Hello Reader,

It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? A decade or so? Perhaps you weren’t aware, but these last couple of years have been quite somber and melancholic. Remember how sickly I looked when we last spoke? It’s truly been ages!

As for what’s happened since we’ve last spoken - it’s too much to discuss briefly. The contents of this letter includes a mix of the psychological with some existential nonsense mixed in. I remember that you were into that stuff. I tried not to be extremely overbearing for your sake, but I figured I’d share a certain experience of mine.

To begin:

Breathing is essential to the human condition. Breathe in, breathe out – ad infinitum. A disturbance to that force – the very agony of not being able to breathe – is almost being denied the opportunity to be human.

Death watched and he waited patiently. But oh, was he persistent. The frantic and never-ending trips to the emergency room – to be actively fighting unconsciousness as you struggle to procure one or two gasps of air every couple of seconds – makes one almost seem greedy.

In those dire moments, nothing really mattered other than my intense want to breathe, and the irresistible urge to take another pump from my inhaler, despite what negative health effects it may have had from overuse. When you’re on the verge of passing out, it’s only natural to attempt drastic measures, after all.

Words and sentences would slow down to a crawl. My chest would tighten immensely and everything seemed pointless. The hospital was always so far away.

I desperately wanted my existence to persevere -- to persist amongst the chaos and hope that this was all a bad dream. For things to go right for once. How I wish that were true.

Since I would be too busy writhing in pain to do it, my mother prayed to her God that I would make it to the hospital in time. Some of the initial trips there had me close by my inhaler and drinking copious amounts of water. In the ambulance, my mother would always be to my right. We never had a car of our own. Conversation was limited, other than “are you okay?” or “we’ll be there soon, don’t worry,” I didn’t reciprocate any response.

The trips became trivial and mundane. They consisted of similar factors every-time: half-consciousness, struggling to breathe. Hooked up to some machine. It was the norm.

Getting angsty and nervous made me feel worse. To calm myself down, I became familiar with the outside scenery as the ambulance blasted through the city streets. Watching people walk around; watching them live their lives. It was always 40 minutes from my home to Saint Mary Hospital.

We’ve had a few close moments, but whenever I made it through those double doors into the ER, it felt like heaven. The hospital, of all places, became my second home. It was the place to be when I was younger, at least for me. Being as sickly as I was, I couldn’t help it; but at the same time, I honestly didn’t mind. It was comfortable. It was soothing - to an extent.

The air wasn’t poisonous like in the outside world; the hospital would provide a freeing atmosphere and an “everything-will-be-okay” sort of vibe. It’s shiny lights, bright white walls, and constant mechanical beeps and boops became synonymous with euphoria -- because I knew that everything would soon be okay.

I would be able to breathe.

For the most part, that’s how life went. A couple of days at home, a couple of weeks overall in constant hospice care. That was normal. That was okay. This was life. It would always be the same hospital and, ironically enough, the same room too; good old Saint Mary’s.

Being hooked up to these huge “breathing tubes” as I liked to call them wasn’t so bad either. It would hum constantly and help me sleep at night. Remember when I missed weeks of school at a time? Well, as a lad that had barely hit middle school, I definitely couldn’t care less. Besides talking to you and my parents, I liked keeping to myself, despite having friends and acquaintances.

The food wasn’t bad either. Sandwiches, Jell-O, that stuff. Didn’t mind it. I’d have my parents with me whenever the hospital rolled out the food trays. We’d all watch television together on one of those huge and bulky TV sets. Long before the age of standard HD television, I’d have my fill on saturday morning cartoons and late night shenanigans via this 360p large black box. Sometimes nurses would give me a Gamecube to play with on that same TV. That made me happy.

Oh, did I ever tell you? The smells of the hospital would make themselves prevalent at the most random of times. The hospital smelled somber and sweet at the same time. We’re talking different-scented sanitizers and a mix of cleaning products. These scents permeated the air. I liked that.

When I got permission from my doctors and my parents, I was able to stand around and traverse the floor. The hospital was quite big. The scents were quite potent. I couldn’t tell you how lovely it all seemed, but it was surely a surreal experience. Even more so after being bedridden for so long.

In the mornings, mid-afternoons and late at night, doctors and nurses would come running to my room; it happened quite frequently, but I was never too sure why. They were quite nice, donning white lab coats, black-darkish shoes, and glasses that reflected light so I couldn’t see their eyes.

Dozens of them arrived at my bedside for a couple of minutes at a time, avoiding conversation with me directly and talking to my parents. Sometimes, one or two of them would glance in my direction, smile, and turn away. I tried not to think too much concerning their presence, since they were bound to leave anyway.

