He is lying in bed making a thousand wishes. He is ready to take the least blessing if the Big Guy up there will grant it now. But somehow he knows that he’s been given all the blessings and the grace he was ever going to get and he’s blown it all.
He is listening to Bob Marley and crying into his pillow. His hospital gown barely covers him but that is not on his mind now. Wearing baby blue is preposterous. It is against the revolution. It is a Babylonian invasion. But at the moment, if help came from the Babylon System, he would gladly kiss a foot.
Some git once said big boys don’t cry but such is the stupidity of the world. That git was not at a crossroads when he said that. Was probably high on some prehistoric grass.
Last year, he was fine. Two years ago he did not think it would come to this. He felt stronger than his hero Bob, who had a condition like this and just looked straight in the face of his fate. Right now, he does not feel very brave.
His foot will be history in a few hours. The doctor said, in his hospital gray tone, that if the leg was not amputated, he was going to be dead in a month. The cancer has progressed to such an extent.
He is thinking of his little Princess. She is but a month old.
At the point when he had to be brave and say he was keeping his leg; when his much-touted revolutionary instinct was put on the weighing scale to inspire others the way Bob Marley’s stubbornness has done for many Rastas since his death, he buckled and gave in.
He cannot just go like that. He is too young to die. Princess must see her daddy. She must grow up with memories of being soothed to sleep when she wakes up crying in the night. She must kiss away daddy’s tears when she walks down the isle at her nuptials. This is not the time to die.
He gives his toe another twitch, the hundredth this hour.