GI Jane

Friday 11 May

She sits across from me at the dining table, literally two steps away from her pillow. Her skull is a patchwork of deep black stubbles. The scabs on her wounds (remember, she fell to the ground a week ago and hurt herself badly) have disappeared and restored an impression of equilibrium to her face.

Her regard is that of a tired person. It happens, she reassures me. I'll be okay. Her 'don't worry' response is so automated, however, that I don't put any trust in it. She is the master mother-hen who is innately protective of all other creatures under her wings, including me. I am not fooled. She needs to perk up before this evening is out.

We are eating one of her famous soups (barley-mushroom with fresh tomato couli) that she made before she turned into the hospital end March. The thought occurred to us, while spooning away at the hot thick broth, that I might soon be eating something she had prepared before passing away. Now, how weird would that be?

On the spot, we decide to watch a movie on TV in our den, which entails a short migration from the living room. I will pick out a nice one. By the time I get back to her bedside, she is irretrievably asleep.

So was Igor. Lara has had a tremor in her right foot since a few days, which - typically Lara - she would refer to as Igor. "Down Igor!" We have no idea where the tremor comes from, but it was a familiar feature in her MS days. Under the circumstances she is not really worried about it. Anyway, Igor was down, this evening.