Midday
Julie, the nurse, and Fatima, the garde-malade, are taking care of Lara, bathing and dressing her (les soins) with respect. Meanwhile I notify the pompes funebres of Funerailles Michel, across the street from here, so that they can initiate the required admin procedures. The latter are quite extensive, since we formally live in Brussels Capital, while cremation takes place in Uccle, one of the 19 peripheral communities of Brussels as a whole. One of the hurdles to take is to elicit from the burgomaster of Uccle a personal signature. Without one, the body cannot move into his community. The undertaker will try and get Lara out of the house by tomorrow, depending on how well he does on expediting formalities.
At 1:00PM, as the girls are finishing up, a mortician passes by to enhance Lara's appearance and prepare her for cremation. He makes her look even more peaceful then she already did.
Tuesday morning I present myself, a single person, at the funeral center in Uccle. No pomp or circumstance. This is what I agreed with Lara. At some point in the future (maybe one year from today) I will gather a number of trusted friends and assorted relatives on a boat sailing Lake Geneva, and disperse her ashes over the water while a good time is being had by all. This is how she'd want it. The true measure of the occasion is the answer to the question if Lara would have enjoyed herself. Would she be having fun? Grieving time should then be at an end. A calvary that lasted a year and a half should then be declared officially closed.
woensdag 13 juni 2012
Mirror
Wednesday 13 June morning
Ever since the garde-malades left at 8:00PM Tuesday night, I had either sat with Lara, checked on her from time to time, stretched out beside her, whispered sweet messages in her ear, stroked her face or held her hands, limp as they were. The lifelessness of her fingers didn't bode well for our earlier plan to use suqeezing as the way to communicate. She was thoroughly asleep.
At around midnight I took up my place on the couch beside her after yet another adieu, and promptly fell asleep, exhausted as I was. At a little after 5:00PM, I woke up spontaneously, and immediately I missed the sound of her breathing. I switched on the light and looked over at her, and she really looked deceased. Her head and face were cold, while the area around her heart was still sort of luke warm. There was no agony in her face, or even tension. "Oh, Pluis, did you have to die here all by yourself?", I asked her with a sob, kissing her little head.
I decided to verify. I applied the electric blood pressure gauge, but the machine couldn't find a heart-beat in her upper arm ('Error').
Then I took an antique silver handheld mirror (a wedding present from her sister-in-law Hanneke once) and held it up to her open lips. And there it was: an elongated streak of water vapor. I did it again. A small blotch of vapor appreared this time. The third time, hard as I tried, no marks stayed behind on the glass. She was truly gone, my sweet.
As if she'd saved her last breath for me.
I left on the oxygen nozzles just in case, and even replaced them with a mask for better supply. Knowing how she feels about asphyxiation, it seemed a simply precaution on my part.
Lara had promised me - at my request - that she would leave me a sign of some sort that she had safely arrived on 'the other side' as she called it. As I finally went to take off the oxygen supply, I discovered a tear drop in the inner corner of her right eye. It just sat there waiting for me. "Thanks, sweetie", I whispered. "That is all I needed to know. Miss you, too."
And with my handkerchief I scooped up the little droplet.
Ever since the garde-malades left at 8:00PM Tuesday night, I had either sat with Lara, checked on her from time to time, stretched out beside her, whispered sweet messages in her ear, stroked her face or held her hands, limp as they were. The lifelessness of her fingers didn't bode well for our earlier plan to use suqeezing as the way to communicate. She was thoroughly asleep.
At around midnight I took up my place on the couch beside her after yet another adieu, and promptly fell asleep, exhausted as I was. At a little after 5:00PM, I woke up spontaneously, and immediately I missed the sound of her breathing. I switched on the light and looked over at her, and she really looked deceased. Her head and face were cold, while the area around her heart was still sort of luke warm. There was no agony in her face, or even tension. "Oh, Pluis, did you have to die here all by yourself?", I asked her with a sob, kissing her little head.
I decided to verify. I applied the electric blood pressure gauge, but the machine couldn't find a heart-beat in her upper arm ('Error').
