Red Blood Cells

Midday

Our GP makes a house call with Lara, slightly wet from the rain.

We discuss at some length the immediate prospects for Lara in view of the sinking level  of hemoglobin. It has come down from 8.2 to 7.0 in four days. By extrapolation you arrive at 4.0 in a few days from last Saturday, when it was measured. Any lower than 4.0 and the heart stops. The doctor has seen very few people alive with haemoglobin lower than that. Lara will sleep more and more, with fewer and shorter clear spells in between. Hard to predict exactly when, depending on overall strength and the will to live. Tomorrow we will do another blood test.

In case her sleep becomes continuous more or less, Lara will be helped to pass the threshold. She draws in a sob when she hears the words and her face is contorted with grief. How very sad to be a withess to sorrow and being utterly helpless to change the course of events. If it were just anybody, it would be one thing. But your own wife and soulmate? I know you didn't plan to die, says our doctor. No, I wanted another thirty years, says Lara. 

Our doctor praises Lara's serenity in the face of of her own demise. She will set an example a nous tous et nous toutes.

As soon as we have a moment to ourselves, I crawl up next to her and we snuggle, as we always do. We talk softly. About where she may be going. About what I will be doing. How to carry on a life without her. How to stay in touch with Lara's family. Whom she would still like to talk to before fading away.

The time is rapidly approaching, dear friends, for last minutes. Lara will have to decide whom she would still like to speak to while able to communicate. As for myself, I am beginning to feel divorced from reality, like I felt when standing at my father's death-bed, twelve years ago. This is not happening. Denial is our most potent survival mechanism.