This is so so sad.
Lara has allowed herself to drift away. The adhortations from her doctor, her husband and sundry friends, including Elisabetta, seem to have taken away the last hurdles. She feels free and unhindered to pursue her ultimate destiny, one that everyone assures her is inevitable. She knows it, too. In fact, she has known it since doomsday 19 April. "You're going to lose me", she told me then, quick on the draw as usual.
But people don't die on command. She may have to stay adrift for quite a while longer, marooned on a raft after a shipwreck. The Antwerp professor, the other day, predicted a few days to a few weeks for her demise. Well, a few days we've already had; how long is actually a few weeks? And will she be aware the whole time - some of the time? Out soon?
Already, Lara realises her loss of strength. For over a week now, she has started out every day stating she feels weaker than the day before. No surprise there, with her blood values. For someone with a penchant for fitness, with an agile and athletic physique, being overtaken by her body must be the ultimate onslaught on her person. This is why she forces herself, no matter what the cost, to join me at the table for every meal; why she insists on putting on proper attire during the daytime instead of staying in nightwear all day long. She wants to stay in control, retain a modicum of normalcy.
Control will rapidly be coming to an end, though. She'll be bedridden, unable to stand on her own legs any longer; totally dependent on a string of caretakers and her dumb husband. Her existence will be more and more vegetative, devoid of activity, including the use of her wits. Yet steering herself deliberately into that phase, may not expedite the early demise she wishes for. Her body can hold out longer with minimal activity, than when inhabited by someone who refuses to die no matter what, and kicks and screams. The lower her self-assertion, the longer it may take her actually to cross the threshold. Ironically, the harder she seeks death, the later death may seek her. We all have our meet with destiny, whether in Isfahan or Samara. Can't rush it.
I am beyond sadness for the moment. There are no tears for the time being. I am in the thick of desperation. Why? I am impotent keeping Lara alive, and equally impotent letting her die, which is what she wants. I am caught.
This is a bizarre reversal of roles. Here lies the love of my life, the woman I have been positively smitten with for twenty years, my soul mate. And what I want for her is to die serenely, peacefully, painlessly - and above all, soon. And the reason I would like to see her die, is that I cannot possibly keep her alive.
If she saw a point to this all - in other words, if she saw cause - she would be the last man standing; I mean she would fight mean and vicious. And that's the thing: she doesn't see the point; there is no cause. That is why she has given up. Not worth the effort if I am to meet my destiny anyway.
zondag 10 juni 2012
Chariot
Sunday afternoon
Her hands are a bushel of fingers on the touch, their color lifeless, her complexion pale. Coughs rip through her chest, her ribs and tommy heaving in spasms; useless dispense of energy, disconcerting also to the lookers-on. "I have had enough", she tells her friend Andreina, "I don't need this anymore. What's the point? No lack of love for people that are here, but I am tired, just so tired now." A cough syrop, a cough tablet, homeopathic medicine, they barely seem to give her solace. If only we could get that barking cough to stop, the remaining silence would match the serenity that otherwise reigns the room.
She can't take any more visitors the rest of the day. Wants to be left alone.
Lara wants out, but is still too resourceful for her own good, really. The last of her reserves - how deep are they? - keep her alive, be it in waves of fitness.
In the middle of last night, she dreamt that the heavens opened and a chariot appeared, someone telling her there was a place for her. She remembers not taking up the offer. Next time she may decide to just hop on board.
I mean, we are at that point. For all the love in the world that I carry for her, I hope she will go soon.
Her hands are a bushel of fingers on the touch, their color lifeless, her complexion pale. Coughs rip through her chest, her ribs and tommy heaving in spasms; useless dispense of energy, disconcerting also to the lookers-on. "I have had enough", she tells her friend Andreina, "I don't need this anymore. What's the point? No lack of love for people that are here, but I am tired, just so tired now." A cough syrop, a cough tablet, homeopathic medicine, they barely seem to give her solace. If only we could get that barking cough to stop, the remaining silence would match the serenity that otherwise reigns the room.
She can't take any more visitors the rest of the day. Wants to be left alone.
Lara wants out, but is still too resourceful for her own good, really. The last of her reserves - how deep are they? - keep her alive, be it in waves of fitness.
In the middle of last night, she dreamt that the heavens opened and a chariot appeared, someone telling her there was a place for her. She remembers not taking up the offer. Next time she may decide to just hop on board.
I mean, we are at that point. For all the love in the world that I carry for her, I hope she will go soon.