Then I took an antique silver handheld mirror (a wedding present from her sister-in-law Hanneke once) and held it up to her open lips. And there it was: an elongated streak of water vapor. I did it again. A small blotch of vapor appreared this time. The third time, hard as I tried, no marks stayed behind on the glass. She was truly gone, my sweet.
As if she'd saved her last breath for me.
I left on the oxygen nozzles just in case, and even replaced them with a mask for better supply. Knowing how she feels about asphyxiation, it seemed a simply precaution on my part.
Lara had promised me - at my request - that she would leave me a sign of some sort that she had safely arrived on 'the other side' as she called it. As I finally went to take off the oxygen supply, I discovered a tear drop in the inner corner of her right eye. It just sat there waiting for me. "Thanks, sweetie", I whispered. "That is all I needed to know. Miss you, too."
And with my handkerchief I scooped up the little droplet.
St. Anthony's
Wednesday 13 June 2012
Lara passed away quietly here at home at around 05:15AM CET, in the presence of her husband.Typically Lara, she chose to die on the feast of my patron saint.
A formal death announcement will soon be circulated by email.
Except immediate family, please no phone calls or visits.
Lara passed away quietly here at home at around 05:15AM CET, in the presence of her husband.Typically Lara, she chose to die on the feast of my patron saint.
A formal death announcement will soon be circulated by email.
Except immediate family, please no phone calls or visits.
dinsdag 12 juni 2012
Tenacity
Afternoon
At 4:45PM I find myself sitting at Lara's bedside, holding her cool fingers in my hand. There is no response in any way. She looks terminal - no two ways about it - and even more so then this morning. Her hands are slighly swollen (she took off her wedding ring in time) which indicates lower kidney activity. Her body feels cool and lifeless, the muscles in her face are fully relaxed, her head tilted to the left with her cheek buried in the large green pillow. She now carries quite an amount of sedatives in her body, while more is being pumped into her on a continual basis with hourly bonuses added for good measure.
How long is this going to go on for, I ask our doctor? My mind is on the evening hours when I will be pulling night duty again like yesterday. It is beginning to get to me, this whole process, I have to admit. "A matter of hours", is the answer, and I don't want to even think of being the lawyer asking how many hours we are actually looking at. I will have to take it as it comes. At a blood pressure of 6 over 3, it can not last much longer though.
I find myself telling her again and again that it is allright for her to go, that she is all set to depart, and that nobody here on earth is holding her back. True, I tell her, I will miss her terribly as a soul mate and husband, a friend and companion, a lover and a confidante - and nobody will be able to fill that void or take that place. Then there will be plenty of memories of so many things we did together: crazy and brilliant ones, transient and durable, wicked and benign, silly and serious. And so I whisper in her ear more and more.
Lacher prise. That is what the French call 'loosen your grip'. For Lara to let go, or to give up control, is almost anathema. And so she holds on to dear life, for as long as she can - until the odds become truly overpowering. Survival instinct is one of the most deeply rooted; and with instincts, as I keep repeating, you don't negotiate.
People and medics have asked me repeatedly if I was ready to stay with a deceased Lara in the apartment by myself for the whole night, if it came to pass. Each tiime I gave the same answer: that I did not see the problem; that, to me, between the two of us, it was tantamount to the ultimate intimacy.
Our doctor passes by at 8:45PM and shakes her head. I have never ever seen such tenacity in the face of death, she says. She is supposed to be well on her way to a preplanned demise, deep deep under cover. But she is still with it, although soundly asleep, but hardly more than that.
At 4:45PM I find myself sitting at Lara's bedside, holding her cool fingers in my hand. There is no response in any way. She looks terminal - no two ways about it - and even more so then this morning. Her hands are slighly swollen (she took off her wedding ring in time) which indicates lower kidney activity. Her body feels cool and lifeless, the muscles in her face are fully relaxed, her head tilted to the left with her cheek buried in the large green pillow. She now carries quite an amount of sedatives in her body, while more is being pumped into her on a continual basis with hourly bonuses added for good measure.
