Great. Just great. How am I supposed to make this decision? How do I choose which of my senses I’m going to give up? Stupid new age medicine. They can keep me alive, but I have to give up one of my senses for them to be able to do it. Dammit.
I sat in the chair next to the window in the hospital room grumbling to myself about the decision. My mind raced. I felt dizzy. Sight. Hearing. Taste. Touch. Smell. I sank deeper into the padded chair and stared out the window at the brightly colored leaves that fell from the maple trees at random intervals. As always, I shut down when overwhelmed.
The doctor came in just as I had drifted off to sleep, shocking me out of my stupor. I shuddered slightly, waking myself further. He wanted my decision. I didn’t have one for him.
“Have you made a decision? We don’t have much time left, I’m afraid,” he said in that hushed tone that tried not to be condescending but always was. I looked up at him through the frustrated tears that had welled up in my eyes.
“Taste.” I sighed deeply after the word left my lips. It was the most bitter word I’d ever uttered. But it was the only choice. I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t be blind or deaf – to never read or hear music, look at art or listen to someone’s laughter would be as bad as death. It couldn’t be touch, I would starve for want of a hug or the feel of a cat’s fur under my hand. That left taste and smell. If I chose smell, I would lose most of my sense of taste anyway, so I chose to lose my sense of taste. To save my own life, I would never again taste the sweetness of an apple or the saltiness of a ham. No savory cheddar cheese. No bitter coffee. No sour grapes. No more taste.
