Mark learned about his terminal illness on a day that seemed made for vibrant life, not the Pale Horseman.
When his oncologist told him in a tone of great sorrow that his brain tumour was inoperable, and that he would have only two months to live, the ray of sun falling across his face and which moments before had felt comfortably warm, turned to icy needles that bore deep into his soul. He didn’t hear the rest of what the specialist was telling him. All he knew was that he was a walking doomed man, that life had become the most precious treasure to him, and that he had been given at least some grace. He thanked the oncologist, and walked outside into a day that seemed glowing with energy, life and exuberance wherever he looked. Inside, he felt dead already.
That had been nearly fifty-five days ago; within that time, Mark had gone on a mission of restitution, a mission of mercy. He told no one of his death sentence, but he resigned from his job the very next day. Then he packed up all he would need – warm clothes, a sleeping bag, toiletries and a few other necessities – settled his outstanding bills, withdrew all his savings and closed his bank accounts. The rest of his belongings he anonymously donated to a charity for homeless and destitute people. He bought a one-way ticket to Tibet, taking his entire life savings with him. He didn’t give his old life, his home or his country even a backward glance.
He entered one of the many monasteries dotting the landscape of Tibet, and for the next month and a half, he worked tirelessly among the monks, administering to the sick and infirm, helping in the herb gardens or volunteering to teach whenever he could at one of the rural schools. His savings he had turned over entirely to the monastery, asking only that it be distributed among those families who had lost a member to terminal illness. Soon, word of this kind, generous and loving foreigner spread among the mountain folk; without his knowledge, Mark became a saint to them, a man of God.
When Mark entered the last two weeks of his life, his strength finally deserted him, and he became bedridden. Then it was that he saw how loved he had become, as the villagers took turns to look after him.
A steady stream of silent, respectful villagers passed through his bare room during his last days, each of them doing some small deed for him. Then came the morning when he felt the presence of Death at his shoulder; it happened to be a day similar in quality to the day he had learned he was to die.
He smiled as a sole ray of light warmed his face, and a bright glow formed slowly around him. He thought he heard the sound of wings, a melodious voice, and then all thought stopped.
Outside, the day was greeted by a chorus of birds singing in glory and adoration of a new dawn. A golden eagle soared high up in the azure sky, free and unfettered, delighting in the joy of being alive.
Image: Kinshuk Bose (www.unsplash.com)
