Chapter Twelve

The next day, Maria Vasilievna was discharged and another woman became my ward neighbor. Her name was Olga Soroka. She was very sick, in a severe stage of diabetes, and terrible gangrene was spreading all over her legs. So it was only Svetlana, with her legs plastered, and me now.

Svetlana couldn’t get up from bed by herself. I was doing my first unsure steps with the help of Vera, my hospital angel. I felt so dizzy during each of these attempts that I could not keep my balance. Something must have happened to my brain; I had no idea what part of my body I needed to move to take a step.

That’s probably how God created the world. First, there was an idea. The same for me, first a thought: what to do, what muscles to use to put my right foot in front of my left. Okay, good, I would say, talking myself through it. Then I needed somehow to transfer my body weight onto the right leg, and on it would go from there. Step by step, with the help of my teachers, I learned to walk again. Was it as hard to learn how to walk when I was a child? I didn’t remember.

This is really when you start appreciating the simple actions that are available to you. You learn to enjoy the little things that are given to you together with your life. “Be grateful and rejoice in all that surrounds you,” says one of the cosmic laws. I was grateful. Very grateful. And it was another lesson I had learnt.

Learning to walk was progressing quite well, and on the third day I could take a few independent steps. It was still very painful, but the joy of success and the pride from my achievements made me overcome this pain. So, the first challenge completed, I thought to myself. I was happy and thanked those who had helped, the doctors, and everyone around me.

When I met Olga Soroka, life with my pain seemed a picnic compared to the suffering of that poor woman. That was the next lesson to learn: Everything in this world is relative.

Olga was being prepared for double leg amputation, but the diabetes made doctors keep postponing it. They were expecting Olga’s daughter to come by to discuss the potential consequences of the operation. Perhaps even her mother’s death.

But her daughter was not in a hurry to come for a visit, even though Olga was brought to the hospital emergency room by ambulance on a Saturday night.

Additionally, in the emergency, Maria forgot to bring her medicines, and as ill luck would have it, at that moment there was nothing in the hospital that could stand in as replacements.

Her first night in the ward, this poor woman could not sleep a wink. It was hot. The flies were swarming to the terrible odor coming from her legs, especially strong when she changed the bandages. She cried and moaned all night. On Sunday morning the admitting physician tried to do everything he could, first, to keep her alive until Monday, and second, to somehow to ease her suffering. Svetlana and I also did our best to support the poor woman, demonstrating our recovery and firmly promising Olga that by next week we would all be up and dancing, if not to rock and roll then at least some 7:40 with the klezmer or some Sirtaki from Zorba the Greek.

Olga’s daughter didn’t come Sunday, either. In the evening, exhausted from pain and suffering, Olga begged me to call her daughter, and to see if she would bring her medication to the hospital. She wrote a phone number on a piece of paper, and thus I went into the first crusade of my new life, down the hallway, some thirty or forty feet. To me it seemed like a mile over broken glass. Carefully, supporting myself with the wall, I reached the nurse’s station where the phone sat on the desk.

Olga’s daughter picked up the phone and replied that she would not be able to come today, because her husband was celebrating something with the neighbors, so he couldn’t drive. And she herself was too tired after work and therefore would arrive only the next day, so she asked me to just to say hello to her mother for her. When I told Olga that, she burst out weeping, and said medicine would be of much better use than her daughter’s one word greeting.

At eleven p.m. that night, Olga Soroka died. Before our very eyes.

“Her heart gave out” Dr. Savchenco said, “ Poor women. Even her own daughter abundant her. Die alone. How awful”.

“How awful! That’s it! Olga wasn’t that bad as I was”. Thoughts in my head swarmed like bees. They buzzed and worn in different directions, bumping into one another. “ Her daughter just didn’t realize that her mom was that bad. I’m pretty sure. But my husband! I was almost dead if Dr. Vyacheslav Dmitrievich didn’t go home for several days. How could he abundant me, leave me to die? Or he hoped that I will die? Right. Then he don’t need to get divorce and share the stuff we collected living together. No arguing. No fighting. No Problem. He probably likes the word “no”. Well, no. I am alive. I will get well and will live happily ever after.

This was the first time I’d ever seen anyone die. It was one of the biggest horrors—to see a person dying right in front of you and not being able to help!

