Imaginations
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Freedom
      to
      All
      Souls
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Pain.
     
    

    
     
      All
      I
      know
      is
      pain.
     
    

    
     
      AlllI
      feel
      is
      pain.
     
    

    
     
      The
      moaning
      pain
      of
      my
      stiff
      lungs’
      laboured,
     
     
      rattling
      intake
      and
      output.
      The
      methodical
      knife-twist
     
     
      in
      every
      heartbeat.
     
    

    
     
      The
      rolling,
      throbbing
      pain
      in
      my
      skull.
     
    

    
     
      The
      constant
      whimper
      of
      a
      stomach
      that
      has
     
     
      been
      fed
      without
      food
      for
      too
      long.
     
    

    
     
      And,
      worst
      of
      all,
      the
      vibrating
      creak
      of
      my
     
     
      bones
      as
      [
      turn
      to
      stare
      at
      It.
     
    

    
     
      That
      which
      bars
      me
      from
      relief.
     
    

    
     
      That
      which
      has
      locked
      the
      gates
      of
      Heaven,
      and
     
     
      stands
      next
      to
      them,
      flipping
      the
      key
      and
      catching
      it.
     
    

    
     
      The
      Stealer
      of
      Peace.
     
    

    
     
      The
      ‘‘Wilsen
      Pressurized
      Heart-And-Lung
     
     
      Machine,
      Model
      SP’’.
     
    

    
     
      It
      sits
      there,
      beeping
      in
      sync
      with
      the
      twists
      of
     
     
      the
      knife.
     
    

    
     
      Tantalizing
      me
      each
      beep
      with
      the
      hope
      that
     
     
      there
      will
      be
      no
      next.
     
    

    
     
      Its
      face
      covered
      with
      the
      dials
      and
      gages
      that
     
     
      feed
      the
      doctors
      their
      Measurements
      of
      Torture.
     
    

    
     
      Its
      snakelike
      hoses
      creeping
      out
      from
      all
      sides.
     
    

    
     
      Each
      one
      a
      chain
      that
      locks
      my
      soul
      in
      my
      body
     
     
      like
      a
      man
      locked
      in
      his
      house
      as
      it’s
      being
      demol-
     
     
      ished.
     
    

    
     
      My
      daughter,
      all
      thin
      smiles
      and
      fragile
     
     
      bounciness,
      grins
      into
      the
      room.
     
    

    
     
      **Hello,
      Father!
      How
      are
      we
      feeling
      today?’’
     
     
      she
      oozes.
      Release
      me.
     
    

    
     
      ‘*T
      brought
      you
      some
      more
      flowers!
      Aren’t
     
     
      they
      beautiful?’’
      she
      asks,
      setting
      the
      olfactory
      as-
     
     
      sault
      team
      down
      on
      It.
     
    

    
     
      She
      has
      brought
      me
      more
      of
      the
      hateful
      plants,
     
     
      who
      live
      a
      useless
      life,
      yet
      still
      get
      to
      die
      when
      their
     
     
      lifespans
      are
      complete,
      as
      if
      to
      mock
      this
      unnatural
     
     
      charade
      generously
      called
      Life,
      and
      mock
      meas
      they
     
     
      fade
      back
      into
      the
      peace
      from
      whence
      they
      came.
     
    

    
     
      “*Cathy
      and
      I
      went
      to
      visit
      Ma’s
      grave
      yester-
     
     
      day.’’
      she
      mumbles,
      then
      falls
      silent.
     
    

    
     
      Oh,
      Heidi,
      my
      dear
      wife,
      why
      must
      I
      be
      kept
     
     
      from
      you
      by
      these
      horrid
      doctors?
      I
      long
      to
      join
      you,
     
     
      but
      the
      way
      is
      barred
      by
      plastic,
      pumps,
      and
      misdi-
     
     
      rected
      sympathy.
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Oh
      Margaret,
      my
      sweet
      child,
      why
      do
      you
     
     
      torment
      meso?
      You
      think
      that
      you
      do
      me
      good
      by
     
     
      keeping
      me
      in
      this
      pathetic
      shell?
      DO
      YOU
      NOT
     
     
      SEE
      THAT
      YOU
      ARE
      MY
      WARDEN!!?27!!117
     
    

    
     
      All
      it
      would
      take
      is
      the
      push
      of
      a
      button,
      the
     
     
      pulling
      of
      a
      plug
      to
      end
      my
      ordeal.
     
