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Hospitals have their own kind of silence. It is not the peaceful silence of a quiet room or an empty street at night. It is a silence filled with footsteps, distant voices, and the quiet anxiety of people waiting for news that could change everything.
I remember the hospital corridor in Belgrade where I waited while my mother had her first surgery. Colon cancer. Even saying the words felt unreal at the time. The hallway seemed endless, with pale walls and metal chairs that were never comfortable enough for the kind of waiting they demanded. I walked up and down that corridor for hours, sometimes sitting, sometimes staring at the closed door that separated our normal life from whatever would come next.
Every now and then I would step outside, walk to the car, breathe for a few minutes, and return again. There was a small park nearby. I walked there too, pretending that the fresh air could calm the storm in my head.
My father had to keep working. Someone had to pay for the medicines. So I took a day off from the store where I worked back then, long before I started working in a school. That day stretched longer than any work shift I had ever done.
When the cancer returned as metastasis, the hospital corridor became familiar in a way no place should ever become familiar.
After the second surgery, the waiting room did not stay inside the hospital anymore. It followed us home.
Our days slowly turned into a routine. Every morning we woke up at seven. We took a taxi to the hospital so she could have blood drawn before chemotherapy. After the treatment we would take a short walk through the park nearby. Those walks were quiet but strangely peaceful. We talked about ordinary things, sometimes about nothing at all.
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Other times we dreamed.
We talked about where we would go when things got better. Visiting relatives. Walking up the hill above the town. Sitting by the city lake. Making cakes together like we used to. She promised she would cook my favorite meals again when she got stronger.
We spoke as if the future was waiting patiently for us.
Even when we both knew it probably wasn't.
Nights became another kind of waiting. The kind where you lie awake knowing that something dark is approaching and there is nowhere to run from it. In the end she stayed at home, just as she wanted. We took care of her every day. Sometimes a nurse came to help, but most of the time it was just us.
And I respected her wish, no matter how hard it was to watch.
There is something unbearable about seeing the person who gave you life slowly fade away. Day by day, like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass.
Sometimes I wondered if it was God's justice or God's injustice that even the kindest people are chosen by such terrible diseases. That someone so full of warmth might never see their grandchildren.
But even in the hardest moments we laughed. We told jokes when the pain was strongest. I never showed the sadness in my eyes. Not even on the last day.
Her final breath came quietly. Her gaze was still warm, even though I could see the fear she tried to hide.
I kept telling her she was a fighter. That she would win. That she would pull through.
It was a lie.
But it was a lie we both wanted to believe.
Hope, even when fragile, was something the illness could never take away from us. Neither was the time we still had together. Time I would live again in exactly the same way if I had the chance.
My fighter until the last breath.
Sometimes at night I look up at a bright star shining above the house. And I know you are still there.
Waiting somewhere beyond the sky.
Until the day I walk out of this waiting room too, and we meet again.
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On Serbian:
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Bolnice imaju svoju vrstu tišine. To nije ona mirna tišina prazne sobe ili noćne ulice. To je tišina ispunjena koracima, prigušenim glasovima i tihom zebnjom ljudi koji čekaju vesti koje mogu promeniti sve.
Sećam se bolničkog hodnika u Beogradu gde sam čekao dok su moju majku operisali prvi put. Rak debelog creva. I tada je izgovoriti te reči zvučalo nestvarno. Hodnik je delovao beskrajno, sa bledim zidovima i metalnim stolicama koje nikada nisu dovoljno udobne za vrstu čekanja koju zahtevaju. Hodao sam gore-dole satima, ponekad sedao, ponekad gledao u zatvorena vrata koja su delila naš normalan život od onoga što će tek doći.
Ponekad bih izašao napolje, otišao do auta, udahnuo vazduh na nekoliko minuta i ponovo se vratio. U blizini je bio mali park. Šetao sam i tamo, praveći se da svež vazduh može smiriti oluju u mojoj glavi.
Otac je morao da radi. Neko je morao da plaća lekove. Zato sam ja uzeo slobodan dan u prodavnici gde sam tada radio, mnogo pre nego što sam počeo da radim u školi. Taj dan se razvukao duže od bilo koje smene koju sam ikada radio.
Kada se rak vratio u obliku metastaza, bolnički hodnik je postao poznato mesto na način na koji nijedno takvo mesto nikada ne bi trebalo da postane.
Posle druge operacije, čekaonica više nije ostala samo u bolnici. Preselila se i u našu kuću.
Naši dani su polako postali rutina. Svako jutro ustajali smo u sedam. Taksijem smo išli do bolnice da joj izvade krv pre hemoterapije. Posle terapije bismo napravili kratku šetnju kroz obližnji park. Te šetnje su bile tihe, ali nekako mirne. Razgovarali smo o običnim stvarima, ponekad ni o čemu posebnom.
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Ponekad smo i maštali.
Pričali smo gde ćemo sve ići kada nam bude bolje. Da obiđemo rodbinu. Da se popnemo na brdo iznad grada. Da odemo do gradskog jezera. Da ponovo pravimo kolače koje volimo. Obećavala je da će mi kuvati moje omiljene ručkove kada ojača.
Pričali smo kao da nas budućnost strpljivo čeka.
Čak i kada smo oboje znali da verovatno nije tako.
Noći su postale druga vrsta čekanja. Ono kada ležiš budan i znaš da se nešto mračno približava, a nema mesta gde možeš pobeći. Na kraju je ostala kod kuće, baš kako je želela. Svakog dana smo brinuli o njoj. Ponekad bi dolazila medicinska sestra da pomogne, ali većinu vremena bili smo samo mi.
I poštovao sam njenu želju, bez obzira koliko je bilo teško gledati.
Postoji nešto neizdrživo u tome kada vidiš osobu koja ti je dala život kako polako nestaje. Dan po dan, kao zrnca peska koja klize kroz peščani sat.
Ponekad sam se pitao da li je to Božja pravda ili Božja nepravda — da i dobre ljude biraju tako teške bolesti. Da neko toliko topao možda nikada neće videti svoje unuke.
Ali čak i u najtežim trenucima smejali smo se. Pričali smo viceve kada je bilo najteže. Nikada nisam pokazivao tugu u očima. Čak ni poslednjeg dana.
Njen poslednji dah došao je tiho. Pogled joj je ostao topao, iako sam mogao da vidim strah koji je pokušavala da sakrije.
Stalno sam joj govorio da je borac. Da će pobediti. Da će se izvući.
Bila je to laž.
Ali bila je to laž u koju smo oboje želeli da verujemo.
Nada, čak i kada je krhka, bila je nešto što bolest nikada nije mogla da nam oduzme. Kao ni vreme koje smo još imali zajedno. Vreme koje bih ponovo proživeo na isti način kada bih mogao.
Moj borac do poslednjeg daha.
Ponekad noću pogledam u jednu zvezdu koja jako sija iznad naše kuće. I znam da si još uvek tu.
Negde iznad neba.
Čekajući.
Dok jednog dana i ja ne izađem iz ove čekaonice i ponovo te sretnem.
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