There's a virulent disease inside him. It pervades every where. It invades him. The toxic cells exist in every nook and crevice. He starts wondering whether his soul and body will suffice and live through the brutal treatments that await. Radiotherapy or chemo. A part of himself could be lost in the pomposity and elaborateness of the machines used to do so. He lies on the bed, surrounded by the ostensibly loved ones who mourn now and who hated him once. He looks back at his life and feels that getting back to his healthy, strong self is a chimera. Days pass and his bed is his sanctuary. The reports from the doctors arrive and he is all but stationary. He finds the concept of reports funny. They determine life and death in a second and after that, life could be jubilant or miry with hopelessness. The reports clearly indicate that "cancer was not detected". He scoffs at the elaborate medical language and sits back and relaxes, concluding his close call with death and an emotional mess. Not letting the intimidation and sinister nature of the diseases get to him.