When I first heard about the news, I did not digest it. I could not believe it. It was untrue. They were probably out of their minds.
Someone put their hand on my head. "There is still hope, dear."
"Yes, yes," I told myself. "There is hope."
And then the force of reality hit me like a sledgehammer. It was true. There was hope, but still it was real. She was dying.
She had been sent to the hospital two days ago, to have a brain specialist check on her. We all wanted to find out the cause of her memory loss, of her headache, and of the swelling at the side of her head. And yesterday, only yesterday, we had received a phone call saying that she had a brain tumor, and was going to undergo an operation on next Tuesday.
I was calm. What would she look like without hair, I thought. Would it be very painful?
And today, another phone call announced the news of the explosion of her brain tumor. Her brain was dead, they said. But she was still alive, being connected to a ventilator.
Someone drove me to the hospital. "There is still hope," they kept saying. And I repeated the words to myself. There was still hope.
Somebody led me up to her ward. There were many people there. Why were they there, I wondered. What were they waiting for?
"We will switch off the ventilator as soon as her brother's family arrive," a man's voice said. "They want to see her for the last time."
The last time? But there was still hope, wasn't there? I looked around at all the people, waiting for them to scoff at the the man for feeling so hopeless.
But nobody said anything. Nobody did anything. They were all just standing there, with red noses and red eyes. Patting each other on the back. Hugging each other. Talking to the motionless person on the hospital bed.
I stared at them. Where was the hope they'd been telling me of?
I looked at the woman on the bed. She was covered with a pink blanket. She looked peaceful, and beautiful. I had seen that face many times in her sleep. Yes, I told myself, she was only sleeping. So I waited for her to wake up.
"I miss you, my poor darling..." Her mother was crying. What was the matter with her? Didn't she know, didn't she believe that there was still hope?
A tear rolled down the woman's face, from beneath her closed eyelids.
I was triumphant. So she was awake. I waited for her to sit up and embrace everybody.
But she just lay there with her eyes shut, and teardrops rolling down her cheeks.
And then her brother's family arrived. I was taken out of the room. I sat in one of the chairs against a wall, and fixed my eyes on the television. I vaguely saw some animals on the television screen. I stood up again, and walked back to the ward. There was an old man in the opposite ward. His heartbeat was even weaker than hers. But nobody was there with him. He was unconscious, and lonely. Strange, I thought. Why did I feel even lonelier than him?
Somebody was calling my name. They were preparing to unplug the ventilator. "Wait", I wanted to cry. Why wouldn't they believe that there was still hope?
And the ventilator was switched off. And her heartbeat gently failed. And she died. My mother was dead.
After all, there never had been any hope.
