Wednesday, 28 March 2012

Without Feathers

H is worse - her breathing is more laboured and she needs more morphine.

Up to now she's been managing the few yards to the bathroom (thanks to the morphine she's in no hurry), at the cost of minutes panting for breath afterwards.  Last night it was too much for her.  IA, who was on his way to bed, witnessed her distress, and for the first time cried over her.  H told him how much she loves him, and that the worst thing about dying is leaving her children.  "It's not fair", he said: he meant, as I knew because we'd talked about it before, that it's not fair on her, not on himself.  Like his mother, he is a remarkable person.

Looking at H's beautiful face, it struck me for the first time that the thing that's distinctive about chemotherapy hair loss is not so much the bald head as the missing eyelashes...

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