It’s the chemo. It’s breaking me down. I have a high fever and some kind of infection. Antibiotics are being pumped into my blood intravenously. Antibiotics and God knows what else. I lie there connected to tube after tube, and I don’t know a thing. Can’t do a thing.
“I’m a nurse too,” I say when the nurse comes in to take my blood pressure and check my pulse. I want the person sticking needles into my bruised and busted arm to know that. I want her to know that I understand these things. I’m an equal. Not just a victim, a wretch in her care. She smiles.
“Lovely!” That’s all she says.
She gathers her things, whistling, pushes her cart in front of her, and waves goodbye.
“The doctor will be here soon.”
Aram stares after her emptily. It might be a long time until Aram is whistling again, I think. It might be a long time before something feels lovely. It occurs to me that I’m sinking and dragging her down with me.
“She must have a date,” I say. Trying to look happy. Aram turns to me, startled. It takes a moment, but then she smiles back, and I feel my smile become genuine in return.
“Maybe there’s some handsome old man with prostate cancer around here who wants to get a coffee with me.” Aram laughs and the sound of her laughter causes a flutter in my stomach.
“I saw one in the corridor who looks like Mikael Persbrandt . . . a Persbrandt with no hair.”
She winks at me.
“I’d rather wait for the real one.”
We sit smiling at each other for a while. Without moving, without words. Like a couple of idiots, we smile at each other until I tire out and turn away.
when christina enters she looks worried.
“We’re going to have to put the chemo on hold,” she says.
“What does that mean?” Aram asks. “What do we do instead?”
“Nothing,” she replies. “Her body isn’t strong enough right now.”
“So she gets no treatment? The cancer just gets to spread freely?”
“That risk exists,” Christina replies. “But otherwise the chemo will kill her. I’m very sorry.”
She leaves us and the pouring rain pours down even more. We both stare at the window. The fury flying against the glass. Hitting it. Running down. Aram has sat down at the small desk with a pen in her hand. She’s scratching away at something. Drawing, I would guess, but my ears hear only the scratching.
“Stop it!” I say. I must have screamed, because she looks at me in surprise.
“If it’s so boring to be here, you might as well leave.”
Her dark, dark eyes. She looks at me like a child. A hurt and overwrought child. My little kid.
“Leave. It’s for the best. I’m tired. I need to sleep. Go.”
She sits still, as though paralyzed.
“See you tomorrow, if you have time. There is nothing to be done. You heard it yourself.”
Aram gathers her things quickly. She must have been longing to go, longing to be released.
“In a hurry?” I ask, and she stiffens.
“Do you want me to stay, Mama? I’ll stay as long as you want.”
She’s lying, I think. If that were true, she would never leave.
It feels like i spent the rest of my life in that hospital. I had a 104-degree fever, and nothing could get it down. I hallucinated. I suppose that’s what it was. Hallucinations. Whatever those are. Aren’t we hallucinating all the time? Seeing the world through our own cloudy filters. Do we ever experience anything real? Actually for real. Cancer. I suppose that’s real. But at the same time not. Why did I start chemo in the first place? When they said you’re going to die. Why didn’t I just take my money and run? I could have gotten pretty far, lived in luxury. I could have brought Aram with me. We could have gone to Hawaii, drunk huge cocktails on lounge chairs, had massages every day. We could have gone to New York and stayed in five-star hotels. We could have traveled to Las Vegas and gambled at a casino. When the end was close, I could have said goodbye to her. Sent her home. With hugs and kisses and my mind intact. And then I’d buy an old convertible and drive down to Texas, into the desert. I’d have found a mountain and driven to the top. I’d have drunk a bottle of brandy and smoked a pack of cigarettes and dangled my legs over the edge, drinking, smoking, singing. And then I’d have gotten in my car, put my foot on the gas, thrown my arms in the air, screamed, and driven off. The car would have lifted up off the ground, floated in the air. I would have flown. I would have screamed and flown, and life would have been its most beautiful just as it ended.
