Second Chance

He focused on his next breath, grappling between life and death. The oxygen rattled down his throat, into his lead-weight lungs that struggled to inflate. He shook like a rag doll as the incessant dry, hacking cough stripped his throat and battered his body. The oxygen mask seemed more of a hindrance than a help. He couldn’t bear to have anything on his face or around his neck — even the clergy collar he had worn for the last forty years had been a struggle at times. Like the rest of his uniform, it now lay neatly packed away.

Instead, he was adorned in a variety of tubes and drips, and a flimsy blue hospital gown. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the otherwise silent room. If he turned his head slightly to the left, he could see the tools of his trade carefully placed on the bedside table: a crucifix and a tired-looking Bible which gave him no comfort as he lay in a palliative care unit waiting to die.

He cast his mind back to the hundreds of funerals he had conducted over the years and the comfort the families had taken from him as he confidently assured them of their loved one’s place in Heaven. They clung to his words like bees to a honey pot, eager to believe in the sweetness of an Afterlife. Now, as he stared into the face of his own existence, he wondered if any of it was true? Had he, in fact, been part of a cruel hoax?

As death grew closer, he became more and more convinced that everything he believed to be true, had dedicated his life to was nothing more than a fairy tale. At first, he had prayed fervently for help, for mercy, for a miracle, but as the days passed and he felt life slipping away, his prayers became hollow, echoes of his once unshakeable faith until one day, he simply stopped praying.

With each passing day, he felt the cold fingers of death caress his decaying flesh, lingering like gossamer, and his sense of dread grew. Now, he lay in a hospital bed in his own private room, isolated from the rest of the world. Utterly alone.

The coughing turned to a sob. This was it — the last stop. There was no Heaven, no Afterlife, no God, no Jesus, only the endless nothingness of death.

The door opening interrupted his downward spiral and she walked in like a breath of fresh air. If angels were real, then Nurse Johnson would certainly be among their number. It was as if she could sense his despair during the darkest hours of the night — a bright light against the aphotic depths of his thoughts.

She had first started visiting about a fortnight ago, not long after he had been moved to the Unit to wait out the remainder of his time.

“Still here.” He said with forced lightness.

Her eyes smiled from behind her clear visor, “You’ll be here longer than you think, Thomas.”

“Yeah, the peak of health.” His weak chuckle turned into another fit of coughing.

Her eyes echoed her Mona Lisa smile, as she came to sit by his bedside.

“You…” he paused for a breath, “… look like an…” another breath, “… alien in that getup.” He finally gasped, taking in her PPE equipment that all but covered her up, apart from the upper part of her warm, brown eyes and dark, mahogany face.

She smiled at this familiar conversation and reached for his Bible.

“You talk too much. How’s about something from the Good Book?”

“Fairy tales at bedtime?” he quipped.

Her eyes crinkled, “If you like. Do you have a preference?”

He shrugged, not really caring what she read, just grateful that she was here. He loved the soothing sound of her melodious voice which seem to take all his pain and fear away. When she read, he almost felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. He wasn’t sure where he went, only that when he came back, he felt revived. If this was to be his final night of existence, let it be listening to her read to him.

“Now,” she began, “there was a certain man sick, Lazarus, of Bethany…” He closed his eyes and lost himself in her voice.

He didn’t know how long she read to him, but as she read, he felt the despair lift, the fear evaporate and calm settle over him. Even after she finished reading, the sense of calm remained and he relaxed into the silence. When he heard her next words, he was neither asleep nor awake, but in that magical place of in-between.

“My peace I give you. My peace I leave you, my friend.”

He opened his eyes, but she had gone as immediately as she’d appeared. He frowned thoughtfully as her words lingered — he was familiar with them; had, in fact, used them in his own sermons. He smiled and closed his eyes, content for the first time since he knew his death was inevitable…

The medical staff were in utter chaos the next day as they sought to explain the medical miracle standing in the middle of the ward in his flimsy hospital gown, waving a bible in his hand. How was this possible? The Priest had been at Death’s door; they had already earmarked his bed for the next critical patient. Nobody survived at this stage — absolutely nobody. It was like he had risen from the dead!

Over the course of a week, they conducted test after test on his heart, his lungs, his blood, his lungs again — in fact, every known test they could get their hands on to explain the living, breathing anomaly that had made a complete recovery overnight! It was as if he had never been riddled with the disease; and no matter how hard they searched, they could find no trace of the virus in his body.

They pleaded for yet more tests, but Father Thomas drew the line. The tests could never explain what she did. When he asked about her, he wasn’t really surprised that no-one had heard of a Nurse Johnson. He still found it hard to believe, but believe he did: She had risen again.

Inspired by a Global Video Seminar with Ariel and Shya Kane of www.transformationmadeeasy.com

By Naz Ahsun