Song and a Smile

Today, I'm lying on the hospital bed waiting for my next chemotherapy.
You must imagine my hair to be sparse, maybe bald even; my face to appear haggard, void of a smile, and my body withered. Sorry to disappoint, but none of these are true.
It's true that my body is slowly losing its expendable parts to operations and its indispensable to the hungry and ever-multiplying cancerous cells; that I feel drained after every chemotherapy; that a bit of my hair falls; that at extremely dire moments, I even cough up blood and experience immeasurable pain in my abdomen.
Yet I deem myself to be considerably lucky. In the past few hours, I've seen a dozen or so patients come and go. They were in wheelchairs with an expression of resignation, of defeat, looking withdrawn and pitiable. None of them seemed above eighteen. And, here I am, at the age of forty-three, neither too old nor too young, just another victim caught unawares. But a happy man nevertheless.
Each of my mornings begins with a song. Yet again, you're picturing my wife waking me with her sweet, melodious voice. Yes I have a beautiful, supportive wife. We have two wonderful children too. But the music comes from something else; from someone else.
My grandmother used to celebrate each occasion by playing a record. There's always a constant in a family. This was our constant. My grandmother relaxed on a divan, closed her eyes, hummed along with the music and smiled. Then she'd open her eyes and sing. As the pitch dropped and the music waned at the end of each song, she'd say a few lines. Little by little, from one song to the next, she'd have told us a whole story, or fragments of her thoughts as they drifted.
“These are your grandfather's,” she said once. “He always thought we should appreciate good music on special days. We were louder then, of course…”
“Why don't you hear these everyday?” I once asked.
“Why, I'd get bored! It wouldn't be special anymore, would it? Everyday isn't special you know,” she said. Her only wrong answer. “There's always something to be grateful about. Happiness is not the absence of problems; it's the ability to deal with them. You just need courage.”
“Courage, grandma? What kind of cour-”
“Shhh.”
Another song began. I waited. It was a win-win situation: grandma, music and a handful of wisdom.
“Courage is the urge to fight and persevere, regardless of the outcome. The victory lies in the satisfaction you achieve from following your conscience. It is to trust the unknown, when the known does not feel right.  It is to be vulnerable, yet stand strong.” She finished in a rush.
After she died, being her only grandson who kept her company on her music-listening sprees, I inherited these records. Naturally, I outgrew them. I discovered new artists -- popular ones, songs I could talk about to friends. And I stuffed these into a cupboard.
Now, years later, every night I sit with my family and dig out a record from the cupboard. I realise that when life gives you a deadline, each day becomes special. No matter how bad my life is, it's worse for someone else. I realise how embracing what I'm left with matters more than what I've lost. How powerful, how radiant the smiles of the three most important people in my life are. How hearing someone's happy voice can automatically make you face crack into a grin. Like a reflex. How meaningful the advice, “begin each day with a smile” is.
The turquoise curtains were faintly patterned, I noticed. They fluttered, and sunlight poured in and pooled at its foot. I always thought if I stood on that patch of sunlight, I'd feel magic. That was my token of luck. Indeed, I felt lucky, to think I could walk up there on my own. I noticed the colourful pills lying on a table next to me. I observed the warm tone of the nurses as they greeted the patients and inquired about their health. How they treated us like fragile porcelain, yet with a firm conviction that they were there to make us healthier.
Today, I'm lying on the hospital bed waiting for my next chemo. Today, I'm one step closer to being a little better.
Life is colorful.
Splattered across the pages
Is my happiness.

Namira Shameem, 16, is a Grade 9 student at Sunbeams School, Dhaka.