That is what I could have done. Burned the candle at both ends. Lived until I felt satisfied. Finished. But I missed my chance.
They said: You have cancer. You will die. And I chose to fight death instead of squeezing the last out of life. I don’t really know why I chose this path. But I would probably choose it again, if given the choice. I realize that. I realize I’m more afraid of dying than not living well. I think I’ve always been like that. That’s who I was in the interrogation room. That’s why I betrayed everything, betrayed it all, and turned into a traitor. And I’m like that in this hospital room. More afraid to die than not living all the way. If that’s not delusional, I don’t know what delusion is.
The infection has subsided and i’ll be discharged soon. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go home and be alone. Yes, it’s that simple. I like it better in the hospital. Better to be in the company of the dying and their weary nurses than in my own home. Plus, people come to the hospital to visit, because when someone’s in the hospital you have to visit them. Once I’m home, they’ll think I can get by on my own. So I want to stay.
I said as much to Christina. That I don’t feel strong enough yet. She took my hand and sat down on the chair next to me, which they rarely do. Most often they just stand above you looking down. She took my hand and spoke to me in a gentle voice.
“I understand. But I’m afraid that this is the way it is now. You will never feel strong enough.”
I want to raise my hand, with all the tubes and needles attached to it, and slap her across the face. A slap that would make her head rattle, blacken her eyes. What kind of thing is that to say to somebody. How could you send another human being out into the world with those words. I’m stronger than you think, I want to say to her. But it won’t help, because then she’d put me in the first hospital transport vehicle and send me home. And besides, I don’t even know if it’s true.
I always believed it, always thought so, that I’m stronger than people think. But now it’s the other way around. People see me as a survivor, but they’re wrong. I’m so scared, I’m so afraid of death. More scared than I’ve ever been, more frightened than I ever thought I could be. I thought death would hit hard and fast. A bullet in the head, a car accident, a slap, a bang, and then the end. That’s what I was prepared for. Not this. The waiting. And waiting. It’s been a year now since I was diagnosed, since they told me I would die. A year, and I may have at least that much time left. A year of waking up each morning to the idea: I’m dying. And one day, one day very soon, I will.
This was not what I imagined. What I expected from life. This protracted wait for death.
We’re going to a concert, Aram said. she bought the tickets and made the plans. I don’t know why, what gave her the idea. She has some picture in her head of us doing things together, before I disappear. Beautiful things. But I don’t know if I’m up for it, between the struggle with tumors and toxins. I don’t know if I want to.
“You can do it, Mama,” she says. “You can come with me.”
She knows that Christina is discharging me. She’s happy about it. She thinks that means there’s hope.
What do you know, I want to say. What do any of you know about what’s happening inside me.
“We’ll take a taxi the whole way. And we’ll take a taxi back. You only have to walk a few dozen meters. It’s no big deal, you can do it.”
You can do it. Like I
’m a two-year-old she’s trying to get onto the potty.
“I don’t want to,” I say. “It’s my last night in the hospital. I want to be here.”
“But the concert is tonight, Mama. Only tonight. I can’t change that. And who knows if . . .”
“Who knows what!” I get mad at her. “Who knows if there will be another chance? Who knows if I’ll die tomorrow?”
She bites her lip like she does when she’s hurt. I know it, but she thinks she’s keeping it inside. I see her emotions as clearly as I see the moon shining on winter nights. Clearly, clearly. Hide it better, I want to say to her. You’re not doing it well enough. I don’t want to see everything you feel, don’t you know that. I feel enough as it is. And I don’t want you putting any more guilt and shame on me with your eyes. Are you hurt? Are you? I don’t care, because I’m dying. I will die, and you will live. Do you understand? I can do whatever I want to you.
“Just go!” is all I say. “I’m not coming.”