Death And The Maiden
Sunday 10 June morning
We remember it well, Lara and I. In the spring of 1992, we took Lara's friend Rama (who had just gotten to know me) to a matinee in a New York theater where a play had opened to great reviews. The Chilean playwright Ariel Dorfman had written an arresting piece for three actors, called "Death And The Maiden". The stellar cast consisted of Gene Hackman, Richard Dreyfuss and Glenn Close. The play appealed to us with a directness that was almost raw, set as it is in the aftermath of massive and egregious human rights violations under General Pinochet - or General Videla. To Lara and myself, human rights were our bread and butter; it was what had brought us together, a language that bound us very tightly. The title of the play was borrowed from the Schubert Quartet by the same name. The music itself is stunning, and once you have heard it, will stay with you for days. Haunting.
Leslie, Lara's sister, thought it would be appropriate to play it for Lara. She was right. It now rings out softly over the stereo as I write. I look across the room and surmise we're going to have a late breakfast today. Then again, what are slow Sunday mornings for, after all? Following the morning routine, Lara is completely out and a few couging fits have taken a lot of buzz out of her from the start. She just lies and listens, letting her consciousness go were it will take her.
Our GP, was here around 10:30AM. She joins us again for a cappuccino and marvels how Lara sits at the table putting away her breakfast with gusto. As I escort her to the door she tells me: "Astonishing she can still do what she's doing with so little in her veins. I have never ever seen this before. She must be able draw on hidden reserves somewhere."
We remember it well, Lara and I. In the spring of 1992, we took Lara's friend Rama (who had just gotten to know me) to a matinee in a New York theater where a play had opened to great reviews. The Chilean playwright Ariel Dorfman had written an arresting piece for three actors, called "Death And The Maiden". The stellar cast consisted of Gene Hackman, Richard Dreyfuss and Glenn Close. The play appealed to us with a directness that was almost raw, set as it is in the aftermath of massive and egregious human rights violations under General Pinochet - or General Videla. To Lara and myself, human rights were our bread and butter; it was what had brought us together, a language that bound us very tightly. The title of the play was borrowed from the Schubert Quartet by the same name. The music itself is stunning, and once you have heard it, will stay with you for days. Haunting.
Leslie, Lara's sister, thought it would be appropriate to play it for Lara. She was right. It now rings out softly over the stereo as I write. I look across the room and surmise we're going to have a late breakfast today. Then again, what are slow Sunday mornings for, after all? Following the morning routine, Lara is completely out and a few couging fits have taken a lot of buzz out of her from the start. She just lies and listens, letting her consciousness go were it will take her.
Our GP, was here around 10:30AM. She joins us again for a cappuccino and marvels how Lara sits at the table putting away her breakfast with gusto. As I escort her to the door she tells me: "Astonishing she can still do what she's doing with so little in her veins. I have never ever seen this before. She must be able draw on hidden reserves somewhere."
zaterdag 9 juni 2012
Evening
For the next thirteen hours we will be home alone again, as most couples are on an off-night. No social obligations in sight. No particular plans either. Just easy going.
Just before Fatima, de garde-malades, left, Lara had an argument with her metabolism - and lost it. Strange, for she had not eaten since breakfast, and that was seven hours before. As usual she had gotten into a coughing fit (who knows what triggered it) and the coughing in turn led to reflux. Nothing in her stomach now and her appetite totally gone. So food intake will be commensurate for the day. She doesn't seem particularly bothered and is fast asleep again.
My appetite is gone too after the Dutch team lost a socker match against the Danes in their opening match for the European Football Championship. What a pair we are.
I sit on the veranda; a chilly breeze moves the trees under a blue sky. The blackbird is singing from its favorite chimney. Suddenly I realize I am sitting there by myself. That will be the rule before long. I'd better get used to it.
Under the tones of Haydn's Drum Roll Symphony, around 10:00PM, I prepare the couch next to Lara's bed in the living room for my night watch posting. More than 45 nights now I have slept there, sometimes so soundly that Lara was unable to wake me up by the force of her voice. Using the electric chimes we have installed, she buzzed me out of my sleep. It is important that she call me over at any moment during the night, for I don't want to see her fall down again like the very first night she slept out here. Not to put too fine a point on it: she might hurt herself, and that can be dangerous; once she starts bleeding, she won't stop.
Just before Fatima, de garde-malades, left, Lara had an argument with her metabolism - and lost it. Strange, for she had not eaten since breakfast, and that was seven hours before. As usual she had gotten into a coughing fit (who knows what triggered it) and the coughing in turn led to reflux. Nothing in her stomach now and her appetite totally gone. So food intake will be commensurate for the day. She doesn't seem particularly bothered and is fast asleep again.
My appetite is gone too after the Dutch team lost a socker match against the Danes in their opening match for the European Football Championship. What a pair we are.