With the IV lodged deep within my veins and the continued hum of the machines and other technological babble located behind my bed and all over the facility, I would simply sleep. Unfortunately, I still got frequent checkups every six hours or so. Shots and needles for days. You get used to them, trust me.

There was a fish tank to my right whenever I exited my hospital room and paintings belonging various artists that have long since departed were splattered on the hallway walls. These corridors would stretch across the building -- endlessly. They were so large -- and aside from the fishtank and paintings -- so empty. So much white. The tiles, the ceilings, the lights. There was nowhere to really go so I’d either watch the tiny orange and yellow inhabitants commence their activity, swimming in synchronized harmony, or go back to my hospital bed.



The sounds of the hospital included the constant running and dashing to different places by people outside in the hallways. Doctors, nurses, random people; all running to meet the demands of a crying child, or maybe to answer the buzzer of an aging patient. Who knows. It happened frequently.

Sometimes, I met with other patients: young or old, it didn’t really matter. They were nice people. I even got to meet another girl my age - she was deaf and she spoke to me via sign language. Of course, I had no idea what she said or meant most of the time. She simply used gestures to suggest certain things. I felt pretty bad for her. To be deprived of words - I couldn’t imagine it; the universe stole them from her. I thought it was cruel and sad to be subjected to such a condition. But she seemed fine. Much of the time, we played video games in my room.

That was all good stuff. Everything was fine for quite a bit. However, as you may expect, it wasn’t all peace and calm.

Now, if there was one event that will always stick with me, it was this.

I was awoken at 5AM. There was crying and wheezing from the room adjacent to mine. It’s safe to assume that the occupant of that room had passed away. His family was quite distressed. There was much screaming and sobbing. So much running and stomping. The entire floor was riled up. The mood shifted from one of quiet, somber nothingness, to ear-splitting screeches - you can feel the vibrations in the air. Upon asking the nurses what had happened, they simply said “don’t worry about it.” I’m surprised I never told you.

That wasn’t very pleasant.

But I was young and couldn’t really understand.

Why did people cry when others passed away? My parents told me constantly that He would help me get through this, and that He took people away when He felt as such. It was such an oddity - what was the point in crying when faced with eternal happiness? Why shed tears with the knowledge that redemption and salvation were merely breaths away at any given point in time?

Have you ever thought about that? God, existence, the universe; how it all potentially relates to you as a living, conscious human being? As nonsensical as it all is, the implications are endless. It’s fun to contemplate philosophy. However, if there’s one constant that remains and continues to permeate our everyday lives, at least in my opinion, it’s ennui.

Boredom.

Our lives are always stagnant. It’s hard to fight the waves. Despite the constant trips bridging between life and death, that was one of the reasons why I loved going to the hospital. It provided that one random factor that I desired. A change of pace, if you will. Sure, having to deal with illness is never fun, but neither was doing the same thing over and over.

Waking up, going to class, returning home; eating and sleeping. I had no internet back then - and cable was rather dull. Ennui infini.

Trudging through elementary and middle school didn’t help. I had friends, but they felt two-dimensional and boring. They weren’t very fun to talk to. I had video games, but surely after beating the final boss for the thousandth time, you’d lose motivation to play any longer, no?

In conclusion:

I value experiences. I loved going outside and here weren’t many opportunities to do so, other than going to school. I suppose that’s a bit morbid - actually preferring hospital trips over staying home. But it didn’t kill me, after all. I still had fun and tried to entertain myself in many ways. I liked talking to the people, whether they were patients, doctors or otherwise and listening to stories about their lives and their own unique existences that happened to intertwine with mine.

The machinations of human society. Their words. Their struggles. Love, hatred or otherwise - I saw it all. I was a witness. Being in hospice care helped me to see the beauty of human beings. Whenever possible, you saw them at their very worst -- or when they were given the thumbs up and ready to go back into the world, at their very best. It’s fascinating, how quickly one can bounce back.

I would hope that you’re doing alright. This is the culmination of my experiences. The last hospital trip was two summers ago; stricken with partial heart failure, coupled with asthma and pneumonia -- it happens. It’s been quite awhile, so good streak so far.

Overall, I would like to say that humans - people - are amazing creatures. And they sure can talk a good while. But death was, nevertheless, always around the corner for me.

And I’m certain He loved me as much as He loved everyone else in that hospital.

Yours truly ~

"...With a bullet lodged beneath his heart and after one final epileptic attack,
Vincent died on July 29th, 1890, two days after he shot himself.”