Doomsday

Tuesday 17 April late evening

I ran into Lara's physician in the corridor around 5:00PM and she announced she was about to "entrer en chambre", meaning please, keep yourself available. As usual she kept a straight face. It was the way she said it that gave me the shivers, especially when she added they had the results of the bone marrow puncture. A chill ran down my spine. Something was telling me that her news was not going to be good news. If the results were good, she could have spared a smile. There was none.

I didn't share this with Lara when I went back into her room. At the time she was running a temp of 39.3C and reclining with her eyes closed. She had taken off her turban to keep her head cooler; comfort over appearance. Lara had been dreading the moment that was upon her and had been saying for several days now that the results of the puncture better be good. I can deal with the rest, she said, meaning the infections. Best not to spoil her peace in these last minutes. My heart was racing. There was a feeling of doom in the air. A tenseness.

The longer it took for the doctor to make her entry, the more worried I became. Again, if the news were good, she wouldn't procrastinate. When finally, at around 6:00PM, she came in, assistant in tow, the first thing she did was ask Lara's roommate and her daughter to please wait outside. Then I was sure and I had this sinking feeling. Lara was bracing herself. Clad in my favorite cross-striped nighty, no turban, the sheets flipped back, tubing streaming from her face and neck, she looked totally vulnerable.

The doctor came right to the point. I don't have good news, she said. The bone marrow shows over seventy percent bad cells, to the point where healthy white cells are no longer detectable. So you have no tools to fight the current infections with. The antibiotics need the WBC to deal with the infections effectively. As long as you have infections, you are not ready to undergo another chemotherapy. Without a chemotherapy the bad cells will stay and multiply preventing the bone marrow from producing healthy cells, of all types.

"So that's the end then?", said Lara in a resolute tone. She got it rightaway. The doctor took a breath and admitted it would be "tres, tres difficile". Very difficult. Lara turned to me and said: "You are going to lose me; that's it!" Tu vas me perdre!

The conversation went back and forth over the sequel to this, in terms of logistics, palliative care, and of course time frame. "How long have I got? Give it to me straight!", Lara wanted to know. The doctor prevaricated and said it would be difficult to say. The new antobiotics would have to be given a chance. Lara waved it away, realizing full well these were rearguard skirmishes at best. So how long, she insisted? The doctor answered that if any arrangements had to be put in place, or next-of-kin summoned to her bedside, it had to happen now!

"But I don't want to die here. I want to go home." Lara was quite decided on that, too. That will be possible, was the answer, but arrangements need to be made. After all, providing care to a terminal patient is a disicipline all its own. You need qualified staff.

After the doctors left, we looked at each other incredulously. The enormity of what had just happened was just too much to absorb in one fell swoop. We talked, and made several phone calls, to Lara's brothers, friend of hers, their children even. "Yasmin and Madelief will never know me as their grandmother", she said with regret. It was a searing comment. Not having been a mam herself, being a grandma is her pride and joy.