Farewell to a dying cousin

I sat by her side the whole of the morning. She stared ahead, breathing in shallow noisy breaths. I spoke to her occasionally, as if we were sitting together in front of a winter fire or across a table on a sunny summer day, but she did not reply. I talked about the past — my weekly visits to her mother’s house hanging onto my own mother’s hand, sitting in the kitchen watching her father smoke cigarettes, and afterwards the journey to the cinema before the long trudge home. As I spoke I listened to her strange monotonous sounds — perfectly in time with her exhalations — and imagined she was thinking of words, thinking of responses to my story of the past. Once she tilted her head back, as though she was acknowledging one of my ridiculous jokes. Once she seemed to raise an eyebrow as though suddenly she had become interested again in the world and me — as if she was censuring my opinion, calling into question the truth of what had happened so many years ago.

I listened to the clatter of lunchtime outside the side room to the hospital ward in which we crouched, like conspirators hatching a plan to replace life. I heard the passing of trays, mumbled thank yous as patients were fed to build up their strength. No food came to my cousin — the black and white oxygen bottle at her side and the dry drip line up her nose were all her nourishment. I held her hand — it was cold and sweaty. Her face was beautiful, her skin, covered throughout her life with a thick wall of makeup was now exposed. It was white and smooth — perfect. I remembered how she had always held me so tightly when we had met, clung to me too long in her enthusiastic embrace, kissed me, whispered in my ear. I remembered the scent of the powder on her face and the fear that it would smudge onto my lips when I kissed her back. I squeezed her fingers but she did not squeeze mine.

I felt a need to go — the pressure of this terrible place — this waiting room for entry to the abyss — was suddenly too much.

I sat back on the hard chair and stared at her in a way I could not stare at someone who was aware of me. I analysed her — eyes fixed, barely blinking, and the rhythmic panting breaths sounding the nonsensical single note of all that was left of her voice.

I stood up and looked down at her. I realised the difference between us — our different and opposing grip on life. I bent and kissed her. I spoke again, saying goodbye but not wishing her well or reminding her of the next time we would meet. This pointed lack of nicety brought a sudden flush to tears to my eyes. I wanted to say she would be alright, but how could she be alright in the abyss?

I moved back and stood at the door. I said goodbye again and waved — almost cheerfully, unable to suppress the association of a fond goodbye to someone I would see again. And she lifted her arm and waved back — silently saying goodbye, bidding me farewell, leaving me with her best wishes for my own journey which would follow with certainty and soon. I turned and left, elated by her wonderful departure and realised that it was she not me who was passing on the good wishes, it was me walking back into the abyss.