How long is this going to go on for, I ask our doctor? My mind is on the evening hours when I will be pulling night duty again like yesterday. It is beginning to get to me, this whole process, I have to admit. "A matter of hours", is the answer, and I don't want to even think of being the lawyer asking how many hours we are actually looking at. I will have to take it as it comes. At a blood pressure of 6 over 3, it can not last much longer though.
I find myself telling her again and again that it is allright for her to go, that she is all set to depart, and that nobody here on earth is holding her back. True, I tell her, I will miss her terribly as a soul mate and husband, a friend and companion, a lover and a confidante - and nobody will be able to fill that void or take that place. Then there will be plenty of memories of so many things we did together: crazy and brilliant ones, transient and durable, wicked and benign, silly and serious. And so I whisper in her ear more and more.
Lacher prise. That is what the French call 'loosen your grip'. For Lara to let go, or to give up control, is almost anathema. And so she holds on to dear life, for as long as she can - until the odds become truly overpowering. Survival instinct is one of the most deeply rooted; and with instincts, as I keep repeating, you don't negotiate.
People and medics have asked me repeatedly if I was ready to stay with a deceased Lara in the apartment by myself for the whole night, if it came to pass. Each tiime I gave the same answer: that I did not see the problem; that, to me, between the two of us, it was tantamount to the ultimate intimacy.
Our doctor passes by at 8:45PM and shakes her head. I have never ever seen such tenacity in the face of death, she says. She is supposed to be well on her way to a preplanned demise, deep deep under cover. But she is still with it, although soundly asleep, but hardly more than that.
Floating
Tuesday 12 June morning and afternoon
It is raining in Brussels and the clouds cut out most of the daylight. I am sitting across from Lara who is in a deep induced sleep. Every ten, fifteen minutes or so, I get up from my Sarajevo story and whisper soothing words into her ear, letting her know all sorts of things, but mainly that I am there, and looking after her.
It is 10:54AM. Light gurgles emanate from her throat. She no longer has the oomph to cough and clear her throat. Still she is hanging on, my girl. There is nobody else in the room but the two of us, and the atmosphere is tranquil, though mildly upset by occasional thunderclaps. The light is somber. A fitting context somehow to the prospect that, soon enough, of the two hearts now beating in the room, one will be utterly still. A vibrant, beautiful and promising life will have snuffed out like a candle, the flame getting smaller and smaller, until - poof - a whisp of smoke emanates from a glowing wick. I am no longer wishing that moment to move forward. I'll take it as it comes. Let her decide her own moment. She has my blessing, how ever long it will take - as long as serenity and peacefulness are reigning. You only die once, I tell her, so it's entirely your call.
Her blood pressure now stands at 7 over 4. Low, even for someone like Lara, who regularly, in full health, clocks in at 9 over 5,5. Pulse at 115 (normally 55 for Lara). At 12:30PM the little monitor doesn't pick up a pulse anymore from her fingertops (earlier that morning our doctor had trouble finding her pulse at the wrist). Her breathing is quiet, steady but very shallow. I check her pressure: 73 over 45, pulse 115. At that pressure kidney failing is a stark possibility, says our doctor, and other organs may follow.
There is hardly any point to measuring pressure anymore. Now I just have to let her be.
"You're going to lose me", she told me on 19 April. I couldn't wrap my mind around it then, but learned to do so over the ensuing six, seven weeks. Now the moment is near - I know it. But the waiting is long. It is 3:19PM and she is still breathing. Fighting to the last - what else did I expect?
It is raining in Brussels and the clouds cut out most of the daylight. I am sitting across from Lara who is in a deep induced sleep. Every ten, fifteen minutes or so, I get up from my Sarajevo story and whisper soothing words into her ear, letting her know all sorts of things, but mainly that I am there, and looking after her.
