Thinking back I always knew I wanted something more than
just a little bit of attention, or just a little bit of
sickness or just a little bit of passion. I always wanted
the entire package, with the intimate kissing sessions, then
the pregnancy, then the marriage with no love, the hospital
visits and don't think I didn't want the chemotherapy. That
was my biggest wish, coming home to a cheating husband, a
baby in the cradle, and me puking on the old carpet that we
brought from my mother's house when she passed. My biggest
intention was to finish what my mother had started, the life
that was in me, the life I didn't want to continue. Suicide
was out of the question. Life wasn't in my hands, but only
in God's. Only the one who brought us and created us could
take us away. I decided it would be best if I took a disease
off someone else's shoulders. If I wanted to die, why not
give me the skin cancer, the leukemia, the AIDS. Why give it
to someone who had a reason, someone who needed to spend
more time, someone who needed to achieve one thing or
another.

I rented a room downtown. My husband left me; my daughter
had grown old and removed herself from my existence. To them
I have already diminished. Now, when I stare out the window
and it's four in the morning, I see hookers wearing tight
leather, smoking cheap cigarettes. I'm up at four in the
morning because of the noise cars make when they drive past
my building. At four in the morning I thank God for giving
me this opportunity to watch these hookers, to hear these
cars, and feel this fainting feeling of death; the feeling
and knowledge that I have taken this disease from someone
else who would have had it instead of me.

Right when the sun comes up, I put on matching purple shorts
and tank top and make my way down the stairway. My skin is
heavy and saggy. My skin is full of wrinkles, and dark. It
has become so brown over the years. My breasts, they're
saggy to the point where they almost seem flat. The stairway
in my building reeks. It's dark with small yellow light
bulbs and grey concrete leading the way down. Outside, I
breathe in the air which only makes my health decrease. I
purchase a coffee and a chocolate croissant, and take my
morning walk along the sidelines of the ocean. Today the
ocean smells more like dead fish and less like salt. The
holes in my sneakers are increasing in size, from the salt
of the sea, that's what happens when you're near the sea,
things become more extreme, more deadly.

The afternoon at home is spent stacking books on shelves,
playing Leonard Cohen in the background and smiling at the
man who watches me through the parallel window. He sits
there in his wooden chair and just looks at me. He seems to
be my age, and is studying my every move. I'm a little
ashamed so I try not to look at him looking at me. Then the
doorbell rings and when I open it he stands in front of me,
handing me a plate of cookies as he says, "Oved, Oved Gatar,
it's nice to meet you, I live across." He points to the
other side of the building. I smile and offer him to come
inside. Of course I go by the rules of apologizing for the
great mess in the house and offer him a cup of coffee. "Tea
would be best." He seems in good health, like a grandfather
should look.
When I tell him my name is Dina he says he already knew by
the sign on the door. We sit on the balcony where we drink
from mugs and eat the cookies he brought. I ask him if he
baked them himself, and he says: "No, it was my daughter.
She was over today with her kid, and they baked the
cookies". I say that was kind. I ask about his wife and he
answers: "She's been gone for long, died of breast cancer;
it passed on to my daughter, but just a while back she got
rid of it." He knocks on the table three times and says:
"But doctors say it might come back."
"It won't." I assure him because now I know that she is the
woman whom I took death from.
I ask him to tell me about her. He says her name is Idan and
I say: "That is a beautiful name for a girl." He tells me
the only reason they named her that was that through the
entire pregnancy they thought it was a boy, and had gotten
used to the name. I ask what she does and he says: "She is
the savior of children. She works at a kindergarten and
stabilizes the children so they can grow upwards and in a
healthier way." I ask for her daughter's name and he says:
"Mika. Idan and her husband have been married for ten years
now." I ask if his wife got to see the wedding. He points at
the sky and says that he believes she did.