The stale close smell of sickness increases the darkness. Makes it more.... dark. I struggle to see the numerous cups and bottles surrounding me, I struggle to breath this thick dark air of illness, I struggle to live, I struggle. My soul tries to lift itself out of this quagmire of shaking flesh, but I hold to it, subdue it. I cry out in pathetic laryngitic quietness, "Roxanne, Roxanne, Roxa," and am abruptly seized by a deep earthquake of coughing. phlegm is broken loose like cement under the influence of a jackhammer, and is hauled to the surface, carried away in soft paper tissues, treated with lotion and aloe. This violence exhausts me and I slump deeper into despair, deeper into the bowels of influenza, malaria, viral pneumonia, deeper into the soft cushions of the couch. And there what might be my final moments upon this earth, an angel appears as if sent from heaven to escort me into the waiting arms of Jesus.

But wait, she speaks, "what do you want now?" my blonde angel asks. I motion her close, so that she can hear but not so close that she can catch the plaque that has befallen me. "what?", I motion still closer.

"Yes master," she jokingly says. Behind the feigned exhaustion and irritation, I can see the love, and sorrow and pain in her eyes. She is doing this for me, trying to cheer me up and keep me hopeful. She is sooo strong, soooo brave, and I love her, I love her all the more in my suffering. She hurries along to start my tea, as I fall back expecting the reapers grim touch, tuberculosis, typhoid maybe, some new strain of air born AIDS that takes effect immediately I await the inevitable.

I can feel every bone, and every joint, and every muscle no matter how small. Pain dull, and throbbing massages each and every point, and when I move, knives of pain separate me, tearing me apart in silence for I have not the strength to scream, silent moans gently escape my blueing lips. I take only half breaths, and those through my mouth, as my nose has stopped allowing air. I shiver and shake and sweat under a thousand thick blankets. My throat red, and blistered, and raw can handle only liquids. In these past few days, I must have lost two or three pounds for want of solids. The television has become my nurse, my companion as I drift in and out of consciousness. I watch Seventh Heaven, and Little House, and Touched By An Angel, and even big haired televangelists. I was looking for a miracle. I called in and donated ten dollars, but a healing wasn’t forth coming, I guess God needs more "seed money." In my despair I turn to the Simpsons, if I am going it will be with a smile on my face and an "eat my shorts" on my lips.

My beautiful angel comes back into my web of ugliness and disease. She gives me my herbal tea, my vitamin c, my Advil Cold and Sinus. She helps me sit up despite my probable streptococcus, Asian flu or possible meningitis. She gives me love, to swallow along with my useless remedies. "My poor little baby," she says as she sets me back down after fluffing my pillow. She pats my cheek and smiles, I close my eyes and try to hold that smile, burn it deep into my subconscious. I have picked this snapshot of love, and caring to be my last sight. I am going to miss her.