Last 72 - An Imaginary Hectic Preparation for Death
Finding out that I have only 72 hours to live is like waiting for a ship on which I must embark without being prepared for the journey on the waters of death. We are born travelers and many times we are defined by our destination, but it is the journey that matters. I try to scrutinize “the future”. What would wait for me there? Would this be a fascinating transgression into a new dimension? Life taught me that hell and heaven live so well on Earth, blended in human nature.
First I remain petrified. Then I slowly recover and start to think what I shall do with these 72 hours. I would surely not sleep the nights that bridge these three days. I would drink a lot of coffee, take some energizing pills and start to fight against panic letting reason for once in my life to rule over my heart. What is to be done? What can one make when facing death? Act, philosophize, lament?
Would I be able to complete all my unfinished writings? I thought I still had so much to say to the world. What would happen with my project of European cultural exchange between Bucharest and Paris? The dreamt launch of my bilingual book of poems illustrated by my friend, the famous artist Dalia Bialcovski was supposed to take place simultaneously with the opening of her exhibition of drawings. She has a special power to contour the different atmosphere of Bucharest and Paris, what they have in common and what not, the mysterious soul of places and their people. Dalia recently had a one month successful exhibition in Venice. Hundreds of visitors wrote their impressions about her work. I am not going to disappoint her. She will not know of my 72 hours “problem” and I will continue to work on this project as if nothing happened. I am going to make the same phone calls and go to all the scheduled appointments, if any, in this short interval of time. When I am no longer here she would feel it is her duty to continue and make our dream once come true.
What about my life? Like any human being I am far from perfection. I had my mistakes, my good deeds and my victories too.
But in this case I am choosing to act. When death will be knocking at my door I will be extremely busy. First of all I will have to see what will happen with my vacation house in the hills of Maneciu, at the foot of the mountains, my safe haven with plum orchards where I would gaze at the stars during the summer nights. They would always seem closer to earth, especially in mid August. The place was destined for writing and gathering friends. I did not write there as much as I would have wished but I enjoyed the company of many special people who are all so dear to me. The house in Maneciu was one of my dreams that came true. So were my published books. The books I leave to the readers but who can fully understand the legacy of a dream - this house that was built under my very eyes from 1996 to 1999?
I lived there times of happiness and times of sorrow, there were tragic happenings and charming days, that house represents the quintessence of my life. To whom can I leave an accomplished dream that is a part of me? Maybe I will come and haunt it during the nights with full moon, visit on every New Year’s Eve, or just pass by each spring to listen to the woodpeckers picking the thick trunks of the old orchard.
I have the loving and kind shoulder of my partner who supported me in all my dreams and endeavors. I cannot tell him about the 72 hour deadline on my life. I am selfish in this respect. I want to see him as lively, warm and loving as always. There will be enough time left for him to suffer afterwards.
If I would have sufficient time to travel, I would go to Paris and say hello to Henry the Fourth on Pont Neuf – it is there where my poems of Paris were born. I would visit once more l’Orangerie Museum to feast my eyes with Monet’s “nympheas” that he gifted to the state with the special request to be inaugurated after his death. I would once more go to Rome and see the Roman Forum to wander among the ruins and imagine the past lives of its ancient inhabitants. Then I would walk further north to contemplate Trajan’s Column near the Quirinal Hill and remember my brave Dacian ancestors. But time seems to be too short for this. Aren’t we lucky to leave in the Paradise of communication? Now we can travel virtually wherever we want. Still there is one final travel one can never avoid.
To tickle my pride and to gain more courage for the forthcoming journey, I will take a short look at my golden plaque received for 20 years in the service of the United Nations engraved with “In Recognition of Dedicated Service in World Development”. Did I really make a difference? Perhaps I should write a short letter to the UN Secretary-General to express my concern for the future of humanity. Maybe I should write one to the Pope too, to respectfully ask His Holiness why Christ was not preaching clad in gold like nowadays priests, why is the house of God full of resplendent luxury? Was it not Christ who threw the tables of the money changers from the temple? Why so much innocent blood spilled in the name of religion? I am sure that I will receive a short polite letter from each of these offices, written by a Secretariat, on the elegant, intimidating letterhead and addressed in my name.
I realize that these 72 hours deadline prevents me from knowing the outcome of the forthcoming Climate Change Conference to be held in Cancun, Mexico from 29 November to 10 December. Will the heads of states be able to pass to future generations a blue-green and fertile Earth? After successive such conferences, will humanity have a document of the same importance and influence as the UN Charter that will manage to protect our Planet on a long term?
During these three days I will hold my tomcat tight, listening to his purr and acknowledging all his unconditional devotion and love for me, his concern when I was sick and his joy when we used to play together. I will finish my poem “Cat’s Eyes” in his honor.
Time is short. I would better go to my father’s grave and thank him for the person I have become, for the self confidence that he taught me, for his kindness and for his advice to never judge anyone. He was my model in life. I should gather all his books and plays that are scattered and organize them in a portfolio. But I also have to complete my writings. It is good that I have the nights too. There are so many things to do in three days. I did not know that the approach of death can be so hectic.
I will definitely go to my priest and tell him that I have only 72 hours to live. But he will not believe me. He will say that we cannot know when we die. What if the 72 hours pass and I am still here? Then, surely I will have to live each day as if it were the last.
Copyright Daniela Albu