Labor Day

"I thought I was hallucinating". Lara was telling Helene de Merode how two of her dearest friends, John and Marie, had come waltzing in the room unexpectedly, the day before. The freshness of the memory brought tears back to her eyes. "I just couldn't believe that my little John was actually standing at my side, grinning from ear to ear. I thought the morpihine was kicking in." But Helene was already aware of the episode; she had read the blog and joined Lara in the delight of reliving the moment.

Lara and I had just had breakfast together when Helene stopped by (she lives a ten minute walk away). We both ate muesli, soya yoghurt, tangerine, apple and a fine cappu. Not a bad meal for a sick person. Helene brought her three pictures of her own birthday luncheon in Neffe, in the beginning of March.

As I write this, I am sitting on Lara's bed along her right side, her head against my left shoulder, her right hand loosely wrapped around my left arm. She is asleep, breathing deep and steady. The scene is so familiar and her closeness feels so natural, that I cannot imagine this will soon come to an end. There has to be a sequel; it simply cannot end like this. Similarly, the photos we were just given: Lara looked alive and smiling with conviction, her head tilted back, good posture. That was barely two months ago. No sense of something finite. And the photo taken on 18 March, on my mother's birthday. Lara and I flank Ma, sitting on a couch in my sister's flat, full of smiles.

And still, just before breakfast she confided: " I have the feeling I am slipping away; that my strength is failing me." As if to make the point, she couldn't manage to do our little world riddle we solve every morning of the week. The morphine catches up on her, even though the dose is still the same. Why don't you call the doctor, she suggested, for I may be passing on soon. I desisted. Let me measure your stats, for that is the irst thing a doctor will ask about, Saturation 98, pulse of 71, pressure 91 over 58 (Lara's average), regular breathing, no pain or discomfort. I told Lara that no doctor would jump in a car and race towards your bedside especiallly now, on a national holiday (1 May).

She shrugged,