Maureen said she was ready to die. She wasn’t. Not if I could help it. I hate death. I hate the certainty, the shocking inability of starched white coated heroes to reverse the process. The phone rings as I pull on my coat to leave. “The white blood cell count is down”, Gerry offers hopefully. “Good, that’s good, I’ll be there soon”. The deafening absurdity in my head is hard to contain. I hope no one hears, not the steady trickle of well-wishers and prayer-givers. Not your helpless husband. They think I’m strong. They only see, only want to see, stability, support, settling words painstakingly quarried from my privileged access to ageless rock. I hope your children are there tonight, Maureen, their childish awkwardness bringing welcome distractions. I hate the savage loss they’ll soon suffer. “It’s as well they were so young”, some will say, “pity they didn’t see more of her years”, others will say.
The car park is full, good, I’ll park on the road, I thought-wouldn’t cost me anything. I hate the drab outside greyness of dull hospital buildings. The peculiar atmosphere inside is charged with raw humanity, stripped of all pretence. I hate the over-polished floors, the busy turmoil of sorrow and hope curiously defiled by tawdry sweet shops and coffee machines. Already planning what I’ll do when I get home I take the stairs slowly to the third floor. Now, at your bedside I am drawn deeply into your 42 year-old eyes and know I am privileged to deal with the dying. As customary now, you first inquire cheerfully into my well-being and my busy goings-on. I would never cut short this remaining dignity but soon we will descend to the reality at hand. “I’ll give you a few moments”, Gerry politely suggests and exits quickly under the guise of stretching his legs. “Sitting here all day”, he quips, then realising he said enough, he was gone. 40 years you’ve aged in just over four months, I thought as I noticed your once bright smile, now surrendered to decay, like a rugged death mask. Maureen, I want you free of this forced degradation, I want the girl within to live again.
The drip from the blood back snags on the corner of your pillow and you begin with newly gained knowledge to explain the transfusion procedure. Blood, the colour of alarm, and danger, now quietly travels through your body and clinically controlled medical apparatus. Will it help? I hate this cold breach of your intimacy, this public display of your inner systems. Jerry breezes back into the room and I know it’s time to leave. I nod to Jerry and you pull me towards you. We embrace lightly, and the absurdity momentarily disappears. Driving home in dark night traffic, I believe, I really do believe, this girl will live again.
