Asuncion

Thursday 17 May

Yesterday was a "down day" in Lara's vocabulary. She didn't feel all that great, spiritually mostly, despite visits by Helene and Andreina. Physical discomfort led to loss of appetite. She knows she has to eat, for she's already skin over bones. Scales are taboo. We don't know what she weighs. It would be too depressing, she says. I wonder, she adds, why I keep putting my hope in all these dietary supplements and homeopathic stuff. I have cancer, for Pete's sake!

After a good night (I check on her during the night, sleeping next to her bed, on the couch) the morning came with bruleur and ballonnement. Good for a swig of Gaviscon and a tablet of Duspatalin. Breakfast has to wait, but her cappuccino goes down in a jif. Wonderful, she says, with a gratified sigh.

Fatima, the garde-malade, comes in at 9:00AM and Benjamin, the nurse at 10:00. She sends me out to get proper clothes for the day, the kind of mission I perform contre-coeur, for I usually end up bringing her the wrong stuff, followed by repeated refoulement. To my surprise I get it right the first time. During her bain de bouche I notice she is shivering (or is it a tremor?). I don't know why, says Lara, I have no fever.

Her appetite is now down for the third day running. Even the eggplant-parmesan dish Andreina made for her - one of her all-time favorites - fails to rouse her interest. Heart-burn and gas don't do much to reverse the trend. Do you think my organs are beginning to shut down, she asks? How should I know, I say airily. The throught terrifies me. I leave a message on Dr Schroyens's answering machine (he is gone for the long weekend, but will play back his messages and respond as necessary).

Mysteries. The only thing you can do is wait and see.

Sit with me, she says, patting the mattress beside her. That I know how to do.