It is 10:54AM. Light gurgles emanate from her throat. She no longer has the oomph to cough and clear her throat. Still she is hanging on, my girl. There is nobody else in the room but the two of us, and the atmosphere is tranquil, though mildly upset by occasional thunderclaps. The light is somber. A fitting context somehow to the prospect that, soon enough, of the two hearts now beating in the room, one will be utterly still. A vibrant, beautiful and promising life will have snuffed out like a candle, the flame getting smaller and smaller, until - poof - a whisp of smoke emanates from a glowing wick. I am no longer wishing that moment to move forward. I'll take it as it comes. Let her decide her own moment. She has my blessing, how ever long it will take - as long as serenity and peacefulness are reigning. You only die once, I tell her, so it's entirely your call.
Her blood pressure now stands at 7 over 4. Low, even for someone like Lara, who regularly, in full health, clocks in at 9 over 5,5. Pulse at 115 (normally 55 for Lara). At 12:30PM the little monitor doesn't pick up a pulse anymore from her fingertops (earlier that morning our doctor had trouble finding her pulse at the wrist). Her breathing is quiet, steady but very shallow. I check her pressure: 73 over 45, pulse 115. At that pressure kidney failing is a stark possibility, says our doctor, and other organs may follow.
There is hardly any point to measuring pressure anymore. Now I just have to let her be.
"You're going to lose me", she told me on 19 April. I couldn't wrap my mind around it then, but learned to do so over the ensuing six, seven weeks. Now the moment is near - I know it. But the waiting is long. It is 3:19PM and she is still breathing. Fighting to the last - what else did I expect?
maandag 11 juni 2012
Siege
Monday 11 June afternoon
I can't believe I am writing all this down as if I were a spectator looking down from behind a window into an operating theater, making notes for my next clinical report. This must be denial kicking in. Whenever my presence is not contributing or even redundant, I phanatically read a new book I received yesterday as a present from a friend: "The Cellist of Sarajevo", by Steven Galloway. I go through it like a person possessed. Anything to help put a distance between my soul and reality. Telling about the Bosnian capital under siege, the story is easy to relate to for both Lara and myself. Lara was stationed in Bosnia in 1996 and the two of us drove down from Banja Luka to the city several times as it lay partly in ruins - she on business, I as 'Mr. Gabriel' (oh, she liked that).
Lara woke up again to discuss with her doctor (over the phone) and careproviders (at her bedside) the best way forward. As from 4:30PM the levels of morphine and Tranxene are set at triple the dosage: 30 mg of morphine/day and 37.5 mg of Tranxene/day, both with possibility of hourly so-called 'bonus' doses of the same quantity. (These are still modest levels.) The sequel will be discussed with our GP as she visits this evening. In case Lara will no longer be wakeable (as is likely at that dosage), Isabelle and I will determine the rest of it.
Lara washed her teeth one last time with her own toothbrush and real toothpaste, rather than staining them with iso-betadine as she has been required to do since her hospitalisation in March. Using a regular adult brush carries the risk of bleeding gums (remember, no platelets) and even more so of bacterial infection. What a delight, she said.
As soon as the intravenous morphine pump is set in motion again, Lara solemnly takes off her wedding ring and hands it to me. We both agreed that, by doing so, she wasn't releasing me of my wedding vows before their time.
It takes quite a while before the effect of the morphine and tranquilizer has played out, even with the bonuses given to Lara right from the start. A coughing fit is in the way. I measure her saturation and her pulse: both stand at 96, quite reasonable. Pressure 9 over 5. Temperature normal. I stretch out alongside her and she rests her head against my shoulder, our arms intertwined. We exchange our last carinos.
A little after 5:15PM, Lara increasingly has trouble focussing. I tell her to just doze off. One careprovider asks if she is afraid. She nods. Of course, you are. That is why she clings to her presence in the here and now. Security. She takes time to put Caroline's balm on her chapped lips. At around 5:45PM she says: "I am slowly going away. In a good way." Half an hour later, the sedatives become stronger. "I am wandering but I am still here", she says. Her face and hands are cool on the touch. "Are you boarding yet?", I ask. Not even close, is the answer. Not even cueing? She shakes her head. What then? "Shobbing", she says. Leave it to Lara to secure a last minute bargain.
