Fly High
(With sincere dedication to Miss Cloey Shelor, 03/22/01 - 02/08/15)
Sitting.
Waiting.
The cold,
plastic-coated vinyl
of the Emergency Room waiting chair
sticks to my pale, thin thighs –
a sign they’ve postponed saving my life
in place of another –
a few too many times.
Each second,
time ticks marginally slower –
the clock drones endlessly,
mocking me:
another moment
wasted
with each tock.
These missed chances haunt me,
but hospital staff don’t generally consider my time limitations.
I’m limited.
I’m a grenade,
just waiting
to rip the hearts out
of everyone around me.
And I’m slipping, now,
off the edge,
a cliff,
an icy cliff,
I can’t breathe,
Mom.
Mom!
MOM!
Sitting.
Waiting.
Another hospital bed,
another pale, thin curtain
separates me from the other kids
who are dying.
Some of them don’t even know it.
Lungs are tricky.
They expand and contract,
like your heart,
only slower.
Well, they try.
Mine drown me:
I feel myself choking
on my own body.
I’m swimming in a pool
that’s attacking me.
The walls begin to close in,
the water rises –
my breaths quicken and shallow,
I find myself gasping for air that can’t
– won’t find me.
The foundations encircling me close in
engulfing my body’s focus
completely
until my vision ceases
and my breathing halts,
then I awake in a hospital bed next to my mother.
This is familiar to me,
my mother’s sense of presence.
She radiates hope,
a bright smile shines
through glossy tears
that never seem to leave her drowsy eyes.
It’s a beautiful exhaustion
though –
somehow still,
her wrinkled pink shirt is
the only thing I want to see,
and her angelic voice
softly in my ear
keeps me calm.
I am grateful,
though I hardly get the chance
to show it.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Clocks tick around me
endlessly.
This is a different kind of timekeeper,
though:
it doesn’t mock nor does it taunt –
it simply does its job.
In some classes,
I hope it slows, even.
Songs of my peers surround me,
yet I find myself daydreaming, considering:
What if they don’t find a lung for me?
They won’t let me be an organ donor;
I’m not old enough.
But I want to be.2
I told my mom I wanted to volunteer myself
for others like they have for me –
like my favorite, Katniss.
I want to help those whose time is less limited than mine.
The bell won’t ring fast enough,
it never does.
But that’s the thing about time –
it varies none, regardless of situation.
Perhaps beautiful in this sense,
but it doesn’t care what you think.
It simply is.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Ambulance sirens are piercingly loud.
The back of my eyelids show me colors,
a kaleidoscope of abstract images
entangle themselves before me.
Focusing on them,
I am lifted.
I feel oxygen enter my body
for the final time.
It wasn’t even a good breath,
it was shallow,
I want another shot at it.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
I sat.
I waited.
It was too late.
People have sent colorful cards
and come to visit,
to say goodbye.
I can’t even blink in response.
I lie still,
absorbing it all.
Two weeks ago
everything was fine,
yet since then I’ve been stuck
in an endless sleep
with no goodbyes,
no final wishes.
They will not try to wake me.
I wish I could tell them
not to cry;
With no restrictions,
I’m open
to soar
and be free –
the wind blowing my hair,
the space in my lungs
to sing
with strength
I’ve never before felt.
I suppose those who are dying
feel that they should limit themselves –
to avoid hurting others.
I don’t know that I agree.
Our time on Earth is limited,
but we make the most of it.
That’s all we can do.
As long as you look back
on your life
and see more than
your body just sitting
and waiting for
something better,
I’d say your life -
your amazing life -
can be wholeheartedly celebrated
just as was mine.