Man Of Few Words

Chapter 94

Monday

Here's a weird thought. You, dear reader, know better than I do how long I've got left. You know how many pages you've got left to read, but I don't know how many I've got left to write. It must be pretty near the end now though. If you're reading this as a paperback, you're probably at the point where it's awkward to hold it in one hand because the weight of the book is almost all on the left. Or if you're reading it electronically, I don't know, maybe there's a bar that's almost at the bottom of the screen, or a counter that's almost filled up.

How long have I got? Can you give me a clue?

Tuesday

Inge visited again yesterday evening. She didn't let me know in advance, so it was a surprise. Apparently, she'd found herself in roughly this part of the city with some time to kill because of a work thing. It was great to see her.

I decided to pop the question. Not marriage, no. But I was asking for quite a big commitment nonetheless. The question had been knocking around in my head for a while, but I hadn't had the courage to ask.

"Inge." She seemed distracted, so I just waited patiently until she fixed her attention on me.

"I want you to be with me at the end. Will you do that for me? Can I give them your number?"

I felt a chill as I saw her head move just slightly and momentarily sideways before she reigned in her reflex and, buying herself some time, said,

"David, I..."

I didn't want her pity, but I started crying in front of her anyway. It was proper helpless sniffing and sobbing. I was trying to contain it and calm myself down for the sake of being able to hear her speak, if for nothing else.

"I've been thinking a lot about this too, and..."

Denying a man his dying wish to his blubbing, tear-streaked face is no easy task. This usually articulate, direct, plain-speaking woman was struggling.

"Every time I picture it in my mind, it doesn't feel right. I... recoil. Not from you or your family. From the idea of being here at that moment."

"So instead I try to picture what is the right way to say goodbye to you. When is the right time? How to do it... I get stuck there too."

I think that by this point she was starting to cry too. I certainly heard sniffing.

"There isn't a right time or a right way to say goodbye, David."

I could feel what was coming, and my sobs got louder. She placed a calming hand on mine. I kinda wanted to lash out and push her off me, but she knew how to tame that part of me. Maybe it wasn't a case of knowing. It was maybe just something she did, something she was. Something she is.

We'll never see each other again. She said goodbye. I'm dead to her now.

Wednesday

I had a very vivid dream. I was wailing and convulsing in anguish. I had no control. Pain and frustration had an absolute grasp on me. Someone – a man, but no one I recognised – was trying to console me. He was assuming that something specific was wrong; that someone close to me had just died, or that I myself had cancer.

But I didn't have cancer, not in the dream. In the dream, nothing in particular was wrong. There was no known reason for the all-consuming emotional torment. I wanted to tell the man this, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything but cry and scream. He gave up on me and moved on. That's when I woke up.

It was still pitch black in my room. I think I'd only been asleep for an hour or two. My jaw was tight and stiff. I felt exhausted as if I really had been howling and moaning, but I also felt disappointed because I knew I hadn't.

Thursday

My will to live is at an all-time low today, but I'm managing to maintain a minimal level of 'will to type'. It's exhausting and I can feel my fingers stiffening day-by-day, but I can still sit up long enough to get it done. This is good news for this book, particularly as over the last few days my voice has been getting weaker and weaker. I'm at the point now where the nurses have provided me with a notepad and a thick black pen. I've prepared some ready-made notes for common requests:

TOILET

THIRSTY

UNCOMFORTABLE

DOOR

CUDDLE

IMPENDING DEATH

MACARENA!

I haven't tried using the last three just yet. It'll be interesting to see how they respond.

I can still just about talk for now, but only very quietly and quite painfully. I'm expecting to lose my voice completely and permanently any day now. This means I've had to email Jon Pound and tell him he can stand down. If I can't make voice recordings, then there'll be nothing for him to work with. But I told him that if the book needs some kind of epilogue, then he can help out with that.

I say 'if' because I don't know when I'm going to reach the point at which I can't write any more, so each and every entry might be the last for all I know.

I'm going to endeavour to end every entry on a profound note from now on, just in case. So the end of this book is going to be like the ending of the last song at a stadium rock concert. You know how they sometimes make the end longer than the rest of the song with extra solos and false endings and screaming "THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!" over and over again? Like that. But don't expect an encore.

If this starts to produce a pretentious, overly dramatic effect, then I make no apologies. Every false ending is one more day I've managed to hang on in there. You should be happy for me.