Monday evening
At 6:30PM she seems to have finally boarded. "You're making the people on the plane laugh", she tells me. I seem to have slipped aboard with her to make sure she's comfortable.
At 7:30PM she is soundly asleep, but still wakeable it seems to me. And indeed, as our doctor enters the living room, Lara opens her eyes and smiles at her. "Flap your wings carefully", I whisper in Lara's ear. She nods. It has been her longstanding adieu to anyone on an airplane who is about to take off.
At 8:15PM her pulse measures 8 over 5, her pulse standing at 126 beats/minute. Her saturation is still at 96%. At 8:40PM we enter final approach. Just before she goes under she turns to me and asks: "Can you fluff up my pillow?" "It will be my pleasure", I tell her. Everything is in place and I am given instructions. Two glass vials of Dormicum 5 mg are emptied through the central line. The doctor and the nurse take their leave. I am staying behind with Lara in the apartment, just the two of us. Alone at last. She breathes quietly. Pale is her face. Hard to say if she will pass quickly, or if she will take her time. A matter of hours at most, I'm told. My head is full of cotton.
Back to Sarajevo, a city besieged.
Then, in a spectacular development at around 11:00PM, I find myself moping about in the living room (where Lara's bed sits), when suddenly I hear: "Hey, Dingdong". I look over: Lara is sitting up and her eyes follow me around the room. In a flash it occurs to me that - praise the Lord - there is reprieve from death after all! Apparently one can come back out of it as if waking up from a nightmare. In an impulse I tell her she's not supposed to be awake and to please go back to sleep - admittedly an inane reaction on my part. "What's happening?", she wants to know. "I don't think this is supposed to happen, I said, I will call the doctor." Meanwhile I give her the water bottle which she empties in no-time, for her mouth is parched.
So our GP hops over in under ten minutes and is a tad taken aback at the turn of events, not knowing the answer to Lara's obviously pertinent question. The two of them discuss in French about what went wrong and how it can be made right. Lara makes the point that now she is really getting scared, for she no longer trusts the protocol chosen. Meanwhile a nurse is summoned and a different way of administering drugs is chosen. Pretty soon her eyes are swimming again and she has to lie back in order to absorb the extra morphine.
That's when Lara and I exchange what would be our last words, where I tell her - a bit counterintuitively - to relax and go to sleep and everything will be allright. Lara is not at all sure that it actually will be allright, since the point is she doesn't really want to wake up anymore and how can she believe she won't? Fact is from here onward we managed to keep her sedated until the end came, even though it took far longer than the doctor loosely predicted as 'a matter of hours'. I give her one last kiss and she kisses me back. (Oh, I liked that.)
Doctor Schroyens, our homeopathist, later tells me that these sudden surges of consciousness in a terminal patient occur exceptionally in response to homeopathic treatment. Astonishing the hospital staff, such episodes can be spectacular, elaborate but circumscribed, finite and always returning the patient to sleep or coma, with death not far behind. That is what happened to Lara here. Of course.
I can't believe I am writing all this down as if I were a spectator looking down from behind a window into an operating theater, making notes for my next clinical report. This must be denial kicking in. Whenever my presence is not contributing or even redundant, I phanatically read a new book I received yesterday as a present from a friend: "The Cellist of Sarajevo", by Steven Galloway. I go through it like a person possessed. Anything to help put a distance between my soul and reality. Telling about the Bosnian capital under siege, the story is easy to relate to for both Lara and myself. Lara was stationed in Bosnia in 1996 and the two of us drove down from Banja Luka to the city several times as it lay partly in ruins - she on business, I as 'Mr. Gabriel' (oh, she liked that).
Lara woke up again to discuss with her doctor (over the phone) and careproviders (at her bedside) the best way forward. As from 4:30PM the levels of morphine and Tranxene are set at triple the dosage: 30 mg of morphine/day and 37.5 mg of Tranxene/day, both with possibility of hourly so-called 'bonus' doses of the same quantity. (These are still modest levels.) The sequel will be discussed with our GP as she visits this evening. In case Lara will no longer be wakeable (as is likely at that dosage), Isabelle and I will determine the rest of it.
