He’s gone to the hospital again

It’s only a matter of time before something happens, and the subject of our love expires. Every time I hear that mother has brought him again to the hospital, maybe because of a persistent fever or a laborious breathing or a hollow and unresponsive gaze, I imagine with immense trepidation that it might finally have come – the ‘time’.

When he was first diagnosed with the illness, the doctors gave him no more than a decade to live. But see where he is now! A ripe twenty-two years of life!

But that is all the worry, isn’t it – how long can a miracle like this last for? Recently, he has lost strength in his master arm, and can only barely control the mouse for the computer; to say nothing about the controller for his PlayStation. We used to play games together and he would be so happy. But now it seems, he has lost the liveliness he once possessed. He is very seldom happy, and very seldom full of energy. I imagine his illness is slowly bringing him down – a physical frame given by the doctors a lifespan no more than a decade can hardly be expected to live to the full age of a normal person.

This is why I hate thinking about it; I hate being a part of this and seeing that he’s gone to the hospital again. It’s not that I don’t love him, but that it’s just too painful for me to watch him moving from one feeble state to another. And it’s even more painful to know that mother too is in more harrowing a pain whenever these sorts of things happen. I don’t know how life can be so joyous and so cruel at the same time. When I look at my brother now, I don’t see life; I see the limits of its grotesquesness, and I abhor it. It does not make me stronger at all, or more grateful for the things that I have; it only makes me sad; it makes me want to cry.



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