After leaving this world last Sunday, this is my first column that she will not read.
Louise-Odile, Zodile as we all called her, had been alpha1-antitrypsin deficient for several years. A hereditary disease of the lungs and liver that kept her trapped in an oxygen tank.
In early November, she called us, her relatives, to tell us the date of her death, which was set for November 27 around 2:00 p.m.
A countdown.
What do you say to your childhood friend who announces her planned death as if it were a train ride?
She answers the phone with a clear and confident voice, feasts on chocolate cake, plays her video games like a teenager, enjoys movies, books and good company, still laughing for a good word. Not really bedridden.
But in his presence, this pallor, this thread of oxygen in his nose, his shortness of breath, the harsh reality of his years of imprisonment.
Last Sunday we were a few relatives and friends in his living room in Longueuil. She had previously made us feel able to share those final moments with her by eating small crustless sandwiches. We talked about everything and she drank her tall glass of milk and told us how beautiful life is.
Moments floating in a parallel dimension…
Then the arrival of the doctor and the nurse.
She quietly retired to her room and called me to her bedside. Our hands clasped, her blue forget-me-not gaze on mine, she assures me that I will leave this world in complete serenity. I left, her brother and cousins came in, followed by the doctor and the nurse.
A long silence, broken by the sound of his long oxygen cord sliding across the floor.
last picture
His face on the pillow, on the bedside table, his glasses, his water bottle and on the floor, neatly, his slippers…
