Personal Essay

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Personal

Essay

Here

I was again. Every second day for the past month I’ve been here, in this same

cramped room. As I stepped inside I took a deep breath in through my nose; the stench

of bleach and disinfectant flooded my nostrils. I held it for a moment, and

then let it out through my mouth. I hated the smell. I hated being here. The

room was bare and spotless. There were no marks on the walls and no marks on

the floor. There was a petite window at the opposite side of the room. It was

getting dark and it was raining. In the centre of the room was a bed that had

rounded, parallel, silver, steel bars. They were cold to touch and reflected

mutated images. Spread over the bed, were fresh lime green sheets, like always.

The sheets were thin and covered in tiny bumps, which made them rough to touch.

I took another deep breath, despite the sickening smell. Before making my way

over to the other side of the room where two plastic chairs were positioned

neatly and precisely beside the bed. I sat on the chair closest to the top of

the bed. The chair was hard and after a while it became extremely uncomfortable

to sit on. Being uncomfortable made the visits seem to drag on. Although we

could only stay for forty five minutes, the visits seemed to last for hours.

I looked down at my lap most of the

time and fidgeted with the white, plastic apron I had to wear, but I remember

multiple monitors, with all sorts of meaningless numbers and flashing lights,

red orange and green. They were like traffic lights, constantly blinking: red,

orange, red, red, green, red… The lights were mostly red, which is the colour I

remember most; the colour that stuck in my head. It was there all the time,

even when I closed my eyes, even when I was at home, even when I was at school,

a constant flash of red light that I could not eliminate from my mind.

I also remember the beeping of the

machines and my Dad’s voice. I cannot remember what he was saying; I just

remember his deep Manchester accent whispering quietly. His voice was quivering

and shaking, as if he was crying, I was too scared to look. My Dad never cries;

he is always so strong. I could not bear the thought of seeing my Dad cry. It

scared me to hear him cry. I took another deep breath and wiped away the tear

that was tumbling down my cheek. I did not want to cry, I had to be strong.

I never spoke while I was there. I

could never think of anything to say. Sometimes my Dad would try to encourage

me to speak to her: “She can hear you,

she just won’t remember what you say. Just tell her about your weekend.” Even

after his encouragement I could not say a word. What was I supposed to tell

her, that I was at home with the rest of the family, where she should be? But

instead she was trapped here alone, isolated in this room, lying in this bed,

unconscious and unresponsive. I hated the fact that she could not reply to me,

I wanted to hear her voice. I had not heard it in so long I had begun to forget

what it sounded like.

I took another deep breath and that

same stagnant air filled my lungs. I turned in my chair and looked out the

window. The sky was dark, the moon was hidden by thick, grey clouds and it was

raining heavily. The raindrops battered the window and the droplets of water

raced down the glass. I hauled myself to my feet, stretched, then walked over

to the window. I looked down and watched the raindrops crash into the ground,

turning what used to be pure, beautiful, white snow, into horrible, dirty

slush. I watched how the people dashed to their cars in attempt to avoid

puddles and keep as dry as possible.

I glanced at the clock. Nearly time

to go. I walked towards the bed and took hold of her swollen hand and squeezed

it gently, hoping that she would show a sign that let us know she knew we were

there, but there was nothing. No sign, no movement, nothing. I looked down on

her, her eyes were closed gently and there was tubes coming from her nose and

mouth. She looked fragile and delicate. Her skin was dry and pale. She was

almost a shade of yellow. It killed me to see her like that. Another tear

spilled over my eyelid and started to tumble down my face, like a raindrop from

a cloud. Before I could wipe it away, it fell of the edge of my face and

collided with the lime green of the bed sheets, it created a dark spot.

I took another look at the clock, it

was time to go. I thought that the hardest part was saying goodbye; I was

wrong. The hardest part is what is attached to the goodbye, the doubts, the

flashes of red. Would this be the last time I ever get to say it? Would be my

last visit? Would this be the last time I ever get to kiss her forehead and

tell her that I love her? In the form of red lights, all these questions were

the doubts constantly buzzing in my mind. Red lights that seemed to abolish

every other thought, prevented sleep and dominated my concentration. I tried to think positive, but it was so

tough. We were told to prepare for the worst, she might never come around.

I longed for someone to tell me not

to worry and promise me everything would be fine, but even if they did, I knew

they would be lying. I lay awake in bed each night, staring aimlessly and

helplessly at the ceiling, hoping to wake up to good news. Then along came the

red lights flashing in my mind. Blinking and blinking. Forcing me to doubt,

suppressing me to think the worst. I lay there for hours, awake, with nothing

but red lights flooding my mind. I battled them, tried to think positive, I

tried to conceal the red with green. Eventually, the red won the battle. The

red conquered the green, as a tear escaped my eye, tumbled down my cheek,

before dripping off my chin. I held my breath in a final attempt to hold back

the tears. I failed.

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