Of People and Miracles.

Hospitals are such humbling places. There you will find hope beyond hopes.

I have been spending the good part of my days in a hospital caring for one of my favourite persons. One of the most important people in my life actually. I am the daughter he never had, and I love him that much too. My father gave me genes and practicality, he gave me character and spirit.

Yesterday, the man who loved life, who was responsible for giving me hope was lying frail and worn when I entered his room. He saw me, and he said, "Me khallas zhalo ga..." These were the first words he had said to me in months. I sat there stunned, unable to utter words. Tears shot to my eyes. I could not cry. Not in front of him. Definitely not now. I had to speak to him, tell him that everything is going to be right again, this is just a passing phase, it will be over soon. It was as if his helpless words had snatched all my words from me. As a gut feeling I knew that that was not what he wanted to hear, because all that I would have said was going to be a lie.

The strongest man I know, the man who taught me how to live my life (happily) had lost to pain and was lying on the hospital bed wizened beyond his years. He had successfully combated and won over cancer. I knew he could and he did. He could do anything.
Why then this? I could not handle his helplessness. In that moment I could "see" his sheer agony he felt while surviving.

I haven't felt so lonely. He was the last person I knew who would ever loose hope. If he had lost faith, there was definitely something terribly wrong. I felt this strange rage. How could he say that? How can *he* loose faith? There had to be a way out of this. I sat there pondering. Struggling to keep my tears to myself and say something to restore his hope. How I wish I could tell him that I would give anything, absolutely anything just to see him healthy again. From what I had heard from his relatives, I was hoping against hope that he would just sit and talk, talk and laugh with me, just like we used to...
And then... he actually sat up to eat and began talking like he was healthy again (almost, well... almost like the old times). I could see him struggling with his pain as he was doing that. I knew he still wanted to put a brave face for me. And I just sat there, looking away from him. I don't know why I did that? I could not see him like that. In that moment I felt weaker than him.

He joked about how *small* my watch was and how I should consider getting a bigger one so that people won't feel the need to look at a wall-clock! Someone had answered my silent prayers amidst all the chaos. I was sharing thoughts with him again. He was smiling, almost laughing. Someone was definitely looking out for the both of us. I felt contented. Deeply moved by everything.

He started telling me how another chemotherapy would kill him. He said it wasn't that his body could not withstand it, he asked me, "At what COST?" He kept talking about how pointless any therapy would be because he saw his disease as his "destiny". He said, "What is meant to happen, will happen. How much can I take? Why should I suffer?" Again. I was at a loss for words. I could not imagine the pain that made him talk like that. It was too much. It wasn't him saying those horrible things. It was the pain. I hated his pain!

I don't claim to understand psychology, but I knew, and he knew I knew that I would understand. Suddenly out of no where he brought up the topic of miracles. He said he believed that miracles happen, but they never happen to us. I do not how I thought of the words I said to him. I still don't know if they came from me. It felt surreal. I said, "Miracles happen all the time. We know something was a miracle when we see the bigger picture. It's some years from now that you would call something that happened sometime back was a miracle." For some reason, I knew I had to speak of smaller things. Telling him about miracles he would find from a few months ahead and asking him to believe all of that was asking for too much. (In my heart I was too scared to think of a few months from now, did he have that long?) I was hopelessly trying to make him see a light. I said to him, "Compared to the last couple of days, his getting up and sitting and talking with me about all these things was in fact a miracle. A tiny miracle, agreed, but it was a miracle. And it had happened to him." Later I repeated similar sentences of which I have no memory because, as I was saying those things, I saw a twinkle in his eyes. I saw him smile, and his smile telling me how all he wanted was to hear those words. He had seen the light, in the end.

The fact that all that came out my head was a miracle for me. I have spent sometime with him now, and I have tried my best to encourage him to sustain and survive. Survive and battle it out with life.

I will appreciate all your prayers for him. God Bless Him!