Nedostajala mi je, a ja sam prešla na njen krevet. Bilo je praktičnije zbog intenzivne posjete. Teta Emina je uskoro hitno morala na operaciju u Ljubljanu i otišla je nekako na brzinu. Jedno jutro nakon konačno dočekane vizite bile su na redu tete s doručkom. Na kolicima sam vidjela kuhana jaja i rekla sam:
– Mmmm, što volim kuhana jaja.
– Ali nema Donna, ovo je samo za dijabetičare, imamo određen broj, jedino da se zamijeniš s nekim, evo neka ona tebi da ili čekaj da vidimo u kuhinji… Ma sad ću ja tebi donijeti – žene su se stvarno trudile, ali ja sam u tom momentu pukla. Znači kraj. Moj fitilj je dogorio.
Bacajući se u ležeći položaj uz glasno: “Jooooj”, povlačeći rukom jorgan preko glave počela sam glasno plakati. Pa jedno kuhano jaje. Toliko priče sad oko tog jajeta. Nema jajeta i gotovo. Prošao voz. Kakve komplikacije.
Onda su žene napravile da ja ipak dobijem to kuhano jaje, ali jaje više nije bilo bitno. Ustvari ono od početka nije bilo bitno koliko činjenica da ležim u bolnici, da imam rak, da se proširio na pluća, da je bila vizita i da me ničim nisu ohrabrili, a činjenica da ne mogu da dobijem ono što želim je bila najgora od svega i valjda sam toga svega tad bila i svjesna. Susretala sam se tako više puta sa stvarnim svijetom i nikad kraja razočarenjima u novoj realnosti, koja je isprogramirana do broja kuhanih jaja na bolničkim kolicima s doručkom. Meni je moja sestra uvijek govorila da ja ne živim u stvarnom svijetu, koji je ona kao žena i majka dobro razumjela, a ja njoj da ja i ne želim da živim u tom odraslom svijetu. Radije sam birala svoj, umjetnički, nesiguran i neizvjestan, ali moj svijet, nego neki sigurni tuđi svijet i isprogramirani sistem. Uvijek sam bila preslobodna da pokažem svoje umijeće, svoj rad, svoj trud i djela, a opet sam bila i zatvorena za neke druge teme, jer nisam željela ni na estradi upasti u zamku sistema po kojem bi sve možda bilo lakše, ali radila bih tada sve što drugi rade. Uspjela sam ostati svoja i to me sve ove godine i održalo. Inače sam bila najsretnija dok radim. Tada je moje biće bilo zadovoljno, ispunjeno, u šarenom oblaku kreativne mašte spajala sam djeliće sebe i kasnije ih pokazivala svijetu. Kao pjesmu, kao sliku. Bila sam najsretnija u procesu stvaranja. Još jedan osjećaj potpune sreće je onaj kad nastupate pred publikom, a u zraku možete osjetiti sav taj pozitivan naboj energije naše povezanosti. Voljela sam i sad volim sve što je muzika, umjetnost, kreativni rad i mogla sam i živjeti od toga, što je bila sretna okolnost, pa nisam imala ni potrebe za stvarnim svijetom svoje sestre. Sada ispod ovog jorgana, mislila sam da će zauvijek trajati agonija “kuhanih jaja”, jer, ako je više neće biti u Bihaću, vjerovatno će se nastaviti u Sarajevu, u novom sistemu stvarnog života u kojem ću ostati zauvijek. Ruta bolnica – kuća. Grozno.
SOBA ZA NIKOGA – Poglavlje 8
Boiled Eggs
I missed her, and I moved to her bed. It was more convenient due to the intensive visits. Soon, Aunt Emina needed an urgent surgery in Ljubljana and she went somehow hastily. One morning after I finally welcomed rounds, it was time for breakfast ladies. I saw boiled eggs on the cart and I said:
– Mmmm, I love boiled eggs.
– But they are not for you, Donna, they are only for diabetics, we have a certain number. You can swap with someone. Here, she can give you hers or wait…let me check in the kitchen … I’ll bring it to you right away- the women really worked hard, but at that moment I simply broke down. That was the end. My fuse burned down.
Throwing myself into the supine position with a loud “Aaargh” and pulling the quilt over my head I began to cry loudly. It was just one boiled egg. So much fuss about the egg. No eggs and over. Let bygones be bygones. Why complicate anything?
Then the women managed to get me a boiled egg, but the egg didn’t matter anymore. In fact, from the beginning, it did not matter as much as the fact that I was lying in the hospital, I had cancer that spread to the lungs, it was time for the rounds and they didn’t encourage me with anything and the fact that I couldn’t get what I wanted was the worst of all and I guess I was well aware of that. I met so many times with the real world and disappointments never cease in this new reality that is programmed up to the number of cooked eggs on a hospital cart. My sister was always telling me that I didn’t live in the real world, which she understood very well as a wife and mother, and I told her that I didn’t want to live in the adult world. I preferred my artistic, insecure and uncertain, but my own world to someone else’s safe world and programmed system. I’ve always been too comfortable to show my skills, my work, my effort and deeds, and yet I was also closed to other topics, because I did not want fall into the trap of the system in show business. If I had done it, it might have been easier, but I would be doing the same things as others. I managed to remain myself and that’s what kept me all these years. I felt happiest when I worked. In such cases, my being was satisfied and fulfilled. In a colourful cloud of creative imagination I was connecting the pieces of myself and later showed them to the world. In form of a song and an image. I was the happiest person in the world during the process of creation. Another feeling of complete happiness is when you perform in front of an audience, and you can feel all the positive charge of energy of our connection in the air. I loved and I still love everything that is music, art, creative work and I was able to make a living on that which was a fortunate circumstance, so I had no need for my sister’s real world. Now, under the quilt, I thought that the agony of “boiled eggs” would last forever, because even though it was about to finish in Bihac, it was likely it would continue in Sarajevo, in the new system of real life in which I will stay forever. Route hospital – house. Terrible.
ROOM FOR NOBODY – Chapter 8
SOBA ZA NIKOGA 