The Will
I can hear the crackle of electricity as the lamp on my nightstand flickers to life. It’s late. Or early. I’m not sure which. The light seems unusually bright, and I close my eyes to let them adjust. As I lift my head off the pillow, my face brushes against the pieces of hair that have fallen out while I was fighting to sleep. I brush the hair off the pillowcase with a shaking hand, telling myself I will vacuum the room in the morning. At least if the hair is on the floor I won’t have to look at it.
Groaning, I lift myself into a sitting position. My arms shake with the effort, and my joints ache. I swing my legs to the side of the bed and drag myself into the bathroom. The light from my lamp comes through the open bathroom door and illuminates my face in the mirror. The shadows accentuate my sunken eyes and pale skin. I lean toward my reflection, lifting a hand to my cheek. I rub at the dark circle under one eye like it will wipe away. It doesn’t. I sigh. Putting my hand against the mirror, I look into my empty eyes and whisper, “Things will get better.”
After getting a drink of water from the bathroom sink, I walk slowly back to my bed. My legs are stiff and resist movement, and the five steps from the bathroom to the bed make it difficult to breathe. Tears of frustration well up in my eyes. This should not be difficult. But it is.
I finally reach the bed and curl into a ball under the blankets. I turn a little to switch off the lamp and yelp in pain. My port is still sore from today’s injection, and it screams as I try to readjust. Tears of pain join my tears of frustration. I sit up, giving up on sleep for the night.
As I stare out the window at the empty road below, I watch the traffic light change from green to yellow to red. It changes over and over again. The thought strikes me that I am the only one in the whole world watching this light. How odd. After a while, one car pulls up to the intersection. The light is red, but the car speeds through anyway. I hope they’re hurrying home to dream of tomorrow, but something tells me they’re running away from today.
I look around my room. My eyes land on a green folder on the nightstand. On the front it says “we are what we leave behind” in fancy cursive lettering. I don’t have to open it to know what’s inside. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the nurse handed the folder to me as I left the clinic. “Just something we like all of our patients to think about,” she had said. I waited until I got to the car to open the folder and look inside. It took me twenty minutes to calm down enough to drive home.
I reach over and pick up the folder. I’m already crying, so I figure it can’t hurt. I’m not going back to sleep anyway. As I flip through the papers that are inside, the titles jump out at me. Things like “action plan,” “will and testament,” “advance health care directive,” and “planning for your posterity” leap off the pages and settle in my heart like a weight. I want to scream. I want to yell and kick and punch the wall and tell the world I’m too young for this. I’m supposed to be invincible. Why can’t I be invincible?
I pull the last page of the folder out of its sheet protector. It’s a light green color titled “Tips For Writing a Living Will.” A tear falls on the page and smudges the ink. I look around my room, as if expecting someone to jump out and help me. I look out the window. Nothing but the traffic light. It’s just me. Me and the tips on how to write a will.
I lean over and grab my notebook. I open to a new page and at the top, in all capitals, I write, “The Will of Kristina Moore.” That feels a little too formal, so I cross out the last word so it just reads, “The Will of Kristina.” I don’t know why that makes me feel better; it just does. I underline it. Following the tips on the paper, I start writing. I write the date and that no one is forcing me to write this. Easy enough. Now comes the difficult part.
The sheet of handy tips says that this is where I put down what possessions go to whom when I die. My eyes wander over my possessions and I realize I don’t have anything really worth leaving to someone. What am I going to say, “To my brother, I leave my bookshelf that’s not really mine, and to my sister I leave my car that I haven’t paid off yet?” Stupid. My mind races, desperately trying to think of something I can leave behind. It’s hard to breathe again. I’m not supposed to have to think about my legacy yet. I’m supposed to have time. I’m supposed to have 70 more years to create a life and collect ugly trinkets to leave to my grandchildren. But here I am, with nothing to give and an empty page in my notebook.
I sit in the same position for hours, not really thinking, but not sleeping either. I’m stuck somewhere in between. My mind can’t - won’t - wrap around the idea that I am at a point where I need to put in words what I want to leave behind. I stare at the ceiling. I wonder if people will miss me. I wonder if they’ll miss me for a while and then move on with their lives, and one day they’ll see something in a store window that will remind them of that one girl they knew who had cancer. Who will speak at my funeral? I hope there aren’t any empty benches at my funeral. I hope they don’t serve jello.
The pencil in my hand traces the lines on the page as I try to focus. What to write. What to give. What to leave. The words “living will” chant over and over in my brain. Sigh. I grab my phone from the nightstand and open Facebook. Maybe focusing on other people’s lives will help me figure out mine. It doesn’t. I end up scrolling through my own pictures, looking at my long hair and authentic smile. I cry and touch my bald head. I don’t remember the last time I smiled like that.
After a while, my focus shifts from how I look to who and what surrounds me in the photos. My brother jumping into my arms. Friends eating waffles at two in the morning. Sleeping on couches in a parking lot during a rainstorm. Hiking with my sister. Celebrating my best friend’s wedding. Graduating from college. My students gathered in front of the classroom. Running through the mud. Playing guitar and making s'mores around a campfire. Standing outside the temple hugging my family. In spite of my tears, I feel myself smiling. My mind clears, and something clicks.
I look down at the paper in my lap and narrow my eyes. Gripping the edge of the page, I rip it from the notebook. Quickly, I write a new title at the top of the next page. It reads, “Kristina’s Will.” I underline it and, with more energy than I’ve felt in days, I start writing.
I write for almost an hour, erasing things and rewriting them again. The words on this page have to be perfect. They’re my legacy. What I will leave behind. There’s no room for error.
My pencil finishes the last sentence. I read the page one more time, and then, at the bottom of the page, I sign my name. Carefully, I tear the page from the notebook and set it in the green folder. Closing the folder, I run my fingers over the words on the front. “We are what we leave behind.” Peace floods through me. I set the folder on my nightstand. Reaching over, I turn off the lamp. The ever changing traffic light shines through the window as my eyes drift shut.
Kristina’s Will
I will live my life with purpose.
I will smile even as I cry.
I will find something to be thankful for in every situation.
I will never let someone suffer alone.
I will take every opportunity to be kind.
I will express my gratitude for everything I’m given.
I will not leave loving words unsaid.
I will spend my time building relationships.
I will be there when someone needs me.
I will learn as much as I can about the world and God.
I will help everyone feel important.
I will strengthen those around me.
I will live my life so that I have no regrets when I leave.
I will take risks and face my fears.
I will love everyone for exactly who they are.
I will use my talents to make the world a better place.
I will create joyful memories.
I will never leave my family without saying “I love you.”
I will search for beauty.
I will realize that waking up every morning is a gift.
I will live a life that will make God proud to call me his daughter.
I will never stop trying.
I will leave behind the love that I give.
-Kristina Moore