She lowers her tense shoulders and walks out. I squeeze the patterned turquoise pillow she bought for me. Close my eyes and dry my tears on the fabric.
Christina knocks on the door, sticks her head in. Again. For the second time today. I just want to be left alone.
“Do you really have these types of resources?” I ask. “What have I done to deserve so much attention?”
Then I remember where I am and what’s going on and sit up in bed.
“Did you get the test results?”
Maybe tonight’s the night they tell me it’s really over. Maybe I can ask them to put a bullet in my brain. If the test results were bad enough, that would hardly be a crime. I would never dare to do it myself, that much I know.
“I met your daughter by the elevator,” she says. “She seemed upset.”
I swallow.
“It’s not your job to discuss that with me. Send in the counselor.”
I pause. Purse my lips.
“Or send the counselor to my daughter,” I continue.
She looks at me with a frown. Disappointed. She is disappointed. Not in me as a patient, but as a mother.
“Nahid.”
I’m surprised that she knows my name. That she sees me as a person and not just a container of expanding cell masses and toxins.
“I understand that it’s painful,” she says. “I understand that it feels unfair. I understand that you are angry. I understand all that. And I have no say in the choices you make, or how you choose to live your life. My job is to fight the cancer. And to make sure that you are in as little pain as possible. That’s all. So I will just say this: I recommend you try. I recommend you try to make your days feel meaningful. Spend time with your loved ones. Do fun things. As your doctor, I recommend it, Nahid, because then you’ll have more energy. Do you understand? And that’s all we want here. For you to have more strength. For longer.”
“Why do I need strength?” I reply. “What will it lead to? I get a few more days, more days to be strong. Why can’t it just end? Why do I have to continue? I’m going to die! Everyone knows that I’m going to die. Why should I continue?”
“Nahid,” Christina says. “We’re all going to die. I might die before you. Do you understand that? Your daughter could die at any time. In an accident, from some unknown condition. We don’t know, we don’t know anything. But if something happens to her, you’ll be left with the memory of your last words to her. I’m just a doctor, but I can promise you that would be worse than cancer.”
You could call me an egoist. Some might say: You are selfish, Nahid. And I would hate that person. I’d cry and I’d scream. I would say: What do you know? What do you know about what I’ve been through? What do you know about how lonely I’ve been? What do you know about how selfishly others have behaved toward me? I could say that, and the person would dislike me even more. They would say: You feel sorry for yourself. You feel sorry for yourself, and that’s egoistic, too. Why punish the innocent for wrongs committed against you? Don’t you understand you’re just passing down your pain? Don’t you understand you’re keeping the pain alive, ensuring that it survives you. Is that what you want? Do you want pain to be your legacy, pain to be your child’s inheritance? I would look at this person, give them an angry look. My answer would be short.
Why should she be spared?
I wait until Christina leaves. Then I scoot up and reach for my phone. I’m coming, I text. And then throw myself down on my back again.
“I’m doing this for Aram’s sake,” I say aloud to myself.
But it’s not true. I’m doing it for myself. The doctor is right. It hurts to hurt others. It hurts, because they turn their backs. That’s the worst part. To be left alone. I don’t want that. I want her to come back, want her to stand by my side. So I’ll do what she wants this time. My phone beeps. Good! I’ll pick you up, she writes. She’s coming. That’s all I need, and I let my eyes close. Sleep instead of fight. Rest and let the tumors take new breath inside my body.
In my stupor, I imagine it like a rape. I’m forced to experience my greatest fear: something unknown and unwanted penetrating my body and taking possession of it. Leaving a mess in its wake that can never be cleaned away. I think to myself, I’ve lost the fight for my own body. But perhaps the battle was already lost when I was born. Another girl, another disappointment.
Now we’re together again in a car. she’s holding my hand, and we’re both looking out the window, out toward Strandvägen and the water. I had hoped it would be glittering, but it’s not. It’s dark and windy and foreboding.
