Stockholm

People may be blind-sided by emotions very easily. Emotions, to a dying person, remain manageable up to a point. You allow them into your life either because you cannot contain them, or because giving into them provides a measure of solace. A good cry relieves. As a patient (or next of kin) you can mostly see where emotions are coming from, which makes it easier to ward them off if they are not opportune or welcome; or helpful. But sometimes they come from an unexpected angle and bore right into you before you realize, while at the same time bringing forth a host of other emotions by association.

It happened to Lara this morning. We had made good time in the ambulance to the hospital: half an hour from bed to bed. As early as 10:00 AM, a blood sample was taken, auguring well, we hoped, for the rest of the day. As soon as the nurse left, I broke out a green envelop addressed to us both. It had come in the mail that very morning. Elisabeth and Mats Hellstrom had sent us a wonderful book of poems as a soothing gift. The poems were by Tomas Transtromer, who won the Nobel Prize a few months ago. Robert Hass edited translations into English (as it happens, Lara knows Hass personally and has worked with him in California).

Lara was touched by the gift. But what hit her even more - and unexpectedly - was the postcard Elisabeth had inserted in the book, offering a splendiferous aerial view of Stockholm, Gamla Stan. At that very moment she realised she would never see Stockholm again, the city she had never thought she would fall in love with, but did - head over heels, in fact. And not only Stockholm. A host of other places she would never have a chance to visit any more. Vienna for example, and Paris, and Lake Tahoe. And places that were still on her list; like Antarctica.

All of a sudden it occurred to her that it was over; that she could only hope to see those places vicariously, through my eyes, when I would choose to visit them. The sadness of the idea, in all it's complexity, hit her in the same split second she saw the photo of Stockholm harbour. And she broke into tears. I had to promise to spread my wings to faraway places and let her come for the ride.

And now I sit in an uneasy chair at the foot end of an anonymous hospital bed, looking at Lara reclining into a short nap. Her pink turban is on slightly askew, her patent leather Ferragamos neatly tucked against the foot board, her appearance brightened by a purple top and a matching multi-colored scarf. Her frailty tells me that she is right. It is over for her. No more Stockholm; no more anywhere. Her closing days confined to a living room in Brussels.

Home.