SUNDAY, MAY 14

I CALL CHANTAL IN THE afternoon. No answer. I call again. Still no answer. An hour later I call again and Ellen picks up. Something’s wrong.

“Hi, Ellen, this is Sophie. How’s Chan?”

Silence, hesitation. “Sophie, Chan isn’t feeling so great, she’ll call you back later on this week. Okay?”

That’s a bad sign. “Shit. Can I come by?”

“Well, we’re just leaving.”

“To go to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I meet you there?”

“There’s not much point. All she can do is vomit. She feels really bad.”

“Shit.”

“Why don’t you take my number? You can always call me.”

As I take down her digits I feel my first tears for Chan fall onto the piece of paper. For Chan, who is dying. Right now? In a few weeks? Months? Years? Complete helplessness. I’ve never felt that so strongly before. Now I’m the one sitting next to the bed. So much has changed again so fast. I decide to go to the hospital right away.

Within thirty minutes I arrive at the hospital, sweaty, puffing, in distress. In front of the entrance are two benches. I sit down on one of the benches and cry in silence. It’s six thirty P.M. and the sun is shining, but I don’t feel anything. I’m wearing my winter coat.

You would think that I would be used to all this by now. That I would know what she needs to hear and what she doesn’t. But I have no clue. Should I even be here? Should I act cool or be more like Chan and make jokes?

At the foot of her bed, I watch how she slowly slips away, and I have no idea what to do. There’s less and less of Chan, and more and more of cancer. Why is it that she’s dying and I’m not? Is it just dumb luck? It bothers me that people who have no idea say that the right attitude will get you through. What would they say now?