He comes and goes as he pleases, working quietly behind the scenes. Most times we’re not even aware of his presence — not until he’s ready to steal another from us. The children may grow restless, or the dogs bark more than usual in the night… but we choose to ignore such signs. To acknowledge them would be to acknowledge him.
Some say he comes for the souls of three — superstition, of course — but more often than not, that’s how it goes. He came last week and took one by surprise. I think he’s still here. Sometimes I feel him lingering just around the corner, appearing briefly at the edge of my vision, but when I turn to look, he’s gone. Two others have taken a turn for the worse, and tonight the children are wild. I brace myself for another sleepless night and wonder which one it will be — or perhaps both.
It’s not always obvious. Those you think will be taken sometimes get left behind, and I wonder if it’s just the roll of the dice, or if there’s something to that saying — that their number’s not yet up.
I don’t think he’s a bad fellow, just someone doing his job. At times, I’m even grateful to him for taking some out of their misery… and mine. Not that I want or like to see people die, but when they reach the last stages of life, they can become rather messy — and well, gross. Not everyone passes the way they do in soap operas, with clean sheets and satin pillows.
Sitho has been dying for the past six months. She’s thirty-eight and has two wonderful children who’ve been her primary caregivers all this time. Large abscesses drain from both her buttocks, her leg is broken from a fall a month ago, and she endures diarrhea, vomiting, and high fevers. Something keeps her going, though I’m not sure what. Perhaps her number isn’t up — or perhaps she never learned to play dice. She screams in pain if you touch her, and shouts at her children if they don’t. They often just sit and cry because they don’t know what else to do.
Yesterday, her son Sopaul went to fetch his grandmother because his mother told him to — and because he’s just so very tired. The old woman hadn’t been here in over three months. She stayed barely twenty minutes before she had to step outside, the smell and grief too much for her. She left early this morning, but not before exchanging bitter words with Sitho. They never did have much of a relationship. The grandmother said not to bother her for the funeral, but to send the children home afterward — she needed them to care for her. Some would call her cruel, but I think she’s just trying to survive. Life is hard for the old in a country without welfare or social security, where the only income comes from planting and harvesting rice for the rich who own the land.
Chea is the other one waiting to be called — a man of thirty-seven who once had it all, but lost it on a gamble when he bought a girl for pleasure and drew the losing hand. The disease took his wife three years ago, and now it’s taking him — slowly and painfully. He suffered a stroke before he came here, losing the use of his left side but not his dignity. A few weeks ago, he had another, leaving him helpless and incontinent. Still, he insists on getting up each day, trying so very hard to remain dignified — though it’s difficult to do when you sit in a soiled diaper, saliva trailing from your lips.
I wish death on no one, yet I’d be lying if I said I didn’t long for a good night’s sleep — one that will not come until the children laugh and sing again, until the dogs are silent in the night, and until the stranger we know so well leaves us alone for a time.