I sit on the veranda; a chilly breeze moves the trees under a blue sky. The blackbird is singing from its favorite chimney. Suddenly I realize I am sitting there by myself. That will be the rule before long. I'd better get used to it.
Under the tones of Haydn's Drum Roll Symphony, around 10:00PM, I prepare the couch next to Lara's bed in the living room for my night watch posting. More than 45 nights now I have slept there, sometimes so soundly that Lara was unable to wake me up by the force of her voice. Using the electric chimes we have installed, she buzzed me out of my sleep. It is important that she call me over at any moment during the night, for I don't want to see her fall down again like the very first night she slept out here. Not to put too fine a point on it: she might hurt herself, and that can be dangerous; once she starts bleeding, she won't stop.
Orbit
Saturday 9 June afternoon
"Come sit with me", she said, once I was back from grocery shopping. I'll do better than that, I said, and lie down right beside you. Oh, she liked that.
There is a serene atmosphere hanging in the room. The drone and gurgle of the oxygen machine now banished to the kitchen, the music from the stereo (Mozart, clarinet concerto at Lara's request) can be peacefully enjoyed at a very soft volume. Positively soothing. Your friend is clad in a black flowy cotton skirt, a silk aqua top, a black cotton sleeved vest and a scarf in matching colors, which she described as 'funky' when she told me to go find it. Her breathing is quiet but shallow, and thankfully the coughing fits are fewer and shorter. Lips slightly apart, her hands cool.
You can tell she is losing strength. You take her fingers and there is hardly any tension in the muscles. As if she is reserving whatever she's got left on vital functions such as heartbeat and respiration. The occasional visitor (hardly any are planned at this stage) still gets to have an intelligent conversation out of her; she does continue to make sense, always interested to hear the latest family news and what not else. Invariably, though, at a certain point she lets people know she can't go on anymore. A long nap follows the inevitable goodbye.
Our doctor was in early this morning (10:30AM), and delighted to see us sitting at the table, then joining us for coffee. We talked. The GP told Lara that her luggage was labeled, checked in and safely on board, while her boarding pass was in her hand. All she needed to do was join the cue, find her seat, relax and enjoy departure. Nobody was holding her back. "Good to hear that being said out loud", was Lara's response.
Destination unknown. Lara doesn't believe in afterlife, and that, to her, is the scary part of dying: not knowing where you will end up. Our doctor does believe as a good catholic. She refers to people having come back from a near-death experience, the closest proof to witness testimony. Such people recount wonderous experiences and invariably they didn't want to come back down to earth any more. Sounds like a recommended environment, she suggests.
Lara's sleep tends to be deeper and deeper. Every time she's woken up, she comes from farther away, a pattern that is likely to grow more intense over the coming days. Until she spins off into orbit, irretrievably.
"Come sit with me", she said, once I was back from grocery shopping. I'll do better than that, I said, and lie down right beside you. Oh, she liked that.
There is a serene atmosphere hanging in the room. The drone and gurgle of the oxygen machine now banished to the kitchen, the music from the stereo (Mozart, clarinet concerto at Lara's request) can be peacefully enjoyed at a very soft volume. Positively soothing. Your friend is clad in a black flowy cotton skirt, a silk aqua top, a black cotton sleeved vest and a scarf in matching colors, which she described as 'funky' when she told me to go find it. Her breathing is quiet but shallow, and thankfully the coughing fits are fewer and shorter. Lips slightly apart, her hands cool.
You can tell she is losing strength. You take her fingers and there is hardly any tension in the muscles. As if she is reserving whatever she's got left on vital functions such as heartbeat and respiration. The occasional visitor (hardly any are planned at this stage) still gets to have an intelligent conversation out of her; she does continue to make sense, always interested to hear the latest family news and what not else. Invariably, though, at a certain point she lets people know she can't go on anymore. A long nap follows the inevitable goodbye.
Our doctor was in early this morning (10:30AM), and delighted to see us sitting at the table, then joining us for coffee. We talked. The GP told Lara that her luggage was labeled, checked in and safely on board, while her boarding pass was in her hand. All she needed to do was join the cue, find her seat, relax and enjoy departure. Nobody was holding her back. "Good to hear that being said out loud", was Lara's response.
Destination unknown. Lara doesn't believe in afterlife, and that, to her, is the scary part of dying: not knowing where you will end up. Our doctor does believe as a good catholic. She refers to people having come back from a near-death experience, the closest proof to witness testimony. Such people recount wonderous experiences and invariably they didn't want to come back down to earth any more. Sounds like a recommended environment, she suggests.
