..Knock knock, Who's There..

I knocked at the entrance of her room's second door. With eyes rolling jubilantly sideways, I know she is hearing me. Knocking is my morning habit upon making rounds whenever she is awake. The first time I handled her, she was so thin and debilitated is a gross understatement. How many times we did compression to her heart to keep her alive, I could not count. Indeed, our time is controlled by only One hand. And that was not her time yet. Seeing her gained weight, and those cheeks that bloated to rosy ones made the air of despair shrink at the moment. With her body tiny enough to be cared by even one person, posture that limits her movement to only the rolling of eyeballs, limbs that bent to a curve that seemed to find solace, may God forgive me to question why good people has to suffer.

Introspectively, while the quest for the answer of human suffering left me in melancholic mood,  looking at her long lashes mildly soaked with tears from incessant laughing in the absence of voice and salivating mouth, it puzzled me what happiness looks like through her eyes being contained within the four corners of the room, being a prisoner by the machine to keep her breathing, and the moments wherein knocking is just another sound for "good morning, how are you, and goodbye".

As the sun beats down the arid air outside the window where I can see the reflection of my own image, having said this morning that I don't want to be a nurse anymore (thoughts like that occurs randomly), I was ashamed to the image staring back at me.

Everyone is having his battle.

We just differ in battlefield.

 Hers is inside the four-walled hospital bed.

Yours might be a failing health, a struggling relationship, a difficult boss, a challenging job, name it.

The thing is, no one is justifiably exempted.

Mine might be lighter than yours. Or yours, a little heavier than the others.

But does God let the sun shine to those who are only capable of carrying whatever loads He has given?

I stared back to her, saliva never stops drooling from the corner of her mouth.
Fluid is dripping to her convoluted, tiny hand.
Feeding is continuously attached to an abdominal hole in her deformed stomach.
I knock at her door once again and there the mouth that opened wide in joy.
There the eyes that glow in joy.

Life is still beautiful.