Having left this world last Sunday, this is my first column that she will not read.
Louise-Odile, Zodile as we all called her, had suffered from Alpha1-antitrypsin deficiency for several years. A hereditary disease affecting the lungs and the liver, which kept her prisoner of an oxygen cylinder.
At the beginning of November, she called us, her relatives, to inform us of the date of her death, fixed for November 27 around 2 p.m.
A countdown.
What to say to your childhood friend who announces her planned death to you as if it were a train journey.
She talks to us on the phone in a clear and confident voice, feasts on chocolate cake, plays like a teenager with her video games, enjoys movies, books and good company, still bursts out laughing for a good word . Not really a bedridden.
But in his presence, this pallor, this oxygen thread in his nostrils, his shortness of breath, the harsh reality of his years of confinement.
Last Sunday, we were a few relatives and friends in his living room in Longueuil. She had made sure beforehand that we would feel able to share these last moments with her by eating little sandwiches with no crust. We talked about everything, and drinking her large glass of milk, she told us how beautiful life is.
Moments, suspended 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 joined, her forget-me-not blue gaze in mine, she assures me to 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 on the floor.
Last picture
His face on the pillow, on the bedside table, his glasses, his bottle of water and on the floor, tidy, his slippers…