The room was pale pink, and trimmed with white. Three rows of chairs sitting back to back took up most of the room. A woman sat behind a counter and glass window, she checked them in and floors below I would check them out. Next to her was a door, associated with pain, pain that would hopefully end their suffering and delay the inevitable visit from me. There was one woman on my mind; she was sitting in the last row with her back to the wall. She sat there, and even though the room as filled with a lot of people and considerably warm, all she heard was silence, and all she felt was cold. She wrung her hands and breathed deep in order to keep control. On the inside, her heart was racing and she was devastated, broken is the best way to describe the woman that sat before me that day. She looked up at me, and even though she could not see me, I had this feeling she knew that I was there, there for her, to help her in a way no one else could, to make all her worries go away, to stop her tears. That was my job. A woman dressed in pink and purple flowered scrubs stepped through that door that so many enter.

“Enola Seid?” she asked, as if she did not know if she was there.

The woman in the chair, Enola, stood up and walked to the door, and as she walked she turned and looked over her shoulder, and no one looked up to wave goodbye, she didn’t expect that anyone would, it would require their “precious time” to notice a stranger. I walked next to her. The nurse lead her down the hall, the walls appeared to have faded from that beautiful pale yellow that draws you in, to a sterile white. They did not acknowledge that she, was a living person, all they saw was money. They reached the Last room and the nurse opened the door.

“Sit down and a doctor will see you shortly.” She stated robotically. Enola walked in the room, there was an examining table and there was a long table built into a wall, on it was an array of items, from cotton balls, to needles. She sat on the table, and I sat next to her. I wanted to comfort her, she was scared. Scared of what the diagnosis would be, scared of the treatments she would need, scared of dying. I wanted to wrap my arm around her and tell her I would make it all go away, but I couldn’t. A man walked in with a chart in his hand, and he looked at her. It was not a look of confidence, but a look of sympathy. I knew what he was going to say, I am all-knowing, it is a gift and a burden. It is more often a burden. I saw her tense up, her breathing near stopped. She was hooked on the words, the lies he was spinning, that would bring about her demise.

“There is no easy way to say this, but you have a rare disease, Liberdade Fever.”

“What….I...is it deadly?” She mumbled.

“Unfortunately, in the stage you are in with this disease, it is.” He said. He did not look at her when she said this, even he, “Miracle Worker,” could not look in to the eyes of this innocent victim. I alone am soulless enough to claim the innocence that is her soul. To look into her eyes, to see that last glimpse of life, I alone am that soulless. She looked at the ground tears in her eyes, she put on her best stoic face and Sniffed, “How long until….until…”

The doctor understanding what she meant looked at his sheet, “With the length of time this has gone untreated, my estimation is three days.” He said. He left shortly after sending her to a “long term” room. As if she would be staying long, I wanted to rescue her.



I saw her lying in that bed, she looked healthy, but through her eyes, I saw her dying. I sat by her bed while she called her family members. I kept her company while she cried, and when the time came, I would free her of her painful prison.



It was a quiet day; it was a perfect day to leave. As if on cue, the beeping of the machines became frantic. No Medical personnel rushed in and tried to help her, they knew there was nothing they could do. She looked at the spot where I stood, and all her pain and misery was visible through her eyes. Her esophagus collapsed, and her heart tore, and her veins emptied. She went pale, and began to shake. She gasped for air and I knew if she could speak, she would ask me to free her. I grabbed her hand, and her eyes glazed over, and the shaking stopped. She was free, at last of the venomous penitentiary that held her captive.

I looked at the window and saw the doctor, who had allowed himself a moment of human feeling, and cried. I did not cry, I have seen to much death and pain to be able to cry. That man may think his job is hardest, but he knows nothing of a painful job. He may consider his feelings a burden, his human emotion and shackle that slows him down. What I would give to cry.