I was imaging how life would be without me. I wasn’t irreplaceable. Someone else would replace my work position; my friends would have new friends; even my husband could get a new wife. Most of the other people won’t even care. My death would just be news to them, something taking a few minutes of their time. Yet when I thought about my own children and my family my heart was torn apart. It was an unbearable pain. I spent a lot of time closed in my room, and cried as much as my body would bear.
I started to feel physical pains, real pains all over my body. My energy went down. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t eat. I was witnessing how my internal organs were decaying. So I spent most of the time lying and feeling sorry for myself. It was over. I was lying there on my deathbed. My sense of victimhood became worse and worse. I couldn’t even do my housework. I remember my young nieces came and did the housework for me. My house was full of bad energy; we could hardly speak to each other. My boys thought I was suffering from flu, so they were patient when they saw me in that awful condition. The older son was much more aware of my situation and he ignored me all of the time. It looked like he hated me for being ill. The younger one, being just a toddler, would come to me, kiss me, hug me and give me that divine smile as though he were trying to tell me something, as though he knew everything was going to be well. On the other hand, my husband never gave up. All night he read different articles about my disease and, while taking care of me, he would tell me a thing or two. But I kept ignoring it, I didn’t want to know or learn.