Lara's sleep tends to be deeper and deeper. Every time she's woken up, she comes from farther away, a pattern that is likely to grow more intense over the coming days. Until she spins off into orbit, irretrievably.
Dancing Queen
10 December 2007
Ambassadors stationed in Stockholm are duty-bound to attend the annual Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm's Concert Hall. Everyone who matters in Sweden is invited, the men in tails or uniforms, the ladies in long gowns, bedecked with decorations and jewels galore. A solemn and impressive occasion. If you happen to be an Ambassador with a fellow-citizen for a prize winner that particular year, you're in luck, for you are then invited with your spouse to attend the gala banquet afterwards, in Stockholm's City Hall. About 1400 guests share the pleasure. If you are less lucky, you get to pick up your coat downstairs at the end of the ceremony, try and reach your car in freezing weather and go home without as much as a glass of juice. Glitter paired with frugality.
All dressed up and nowhere to go. Not long before the Nobel ceremony in 2007, I was called to my next duty station (IAEA in Vienna), and Lara and I decided to invite all the "Nobel losers" over for a dance and drinks in the ballroom of the residence. It was going to double as our farewell party. In our three and a half years it was also the only private gala party in town. We have it on video for posterity.
Here we are photographed opening the dance floor, as the band played "What A Wonderfull World", our wedding song. People remember we were beaming with happiness.
Ambassadors stationed in Stockholm are duty-bound to attend the annual Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm's Concert Hall. Everyone who matters in Sweden is invited, the men in tails or uniforms, the ladies in long gowns, bedecked with decorations and jewels galore. A solemn and impressive occasion. If you happen to be an Ambassador with a fellow-citizen for a prize winner that particular year, you're in luck, for you are then invited with your spouse to attend the gala banquet afterwards, in Stockholm's City Hall. About 1400 guests share the pleasure. If you are less lucky, you get to pick up your coat downstairs at the end of the ceremony, try and reach your car in freezing weather and go home without as much as a glass of juice. Glitter paired with frugality.
All dressed up and nowhere to go. Not long before the Nobel ceremony in 2007, I was called to my next duty station (IAEA in Vienna), and Lara and I decided to invite all the "Nobel losers" over for a dance and drinks in the ballroom of the residence. It was going to double as our farewell party. In our three and a half years it was also the only private gala party in town. We have it on video for posterity.
Here we are photographed opening the dance floor, as the band played "What A Wonderfull World", our wedding song. People remember we were beaming with happiness.
vrijdag 8 juni 2012
Alone
Evening
Mozart symphonies (Prague Chamber) waft over to where Lara's reclines. The atmosphere is serene. The noisy oxygenator machine has been moved to the kitchen and we don't hear it any longer over here.
Her stomach has settled to the point where she doesn't feel nauseous any more. Her eyes are closed, but I know she is still awake. I ask her if I can get her anything. No. A kiss perhaps? Oh, yeah, she croons.
The house is finally empty of caretakers. No matter how much we appreciate them during the day, we also like a stretch of privacy during the evening.
Lara is relaxed being there just the two of us. For me, it is a bit of a liability. When something would go terribly wrong between now and tomorrrow 9:00AM, I would be on my own dealing with it. As a hypochondriac I am slightly anxious as to what might go wrong; which is actually quite a lot. I rehearse how I might combine a number of things: taking care of Lara's needs, alerting the infirmiere de garde or the doctor, buzzing them in when they'd finally arrive, while following their instructions in the meanwhile.
Then again, this feels so peaceful. Even if non-verbal, the atmosphere is precious. 'Nuf said.
Mozart symphonies (Prague Chamber) waft over to where Lara's reclines. The atmosphere is serene. The noisy oxygenator machine has been moved to the kitchen and we don't hear it any longer over here.
Her stomach has settled to the point where she doesn't feel nauseous any more. Her eyes are closed, but I know she is still awake. I ask her if I can get her anything. No. A kiss perhaps? Oh, yeah, she croons.
The house is finally empty of caretakers. No matter how much we appreciate them during the day, we also like a stretch of privacy during the evening.
Lara is relaxed being there just the two of us. For me, it is a bit of a liability. When something would go terribly wrong between now and tomorrrow 9:00AM, I would be on my own dealing with it. As a hypochondriac I am slightly anxious as to what might go wrong; which is actually quite a lot. I rehearse how I might combine a number of things: taking care of Lara's needs, alerting the infirmiere de garde or the doctor, buzzing them in when they'd finally arrive, while following their instructions in the meanwhile.
Then again, this feels so peaceful. Even if non-verbal, the atmosphere is precious. 'Nuf said.
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