Next two hours Svetlana and I spent in the ward with the deceased Olga. Such were hospital rules: a dead person had to be left for two hours in the ward. Perhaps to be sure they were well and truly passed on. At one a.m. the doctors finally wheeled Olga out and wished us good night.

How could we have a good night after watching Olga die, neglected by her own daughter? We were both in shock. We couldn’t even talk at first. I knew that was another lesson. And I had to learn it by heart: Hurry to live, otherwise it may be too late. Tomorrow may not come.

Hurry up to live; otherwise it may be too late! Go visit the person you want to see. Say a kind word to him or her or you may run out of time to say it. You’ll regret it all your life, blame yourself, but it will be impossible to change anything! Anything at all.

After a while our senses started coming back. Moreover, the doctor on duty that night was the young, but already highly experienced physician and nice person, Alexander Savchenko.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, girls?”

“Well, it’s too hard to accept the recent events.”

“Yes, I understand. So sorry it happened this way. Anyway, I will not turn off your lights for now. Even better, I have something that will distract your attention. I know it’s been a tough experience.”

And he brought us a half-full bottle of a wonderful wine called Cahors.

In a village, everything is always much simpler, I would even say more sincere than in the city. People do not pay attention to the unimportant things, such as the gift being only half a bottle. They just accept with gratitude the fact that people want to help.

Not every Ukrainian medical institution has doctors who offer wine to their patients! But in this small hospital there was a homelike atmosphere with a lot of kindness and empathy. Along with professionalism and strict rules for following medical procedure, you would meet cordiality and generosity of spirit. Of course, the chief physician might not be completely happy to hear about anything like this, but I’m sure he would understand.

Dr. Savchenko had even brought clean water glasses.

“Here, girls, let’s have a glass for the peace of Olga Soroka’s soul. A remedy for your exhausted minds.”

Svetlana and I couldn’t believe it. But the wine was great, and toasting Maria helped us both to accept her passing. After that, the doctor poured us half of glass of wine each, and advised us to switch to some more optimistic topics. We relaxed a bit but still couldn’t sleep, of course. And then suddenly, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk!

Svetlana and I froze, in the full sense of the word.

I wasn’t sure what Svetlana was thinking at that moment, but I suddenly said, “Svetlana, what if Soroka didn’t die? She was taken to the morgue, where she came back to life, and now, now she is coming back for us!”

“Do you think she’s angry with us?” Svetlana asked.

“What for?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re still alive?”

“She has no reason to be cross with us.” I tried to look brave. “We did call her daughter. Right? It’s not our fault she refused to come to her mother’s side.”

Fear enchained us. We could not move and just stared at the door. I didn’t know what we expected to see there. The dead Maria Soroka coming, staggering on her gangrenous legs.

Then the sound of something creaking added fuel to the fire.

And then we both began to shake with silent hysterical laughter. The only fridge available on our floor was just in front of our ward. Apparently one of the patients wanted to have a drink of cold water or something, and had thumped down the hall. Another lesson to learn. Very often, along with sad, even tragic events, there is something comical or funny. For equilibrium and balance I guess.

Five-thirty a.m., and still we could not sleep.

At about seven in the morning, Svetlana and I finally fell asleep, and were woken up at nine by somebody screaming. No, it was not screaming. It was a cry of rage. When I opened my eyes, I saw it was a woman who was raging inside our ward. It took me a moment to realize that she was directing this anger at me.

“Why in the name of all that’s holy didn’t you tell me my mother was so bad that she might die!”

And then her language became much worse. At first I was taken aback, just half-awake after a few hours of sleep. I opened my mouth to return her anger, and then I realized what was going on. The doctors were standing next to her with their heads down. I felt, quite unexpectedly, absolutely calm.

I gave her the time to cry out all the grief. After all, her mother died. And then, very quietly, I said, “Well, as you see, I already got what I deserve. And you, my dear, will someday get yours.”

Everyone looked at me, completely dumbfounded. And she, Maria’s daughter, stood with her mouth open. Perhaps she also understood something in what I had said.

Everyone left. Everyone, except me and Svetlana. We couldn’t leave.

Later the same day Svetlana went home for a week. Then they brought her back only to remove the plaster. Her young body coped perfectly, the bones healed beautifully. I never saw her after, but I hoped that everything was going smoothly in her life. She was young, beautiful, and seemed to be surrounded by caring people and God’s blessings.

As for me I was just starting my path in a new life. Both literally and figuratively speaking, I was taking my first steps. At the age of forty.