Lara washed her teeth one last time with her own toothbrush and real toothpaste, rather than staining them with iso-betadine as she has been required to do since her hospitalisation in March. Using a regular adult brush carries the risk of bleeding gums (remember, no platelets) and even more so of bacterial infection. What a delight, she said.
As soon as the intravenous morphine pump is set in motion again, Lara solemnly takes off her wedding ring and hands it to me. We both agreed that, by doing so, she wasn't releasing me of my wedding vows before their time.
It takes quite a while before the effect of the morphine and tranquilizer has played out, even with the bonuses given to Lara right from the start. A coughing fit is in the way. I measure her saturation and her pulse: both stand at 96, quite reasonable. Pressure 9 over 5. Temperature normal. I stretch out alongside her and she rests her head against my shoulder, our arms intertwined. We exchange our last carinos.
A little after 5:15PM, Lara increasingly has trouble focussing. I tell her to just doze off. One careprovider asks if she is afraid. She nods. Of course, you are. That is why she clings to her presence in the here and now. Security. She takes time to put Caroline's balm on her chapped lips. At around 5:45PM she says: "I am slowly going away. In a good way." Half an hour later, the sedatives become stronger. "I am wandering but I am still here", she says. Her face and hands are cool on the touch. "Are you boarding yet?", I ask. Not even close, is the answer. Not even cueing? She shakes her head. What then? "Shobbing", she says. Leave it to Lara to secure a last minute bargain.
Monday evening
At 6:30PM she seems to have finally boarded. "You're making the people on the plane laugh", she tells me. I seem to have slipped aboard with her to make sure she's comfortable.
At 7:30PM she is soundly asleep, but still wakeable it seems to me. And indeed, as our doctor enters the living room, Lara opens her eyes and smiles at her. "Flap your wings carefully", I whisper in Lara's ear. She nods. It has been her longstanding adieu to anyone on an airplane who is about to take off.
At 8:15PM her pulse measures 8 over 5, her pulse standing at 126 beats/minute. Her saturation is still at 96%. At 8:40PM we enter final approach. Just before she goes under she turns to me and asks: "Can you fluff up my pillow?" "It will be my pleasure", I tell her. Everything is in place and I am given instructions. Two glass vials of Dormicum 5 mg are emptied through the central line. The doctor and the nurse take their leave. I am staying behind with Lara in the apartment, just the two of us. Alone at last. She breathes quietly. Pale is her face. Hard to say if she will pass quickly, or if she will take her time. A matter of hours at most, I'm told. My head is full of cotton.
Back to Sarajevo, a city besieged.
Then, in a spectacular development at around 11:00PM, I find myself moping about in the living room (where Lara's bed sits), when suddenly I hear: "Hey, Dingdong". I look over: Lara is sitting up and her eyes follow me around the room. In a flash it occurs to me that - praise the Lord - there is reprieve from death after all! Apparently one can come back out of it as if waking up from a nightmare. In an impulse I tell her she's not supposed to be awake and to please go back to sleep - admittedly an inane reaction on my part. "What's happening?", she wants to know. "I don't think this is supposed to happen, I said, I will call the doctor." Meanwhile I give her the water bottle which she empties in no-time, for her mouth is parched.
So our GP hops over in under ten minutes and is a tad taken aback at the turn of events, not knowing the answer to Lara's obviously pertinent question. The two of them discuss in French about what went wrong and how it can be made right. Lara makes the point that now she is really getting scared, for she no longer trusts the protocol chosen. Meanwhile a nurse is summoned and a different way of administering drugs is chosen. Pretty soon her eyes are swimming again and she has to lie back in order to absorb the extra morphine.
That's when Lara and I exchange what would be our last words, where I tell her - a bit counterintuitively - to relax and go to sleep and everything will be allright. Lara is not at all sure that it actually will be allright, since the point is she doesn't really want to wake up anymore and how can she believe she won't? Fact is from here onward we managed to keep her sedated until the end came, even though it took far longer than the doctor loosely predicted as 'a matter of hours'. I give her one last kiss and she kisses me back. (Oh, I liked that.)
