BLAME IT ON GOD

Title: BLAME IT ON GOD

"Madam, the only advice I can give you is that, keep your house in order and make sure you do your spiritual exercises well" the consultant said after struggling with words for minutes. I knew it was hard for him also, looking straight into the eyes of a dying woman to declare to her the final sentences. 

This woman was someone I had never met until about thirty minutes earlier when she was wheeled in on a wheelchair. 

To me, she looked nice and her fair complexion was admirable. Actually, she was beautiful to behold. 

One more thing aside her light skin, noticeably yellow, her conjunctiva gloomily sat behind the eyelids, the whites of the eyes smiled yellow.

Was this a blessing from her God? Just like blue eyes, and other fashionably colored eyes, should she be delighted that a unique feature was found in her, a stigma, a curse from no know god?

 A beautiful pain that ripped her heart apart.

"How old are you?"

"50" she replied. 

I was barely touched until she brokedown in tears

"Doctor, as you see me, I didn't live my life recklessly...ah.. Doctor, I didn't live recklessly. I didn't live a bad life... Why? Why is this happening?"

Curiosity took over. I wanted, more than minutes before, to know why this woman asked why, and that which broke her down. 

"...why me?" she continued, and she suddenly became calm. 

I felt pain. I felt fear. I felt depression.

I have many unanswered questions, maybe more than the woman asked.

I was worried about her. But, I was more worried about the doctor who just stared into the empty space.

"This is a terminal cancer, it's at its end stage. A surgical intervention, like you wished, would make no apparent difference" he forced the words out, shaking his head pitifully. 

He abruptly stopped, became silent, gazed at the woman endlessly. The air was heavy and tense. It was like this, the world came crashing on us all. The room became stuffy and airless. You could hear your heart beat without straining your ears.   "I am sorry. I am so sorry that there is nothing we could do to help you" 

The woman just looked on as the physician scribble whatsoever. Like everybody else, I was worried to my bones. 

She was only fifty. Someone's sweetheart. The mother of some persons. Her friends, her family, those who came to being so close, would love to have her around like ever. More than these, we should be troubled what her sin was, is, would be. 

What was her offence? Was she a murderer, a thief, an occultist, or just a human? Was she a liar, a smuggler, a pervert, or just a person?

Then, should we blame the dying soul for the unknown? Should we ask the  calendar that bears the pain of each mark as she counts down to death? 

To die is no big deal, but to count each day, till death. Which death is this, that comes in bits? Each day, in her mind, she dies. As she waits, she dies. 

If I can do all things, I will never allow my creature to die this way, for whatever reason, for whatever point I want to prove. 

If I can kill and bring back to life, I will give life to some dead and strangle some that are alive.

We are so unworthy to live. But, if I am so merciful, I will not let my creature die this way. 

The tears at the sight of death afar. The fear of lying lifeless. 

She asked him why. He asked God why. Who should God ask?