From The Writer's Block: Write from the point of view of a character on his or her deathbed.
It's so cliche. I mean it really is. But when you're suddenly out of time there are so few things that matter.
I feel fine. Right now I feel fine. I have migraines that I manage with steroids. I have a slight tremble in my left hand and my jaw quivers if I don't shut it right away. But other than that you'd never know that I will be gone by the end of the year.
There is no way that I'll survive this.
And all I can think of are how many books I have left to read. There are so many. I mean there are the greats like Dickens and some of the newer greats like Morrison. I recently fell in love with Colson Whitehead and there are three books I need to read right there. Butler, Lawson, Nguyen, Balwin, Jeminsin, Okorafor, Rushdie, King, Vuong, Hemingway, Plath, Diaz, and Kendi too. And don't forget the rereads. There are so many stories that I thought I would reread.
It's paralyzing. I am reading as quickly as I can. I am trying to devour these books. And only read one at a time so that I can savor them. So I can enjoy them l like a fine meal. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by the beauty of the prose, the description of the scenery, and the vulnerability of each character. And I can't pause long enough because I have to move on. I have to move on to the next book.
I panic when I linger too long on the last kiss, the child who cries, the laughter that rings through the night, the monster that brings down the community.
I panic when I fall in love with a new author or a new series. Or a character who lives on in my mind.
I panic when I know that this is the only book by this brilliant person that I'll be able to read.
I panic. And I choke and then I push all the books away and cry. I scream. I shake my fists. I scream I HATE YOU at no one in particular. I punch my pillow. I curl up on the couch and sob so hard I have hiccups and a headache. I fall asleep exhausted. The pressure from the calico cat sleeping on my hip eventually wakes me up. She knows my time here is almost done. She too wants to be with me as much as possible. She knows my brother Matt will be taking her to live with him in a condo in the city. The gay divorcee. She knows that her next life will be loud and full of attention. Incessant pats from strangers. Getting picked up off the bed to be placed on the floor. As soon as he's gone, she'll jump back up. She'll sleep on the bed as she always has. As a side sleeper, my hip is her perch and her pillow. She'll learn to sleep on Matt's back.
It's not just books that I'll miss - but I will miss those the most. Every shelf in my house is filled with books. They're not stored away in boxes. They're proudly on display like family portraits. Some people have climbed mountains. I have read books. Thousand of books. I have a notepad that is 25 years old when I first started keeping track. There were probably a thousand before I started that list. But it's not a competition. It's just what I do.
I read books.
I garden.
I work. I teach math. I don't love to read math books. I teach math because it's easy and there aren't long essays that need to be graded over the weekend.
I teach math because I can incorporate the stories I read into my math lessons.
I am easily the best or worst math teacher in my district. I had the same parent tell me both these things in the same year.
Those are things I love.
And I have four more months to enjoy them. And maybe not even that long. I don't know what will happen. I don't know what abilities will be taken away from me.
All I know is that I have so many books to read.
I got to go.
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