Doctor Schroyens, our homeopathist, later tells me that these sudden surges of consciousness in a terminal patient occur exceptionally in response to homeopathic treatment. Astonishing the hospital staff, such episodes can be spectacular, elaborate but circumscribed, finite and always returning the patient to sleep or coma, with death not far behind. That is what happened to Lara here. Of course.
Fantasie
Monday 11 June morning
Once her clothes for the day were in order, I made myself scarce. Lara's entourage was more than complete with four people: two nurses, a hospice and the domestic help. I would just be in the way.
Lara is asleep, her breathing shallow. Everybody has gone now, except Schubert's hauntingly beautiful Fantasie in F minor for piano duet. He wrote it while aware he didn't have long to live anymore and somehow it carries that sense, especially in the closing bars. Listen to it.
She's had a good night's sleep. We both have, in fact, although I need to tell you that after fifty-odd days, I am fed up with sleeping on the couch. I miss the bounce of our conjugal bed. (Sometimes I dive in for a quick snooze.)
This is the first morning where she tried to get out of bed and join me for breakfast, but then slumped back, shaking her head. She could't muster the strength. She had her cappuccino and her cereal in bed, spoon-fed; she looked over to me, a little helplessly, to check if we were eating at least at the same time. We were.
Our doctor, coming in at around noon, was amazed to see Lara awake the way she was. She was expecting to see her in a deep sleep. We talked the three of us and decided to give Lara a bonus dose of morphine and of Tranxene from the pumps. She felt the effect immediately. Knowing she might not regain consciousness enough at this stage of the process, she placed a few phone calls to say goodbye to her siblings, some of her dearest friends and called in Ilona, our domestic help, who was in tears.
I was wondering, she said, "Am I really saying goodbye to somebody else? Is this real?" It is, I assured her, holding her hand.
At around 1:00PM she started to slowly slide into sleepiness, and her movements became slow and deliberate, for example when taking a sip of water. It is as though she is still clinging to reality with her last bit of energy, resisting full surrender. "I have no idea what's happening in the world", she said. So I read her the headlines from this morning's Herald Trib.
Once her clothes for the day were in order, I made myself scarce. Lara's entourage was more than complete with four people: two nurses, a hospice and the domestic help. I would just be in the way.
Lara is asleep, her breathing shallow. Everybody has gone now, except Schubert's hauntingly beautiful Fantasie in F minor for piano duet. He wrote it while aware he didn't have long to live anymore and somehow it carries that sense, especially in the closing bars. Listen to it.
She's had a good night's sleep. We both have, in fact, although I need to tell you that after fifty-odd days, I am fed up with sleeping on the couch. I miss the bounce of our conjugal bed. (Sometimes I dive in for a quick snooze.)
This is the first morning where she tried to get out of bed and join me for breakfast, but then slumped back, shaking her head. She could't muster the strength. She had her cappuccino and her cereal in bed, spoon-fed; she looked over to me, a little helplessly, to check if we were eating at least at the same time. We were.
Our doctor, coming in at around noon, was amazed to see Lara awake the way she was. She was expecting to see her in a deep sleep. We talked the three of us and decided to give Lara a bonus dose of morphine and of Tranxene from the pumps. She felt the effect immediately. Knowing she might not regain consciousness enough at this stage of the process, she placed a few phone calls to say goodbye to her siblings, some of her dearest friends and called in Ilona, our domestic help, who was in tears.
I was wondering, she said, "Am I really saying goodbye to somebody else? Is this real?" It is, I assured her, holding her hand.
At around 1:00PM she started to slowly slide into sleepiness, and her movements became slow and deliberate, for example when taking a sip of water. It is as though she is still clinging to reality with her last bit of energy, resisting full surrender. "I have no idea what's happening in the world", she said. So I read her the headlines from this morning's Herald Trib.
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