Dancing With Death
Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death.
It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden
door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy
smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.
Hell’s hallway is
elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack
my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a
love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while
he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a
fickle S.O.B.
Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I
slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored
robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had
thought to bring my bottled water.
Fingering the
delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three
sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I
consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other
material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is
surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it
tightly about my waist.
With my footsteps
whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed
couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a
bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking
the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a
3-D puzzle laying on a table.
Someone new
must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and
move back towards the couch. Either that
or they think they can bore me to death.
Glancing back
at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep, not only would it bore me to
death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the
individual who defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in
hundred degree temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being
forced to listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you,
and not being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another,
the idea of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be
the epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of
it.
Today, Hell was
the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to
talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that luxury,
because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our daily
dance.
Death’s
assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its
design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me
as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant
almost bashful.
“You okay,” he
asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the
chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit
area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely
furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small
boom box.
Averting my
gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip
free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.
“I’ve got
something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly
embarrassing.
Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been
meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six
weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it
out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.
Hopping I don’t
look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally
bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but
Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I
can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.
His angular
face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases
as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but
is it okay if I have someone watch today?”
Taking the
small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to
laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a
wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at
my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.
Clearing his
throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.
“I’d hoped
you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just
anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting
to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want
anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.
“I don’t know
about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,”
I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself
blinking back tears.
Carefully
reading the words HOPE etched along
the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned
voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way,
you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”
He gives me a
blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks
we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.
Whenever I come
into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my
hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together
so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my
exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.
“—and now
you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty
deed,” I tease.
His ears flush
a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,”
he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway
mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable
being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal
hands on training process.”
For the first
time, the room feels awkwardly silent.
“Thank you,” I
whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is
instantly broken.
Pocketing my
new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and
ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold
table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My
nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice
aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles
together and I am tethered to the table.
My focus soon
turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician
enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just
a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.
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