Death and Life

Thunder and Lightening

Whatever appears to leave us

Actually does not leave.

Whatever appears to stay with us

Actually does not stay.

Nothing remains.

Everything is a mystery

Of constant gain and loss.

- Sri Chinmoy

With Dipavajan having been fed his fourth 'meal' of the day, I had about an hour before I would have to start preparing the next one and then leave for the Centre Meditation.

I decided to spend the time working on the computer, which had me sitting next to the balcony door and with my back to where Dipavajan was reclining on the couch.

He had switched on his laptop and was watching one of his favourite YouTube channels: 'Selbstversorger Ricotti', hosted by a very nice, retired German gentleman who lived almost entirely from what he grew in his garden. Dipavajan really wanted to cultivate a garden of his own, once he would have recovered...

Concentrating on my work I relaxed into the high backed chair, enjoying the rare time on the computer.

But then a sudden shift in the atmosphere alerted me to the fact that something was happening. In spite of the earphones I was wearing, I sensed Dipavajan's sudden movement. It had an urgency to it that triggered something within me and made me hastily swivel around with my seat.

For a second, I simply took in the alarming scene before me: blood was pouring out of Dipavajan's gaping hole (called fistula) on the left side of his throat like never before and he was frantically groping for the round green plastic container on the floor, to keep the red liquid from spilling everywhere. Instead of trying to contain it by grabbing a paper towel and pressing it against the opening!

(To explain the word fistula, which is a cancer growth: we first discovered it, because liquid he tried to swallow would trickle or pour out of what basically looked like a big pimple. But over the months it developed into a hole about seven centimeters long and three centimeters wide (2.75" x 1"), which would frequently bleed.)

Highly alarmed, I was out of my seat and hurrying towards him the next moment. Supreme, please! No! He's already so thin! And he will lose even more weight when we have to go to the palliative station for another IV! How will he be able to survive?!

"Dipavajan! You have to press something against the fistula to stop the flow!" I shouted, growing increasingly worried about the amount of blood he was losing. And still he seemed more concerned with switching off the computer and keeping the carpet blood-free than to take care of his emergency.

During the few seconds it took me to round the big glass table, I watched in horror as his precious, life-carrying liquid poured into the container at an alarming rate.

Suddenly, the sound of a thunder boomed through the air, adding even more sense of drama to the whole situation.

Upon reaching Dipavajan, I hastily tore a piece of paper from one of the ever-available kitchen rolls and pressed it against the opening of the fistula with the hope of being able to stem the blood-flow.

It did help.

A bit.

Even though the paper got soaked through quickly and started staining my fingers red. But I didn't panic just yet, since we had been in situations like this before. And so far, we'd always managed to still the flow.