Lost

Saturday 28 April

At age seven I lived with my family of five in a modest flat, with a room to myself. My bed sat diagionally across from the door, and at night I could find my way to the bathroom without even opening my eyes. One time, I stayed over a couple of nights at my grandparents house and tried, on automatic pilot, to follow the same route out of my room, walking in a direction diagonally across from my bed. Of course the lay-out was not the same as that of my own bedroom. I panicked and started crying, and my grandparents, having woken up, found me facing a dead corner without a door, in total confusion.

Something similar must have happened to Lara in the middle of the night. I was sleeping next to her on the couch, deeply. She must have slipped out of bed looking for the chaise percee in a place where she would expect it to be in her hospital room. In doing so, she must have gotten herself entangled in the oxygen line and the feederlines coming down from the Baxter. As I woke up, I found her totally disoriented; her right eyebrow and cheek abrased. She was obstinate in pursuing a course of action that made no sense, and chastizing me and the guarde-malades for not understanding what she was trying to achieve. We put everything back in order, cleaned her up, calmed her down and put her back to bed.

The nightnurse upped the dose of Tranxen and that put her to sleep in about ten minutes. We made her comfortable, talked to her softly, dressed her abrasions, even though we had no idea how exactly they had gotten there.

All she needed to do is call out my name and I would have helped her. But, independent minded as she is, she preferred to do things on her own.

So this morning she woke up exhausted, and, because of the Tranxen, not totally with it. Her eyes look befuddled. The nurses are busying with her as we speak. Right now (around 6:00PM) she looks exhausted and weak.