is my fear. Waking up one day and forgetting my best friend’s name, or that my mother’s favorite color is purple. The little nuances that knit me together to make me, well me. No one would notice these little details, but I would. No one pays attention to the little intricacies of life, but I do. Losing those little things is what I fear most. The pain is an inconvenience. A pain in the ass, sure, but an inconvenience. But losing the simple things that bring me joy would slowly crush my spirit, and that would kill me.



Everyone wants to know what it's like being able to do everything. I look at these poor fools, knowing they have never had to balance hundreds of things at once. Their eyes fill with glee and curiosity as if I am some wonderful wizard. I am in fact wonderful but not because I’m a wizard but because I can live on two hours of sleep and a terrible cup of coffee. I make the impossible seem possible, but this is only accomplished by having a great network of people who love and care about me. In those moments of chaos and sleep deprivation, having a friendly face to turn to, always seems to make the difference between pulling through and dropping out. The people you surround yourself with are the details that paint the person you become. Which is why I always surround myself with the Wonder Women and Ms. Marvels of the world.




Day: Funeral Service

I am unable to write much today. My daughter has asked me to finish off her diary so it would be completely filled with her life. Today she wears a dark blue gown with heels, the things she would have worn to prom. I imagine that she would have hated how I did her hair if she was still here. There is not much I can say to describe my daughters funeral. It was heartwrenching like any other. Except this time when I reached for a tissue and pulled out two I realized you weren’t there by my side to share in my sadness, or my tissue. We won’t have any more adventures to share. I do have the old ones that we created. All I want is to replay them in my head with my best friend, but I realize that person was my daughter.

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