More of the book

So, I've now decided to title my book "5000 Mile Journey" which, if you read the finished product, you'll come to understand. The next posting is to directly follow the last one I posted. It might be a bit confusing, but it's written in two time frames: one of when I was in Egypt and the other when I was with my friend, who passed away on July 6th. This is the first entry of that experience. The two are intermingled in my book. Again, you'll see why. Enjoy!

Three weeks ago. Seems like years, a lifetime. Another person. I sit in room 1048, Intensive Care Unit, Toronto General Hospital. One of the best hospitals in the world filled with some of the most brilliant minds. I can hear the constant hissing rhythm of the ventilator, the random beeps from the machines. I watch the sixteen bags of drugs slowly drain into the lifeless, swollen body of my friend. I wonder to myself why they keep it so bloody cold in here. Isn’t warmth supposed to be healing?
My friend, Tanya, is dying from complications brought on by cystic fibrosis. Her lungs have shut down, her kidneys are failing, fourteen litres of excess fluid has accumulated in her tissues, obliterating the tiny, childlike form she once gracefully possessed. We all knew it would happen, eventually, one day. One day, far far away. Not today. Not today, not here.
The realization leaves me immobile, paralyzed. I look up at Mary, Tanya’s mom. Her eyes are red and swollen. She hasn’t slept in days. She feels guilty leaving her daughter’s side. The youngest daughter, Emily, is grief stricken. My heart breaks more for these women, than for Tanya. She has struggled for thirty three years, these women have fought for her, with her, begged for her life. They don’t understand fatigue, they don’t understand the lonely struggle of disease from the insider’s perspective, although they may try. And they are only human for it. They are good people for it. But they are losing hope. Mary speaks as though Tanya has already left, uses the past tense. Jessica, the middle sister, my best friend, is desperately trying to get home from Australia. I want her here, need her here. I close my eyes and see her red, swollen eyes, pale face. She is alone, terrified. Praying she will make it home to see her sister. They are only one year apart.
I’ve never felt ache like this. I put my head in my hands, listen to the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, and join the chorus of weeping.