Cupcakes

Monday 30 April early evening

Lara is going through a real setback, having had a busy day. She wanted to eat together with me and I had everything prepared. But when it came down to supper, she barely mastered a bite or two. Hiccups followed, the third bout in one day. She didn't want the oxygen mask back on and signalled she was fine like this. Earlier she had still asked me if there were any cupcakes left. There were actually, but right now she doesn't seem in a rush.

This morning she felt she was getting weaker. Small wonder. Hardly any WBC left, sinking level of platelets and red blood cells on loan. No operational defense immune system in place. How long can she keep this up? I am not a doctor; what do I know? All I know is my sweet doesn't look healthy and acts irrationally. Why isn't the bloody night nurse here yet?

I remember the day my daughter was born, my first child. It was a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1974. We were four people in the room: the gynocologist, the nurse, the pregnant mother and the stupid father. After the last push, from one moment to the next, we were all of a sudden five people in the room. A blaring baby had just added herself to the crowd. And the world didn't stop turning. I dread the scenario in reverse, one where a company of five would all of a sudden be reduced to one of four. I shudder.

The night nurse came around 8:30PM and went about her business with all due diligence. A classic example of an experienced and confidence-inspiring professional. She puts my mind at ease, too.