IN GOD'S HANDS

I am depressed at present, so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t talk about blue sheep frolicking in the grass.
You see, a few days ago my aunt decided upon a whim of the moment that my liver was ageing too fast. I don’t really care to go into details over why these sorts of things happen in my life-- all you need to know is that I happen to live with an aunt who is strongly lacking mental stability and who would diagnose a stone with lung cancer if it tickled her fancy on that particular day. She’s obsessed with medicine-- what can you do? (And you should also probably know that I would never dream of raising a finger to defend myself, because I happen to be a coward).
Anyway, I’ve been contemplating suicide ever since that day. Not seriously, of course, but romantically, like all of us wimps do when we get desperate. And I am desperate.
Everyone is always asking me whether I want a pillow, or perhaps a drink, and is the light too strong? Is it too dim? Should they open a window? Should they close a window? For Christ’s sake! Why the hell should I want to have a pillow when I’m on my way to wash my hands? And even if my liver was ageing too fast, what on God’s green earth would a pillow do for me? They don’t think of these things. They’re far too irrational. Caught up in the romantic whirlwind of someone else’s deteriorating organs!
We had guests the other day, and when I came down to join them their voices immediately died away and left me standing in the doorway, wishing violently that I could be hiking through the Italian Alps. All of them had stopped dead in their actions, and stared at me with teacups in their hands, their mouths closed neatly and their earnest eyes filled with respect for the departed soul that had yet to depart. In fact, the room was filled with nothing but saints and archangels, Holy Virgins, martyrs and Jesus Christs.
The compassion that flooded me was simply overwhelming. There were too many of them-- a whole football team worth of these “understanding well-wishers,” all wanting to take my hand to assure me that everything would be all right. There was, of course, nothing I could do but give in to their fantasies.
“Good afternoon, Martha,” said Mrs. Hatton very quietly with a long pause between each word.
I smiled my reply, but instantly remembered that it was not polite to grin under the tragic circumstances, and so began to look very disturbed.
Then there were about a million hours of silence, in which everyone thought it absolutely necessary to scrutinize the way in which I poured my tea and then fumbled with my cake, dropping it on the floor and, for lack of a better idea, picking it up again and beginning to eat it. I really couldn’t look at anything in pure fear of making eye contact with any of them, and let me assure you there can be nothing worse than making eye contact. I nearly dropped my cup, for example, when I accidentally looked up and found myself staring into Mrs. Hatton’s tilted face, her eyebrows drawn together and her lips pressed into a soothing smile.
“We’re so glad you could join us,” an old man I had never seen before suddenly said, leaning forward.
“Oh, yes,” smiled the lady beside him. “I hope it wasn’t too taxing on your liv--”
“Deidre!”
Deidre tried again. “I hope it-- it wasn’t too taxing on your schedule.”
“Oh, there’s no need to hide anything from Martha,” my aunt put in calmly. “She is very brave. She really is. Aren’t you, my dear?”
“Terribly, yes,” I answered.
The guests were delighted.
“You must be very proud of her, Eve! I simply stand in awe of her beautiful serenity. God has allotted her such a short existence on the Earth, and yet she takes it with the greatest of ease!”
“Yes-- only just arrived in the bloom of youth and already fading faster than any of us.”
After the silence had been broken, it seemed there simply wasn’t enough that could be said on the subject. All cases of failed livers in everyone’s immediate and distant families were fondly recalled, more tea was ordered, more sugar cubes were plunged into the cups, followed by further reminiscing (who died faster, who was in which hospital, etc., etc.). There was a general sigh, during which everyone looked at me again and twenty percent of the audience shook their heads.
Mrs. Hatton put her hand on my shoulder. “Tell me, Martha, are you in much pain?”
“I’m afraid pain is somewhat inevitable under the circumstances,” I said.
“Yes, of course.”
Silence.
“Indeed, yes.”
By this time the loud old man decided he had been silent long enough. He looked up without any warning, left off fondling his tie and announced in a thunderous howl, “What I’d like to know is how do you get up in the morning, knowing that you will soon be--”
“Edmund!”
“Deidre, let him,” my aunt interposed again. “I assure you Martha is quite old enough to talk sensibly about these things.”
Edmund looked from one lady to the other and then turned back to me, irritated at having been interrupted. His hand landed suddenly on my knee and he began again. “I only meant: how do you find the energy to face a new day, knowing that in another few weeks it will all be over?”
Looking down at the hand still clutching my knee, I answered, “We’re all in God’s hands. I have no business feeling defeated until He decides to take me away.”
“Very good!” Edmund exclaimed. “Very good indeed. Put your trust in the old man above.”
“It’s the only way to go about life really,” someone agreed.
“Isn’t it though?”
I had no idea that I was able to let off religious phrases on such short notice and couldn’t help feeling unnecessarily proud of myself.
Someone finally mentioned malaria and the conversation took a refreshing stab into the tropics and the “good, old days,” leaving me in peace.
And there you have it. Life goes on regardless, and it’ll only be a few more days of this before my aunt will change her mind and diagnose me with something more exciting.