“It’s going to rain,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replies.
The car pulls up in front of the Cirkus arena, and there are so many people that I have to catch my breath. It’s been a long time since I saw so much life. She opens my door from outside, but I hesitate.
“I don’t know if I can.”
She grabs my arm and pulls me out. Gently but with more force than I expected. I allow myself to be pulled, with shuffling feet. At some point we are joined by her friends. They look at me with eyes full of pity, and I look away. None of them knows what to say to me. I sink into a soft chair. Just then the music starts, and it’s as if I’m surrounded by a living presence, as if I’m wrapped in warmth and beauty and something as tender as a mother’s hands. The music. The sound has something Persian in it, and she is like something from a fairy tale, the girl who steps out on stage. Laleh is her name. A spring tulip in an April storm. She starts to speak and her voice patters like gentle summer rain against my eardrums. It takes me back to a time and place long since past. Aram is still holding my hand, and for the first time I feel that it’s okay. It’s okay to die. I feel there is a warmth that awaits me. Papa’s warmth. The warmth that once lived inside Masood. In Noora. I feel like Noora is waiting for me. I sink into the soft chair and feel my own smile. Feel myself press Aram’s hand, tenderly like those mothering hands. She looks at me, and even in the darkness, I can see her surprise. My affection astonishes her.
I don’t know if it was my warmth that did it or if Aram too was wrapped in that same sense of security by the darkness. By the girl on the stage. I hope I gave her something. Hope I helped her to grieve. But it was probably just the music. The poetry. She grew up on music and poetry, my daughter. Music and poetry are what gave her comfort, what gave her air to breathe, what nurtured her. But I was the one who gave her the music, and that makes me happy. At least I could give her music. Now the girl on the stage starts to sing. A child of war, like my daughter. Her words give Aram air. She sings of those who leave too soon and those who try to hold on, who won’t let go. Some die young, she sings, and Aram lets out a cry. A quiet, quiet cry. She bows her head and starts to shake, and I know she’s weeping, my girl. My baby. She whimpers like a baby. She cries and trembles and whimpers like a baby and I know why. I know I’m the one who’s going to die. That she’s the one being left behind. I know I will abandon my child, and that she
will lose her mother. I hold her hand more tightly and lean back in my chair. Rocking myself back and forth. That’s just how it is. I will die and my child will lose her mother. For a moment, it feels good. It feels like that’s how it was meant to be.
It’s summer again. april turned to may, may to June, and once again they’ve raised the maypole on the lawn below. They’re wearing their floral dresses and shouting their happy shouts. I hang out my window, as usual, with a cup of tea next to me. My mirror image demands attention, and I look at myself. Look properly. My hair is back. No chemotherapy for three months and the tumors have retreated. I’m cured! That’s what I said to Christina on Monday, but she didn’t agree.
“We’ll see, Nahid,” she said.
I chose not to ask any more questions.
“Thank you,” I said instead, and she nodded at me. Smiled gently.
“Have a lovely Midsummer.”
“I will! I’m celebrating with my daughter and her boyfriend’s family.”
I hesitated. But then I said:
“It’s a tradition.”
I didn’t tell her this was only the second time, because then we’d start talking about time again. Would this be the last time, and is it a tradition if it has only happened twice?
I’ve bought a new dress, a dress with big red flowers on it. It’s hanging on the bathroom door, and a pair of red sandals sit in the hall. I look forward to it. I want to ride in the car, out, out, over the water, bridges, and islands. Through all that beauty. I want to make good memories. So much beauty. Something lovely to keep inside me.
When I’m dressed, I stand in front of the mirror and pull out my lipstick. With slow and meticulous care, I paint my lips. Today nothing ends up outside the lines. Today I refuse to be the sick one. On this particular day, I’m not sick. On this day, all signs indicate I’ll survive. It feels like I’m born again.
What We Owe Page 8
