CHAPTER 22
It was night, not quite dark, not quite dawn. Gabrielle was awake as so often, long after the world was asleep. She was sitting in bed, propped up on the specially made supporting frame that was her constant companion on what she liked to think of as the near side of the double bed, the side her visitors could sit at and be close enough to be part of the social circle. The other side was reserved for sleeping, or simply for laying flat while pondering on the meaning of life.
Gabrielle’s hand reached out over the bedside cabinet and took hold of a leather bound book, her diary. Idly, she flicked through the pages, reading what she had written over the years since the activities of her normal life had been curtailed by her illness. A quotation came to her mind -¨one should always have something sensational to read on a journey¨ - something like that anyway. Oscar Wilde. She smiled at the thought. There would be no need of diaries, not on the journey on which she was embarked. Still, it was interesting to see how her mind had developed over the years, even if the sensation was lacking.
This one, for instance, the first she ever wrote:
Dear Diary, if it is allowed to start in such a commonplace way. Today I was given some bad news, which I can hardly understand. I have cancer again. I had an operation some time ago but now it has come back. My dad told me about it last night. I cried a lot and he held me until I fell asleep. It’s bad enough being a cripple. I thought the cancer had gone for good. I suppose that means more treatment or even another operation, which I definitely don’t want. I’ve had enough of operations.
It had been the following morning she had asked for a diary, explaining that she intended to put down her thoughts and feelings about being ill, so she could read them in the future. Regrettably, there was to be no future, as another entry showed, written only a few weeks after the first.
Dear Diary, more on my latest illness. I have had tests at the hospital. More of those than I wanted but then I didn’t really want any at all. The results of the tests came in today. The cancer is spreading all over my body and the doctors can’t do anything. Well, I can be made more comfortable but that’s really all anyone can do. At least it means no operation, so it’s not all bad. I can’t face another operation. There were so many on my legs, then another when I had cancer the first time. It also means I am going to die sooner than I thought. When dad told me that, we cried together. Men aren’t supposed to cry but I’m glad he does. It makes me feel that I’m not alone.
Poor dad, thought the older Gabrielle. He has had a lot to put up with. First mum, now me. He hasn’t had much time for a life of his own. She looked at the entry again. It was true, though, she wasn’t alone. They had faced it together and come to terms with it. There was no cure, that she well knew, but she could accept the little future available to her with a reasonable degree of equanimity. Another entry from much further on. The style of writing showed greater maturity, though nothing much else seemed to have changed.
The cancer is well advanced now, as the latest tests have shown. There was a stage when it appeared to have slowed down, even stopped its spread, but is now on the march again. Nobody is making any wild guesses about how long I have in this world, but I’ve already had a good deal more time than was first thought. There can’t be much more left. A year, two years, five years, who knows? Now I’m making wild guesses. It wasn’t so bad when I could still attend school but even that had to be given up. Of course, my friends still come to see me now and again but it’s not the same. Still, they do envy me my lessons at home.
Gabrielle smiled as she remembered her home tutor, Mrs. Weaver. She was an older woman, very experienced and very kind, sensible enough to realise that there were days when Gabrielle was too depressed to study properly. They were the days when they just sat and talked about nothing in particular, or listened to music. They had liked each other at first sight. Well, her studying days were over now. She hadn’t bothered with taking any examinations. It hadn’t seemed worth while, even if she had been well enough to do so.
No more wild guesses now. The doctors have admitted that twelve months is their best estimate. They are wrong. It won’t be as long as that. If I survive until next year it will be a minor miracle and I’ve stopped believing in miracles, even the minor kind. Not that sort anyway. I can feel I’m wasting away and there’s not much of me left. Well, I can accept the fact. As Doctor Johnson said about someone in a position only slightly different, it concentrates the mind wonderfully. The only thing is, the mind doesn’t really take it in. I know I am going to die. I have accepted that, yet I don’t really believe it. I don’t suppose anyone ever does, even though we all have that same knowledge. We are born with it. I wouldn’t mind a bit longer, well, a lot longer to be honest, but it is impossible. I feel sorry for Tom, wasting his time on me. There’s nothing I can give him except a few kisses. The rest is all sorrow. A pity, but I can’t give him more, much though I would like to. The feelings are there, the emotions and urges which are as much a part of my make up as they are of anyone else’s but putting them into practice is questionable. Not on moral grounds. That’s neither here nor there. I don’t have enough time to bother overmuch about conventional morality but there are practicalities which are impossible to overcome. I feel sorry for dad too. He’s wasted many of the best years of his life. Not that he sees it as a waste. Just the same, it must be a relief to him when he is on his own again. Maybe he’ll meet someone and get married again. That would be the best thing for him. Still, even if that doesn’t happen and it’s not a thing totally in his control, he has his work. There is a great deal of writing he could do if he didn’t have me to look after.