Loveday Writing

I have nearly finished digging my hole.**

Life in Beds

Here we are.

My deathbed.

There’s no question how and why I ended up here: I ate what I wanted and never cared about staying in shape, I didn’t care about the numbers in my bloodwork, and I never felt worthy enough to change or do anything about it.

I lived how I wanted and now I’m about to enter the next phase of life – the afterlife. Whatever that means.

I always thought a hospital bed being a person’s deathbed to be cliché and vowed to never die in one. All hospital beds are the same: white, with cheap blue sheets, and a thin blanket that doesn’t even try to keep me or anyone else warm. My only company is a set of drawers on wheels on one side of the bed, and a drip machine on the other, slowly feeding me morphine. I always thought I’d die an old woman in my own warm bed, but my life ending in this bed is my own fault.

I’ll die alone, another cliché.

My next bed, my eternal one, will be a nice, but not over-the-top coffin. Between my unhealthy lifestyle, lack of self-worth and discipline, and the slow-release morphine, I have nearly finished digging my hole or rather grave.

I wonder whether I really will ‘rest in peace.’

**Reference: Marsden J 1998, Everything I Know About Writing, Pan Macmillan, Australia.