    

    
     
      But
      no.
     
    

    
     
      You
      cannot
      let
      me
      go.
     
    

    
     
      “*Well,
      gotta
      go,
      Father.’’
      She
      pecks
      me
      on
      the
     
     
      cheek,
      and
      departs.
      The
      only
      true
      mercy
      she
      has
     
     
      shown
      me
      has
      been
      keeping
      her
      visits
      short.
     
    

    
     
      But
      I
      have
      a
      trick
      left.
      These
      last
      few
      days
      I
     
     
      have
      been
      saving
      my
      energy
      up,
      and
      soon,
      I
      shall
      free
     
     
      myself.
     
    

    
     
      Gladys,
      my
      nurse,
      comes
      in,
      her
      high
      heels
     
     
      doing
      arhythmic
      click-snap.
      She
      looks
      at
      Its
      face,
     
     
      jots
      a
      few
      numbers
      down,
      then
      sighs
      and
      begins
      the
     
     
      daily
      ritual
      of
      sponge
      bath,
      sheet
      change,
      and
      enema.
     
     
      Despite
      all
      this,
      I
      like
      Gladys.
      She
      is
      the
      only
      person
     
     
      who
      does
      not
      try
      to
      pretend
      that
      I’m
      going
      to
      get
     
     
      better,
      and
      does
      not
      ask
      me
      questions
      which
      I
      am
      far
     
     
      too
      weak
      to
      answer.
      That,
      and
      she
      is
      the
      only
      person
     
     
      who
      still
      touches
      me.
     
    

    
     
      I
      tilt
      my
      head
      over
      to
      glance
      at
      my
      roommate.
      |
     
     
      He
      is
      a
      young
      boy,
      barely
      nine
      years
      old,
      who
      has
     
     
      frequented
      this
      hospital
      for
      cancer
      of
      the
      blood
      since
     
     
      birth,
      rarely
      being
      out
      of
      the
      hospital
      more
      thana
     
     
      month
      before
      being
      readmitted.
      I
      sympathize
      with
      the
     
     
      lad.
      he
      too
      is
      trapped
      in
      this
      place.
     
    

    
     
      As
      soon
      as
      Gladys
      leaves,
      and
      the
      boy
      is
      asleep,
     
     
      I
      begin
      to
      gather
      myself.
      What
      I
      do
      will
      take
      the
     
     
      greatest
      effort
      i
      have
      ever
      undertaken,
      and
      I
      must
     
     
      have
      all
      my
      resources
      at
      hand.
     
    

    
     
      I
      start
      to
      rise.
      It
      sits
      there,
      waiting.
      My
      bones
     
     
      vibrate
      like
      harp
      strings,
      my
      head
      pounds
      and
      throbs
     
     
      like
      there
      was
      a
      fireworks
      display
      in
      my
      skull,
      and
     
     
      my
      lungs
      begin
      to
      feel
      like
      a
      pair
      of
      bright
      red,
     
     
      overinflated
      balloons.
      All
      the
      time,
      it
      sits
      there,
     
     
      beeping
      furiously
      now,
      but
      still
      with
      that
      smug,
      self-
     
     
      satisfied
      look,
      as
      if
      it
      was
      telling
      me
      that
      even
      now,
      it
     
     
      would
      still
      triumph
      and
      frustrate
      my
      efforts.
     
    

    
     
      At
      this
      moment
      I
      freeze,
      dangling
      on
      the
      preci-
     
     
      pice
      between
      the
      victory
      of
      will
      and
      the
      agony
      of
     
     
      can’t.
      Then
      my
      ears
      detect
      the
      scip-scuffle
      of
      the
     
     
      nurses
      coming
      to
      my
      ‘‘rescue’’,
      and]
      realize
      that
      If!
     
     
      stop
      now
      and
      flop
      back
      into
      the
      ready
      comfort
      of
      my
     
     
      pillow,
      as
      my
      body
      is
      begging
      me
      to,
      I
      will
      have
      lost
     
     
      the
      last
      shred
      of
      self-respect
      I
      could
      ever
      have
      had,
     
     
      and
      would
      become
      the
      useless
      hull
      I
      seemed
      on
      the
     
     
      outside.
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      UPEI
      X-P
      RESS
     
    
   
   
    
     
      October
      24,
      1991
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ——
     
    
   
   
    
     
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