THE END OF HOPE

The End of Hope 

by Richard Banks

Carla stared intently at the two young housemen preparing to give Geoff another injection. She could see in their faces that something was wrong.

         “I can’t raise a vein,” the younger one whispered. The other man took over, rubbing and prodding Geoff’s arm, tensely aware that his patient was shaking with pain. Geoff regarded the housemen with suspicion bordering on hostility. His comprehension was clouded by drugs and lack of sleep. He knew not what they were doing, he only wanted them to stop. “Leave me!” he shouted. “I don’t want to go on like this. Let me die.”      

      She tried to find the words that would calm him, convince him that despite the months of pain there was still hope. Hang on there, she thought, but the expression sounded trite, like something out of a TV drama. This was real life and nothing she could say seemed adequate or useful. The younger houseman and a nurse held Geoff steady on the bed while the older man continued to search for a usable vein. There had been many injections, too many. He was quiet now, acquiescent, grimly aware that they weren’t going to stop, and that he couldn’t make them.

      “Got it.” The older houseman inserted the syringe and attempted to say something reassuring, something that suggested that this was mere routine, that he was calm, in control. A trickle of perspiration fell from his forehead onto the pillow below.

      Geoff groaned but began to breath more easily. For an hour, maybe two, he would be free of pain; a chance to sleep, to dream that he was somewhere else: at home, the office, anywhere but here. His eyes closed and he began to sleep. 

     The houseman signed for the morphine used and added a few more lines to the patient record. He glanced towards Carla, anxiously anticipating the questions she would ask, sharp, perceptive questions that cut through his equivocation, questions impatient of uncertainty and ambiguity. What would he say if she asked, as she did, about the odds, “50/50 doctor, more, or less?” 

     He was not a betting man, but he knew that the odds on Geoff surviving were considerably less than even. Despite the chemotherapy, the tumour was growing, out of control. Carla was silent, staring grim-faced at Geoff sleeping. Poor woman, he thought, she looks exhausted.

     “Have you any questions?” he heard himself asking. She seemed lost in thought. He asked the question again, half hoping that if she said nothing he would be able to leave the bad news to another day. He was about to go when Carla redirected her gaze towards him.

     “It’s not good, doctor, is it?”

     “No, Mrs Cole, I’m afraid it’s not.” He showed her the x-ray that had been taken that day. “There were,” he said, “certain negative developments.”

     She asked to see the x-ray taken the previous week and compared the two. “So, it’s less than 50/50 doctor?”

    The houseman hesitated. It was late in the evening. Everyone was tired. It wasn’t a good time, but there was never going to be a good time. He had to say something. “I’m afraid it’s less than 50/50.”

     “40/60?” she asked.

     He tried to explain, as gently as he could, that he was a doctor, not a bookmaker and that medicine was not an exact science.

      “Just tell me, doctor. I need to know.”  

      He took a deep breath and considered what he should say. He would need the right words, but he didn’t have them. Cut to the chase, he thought, she’s seen the x-rays. Cut to the chase. Tell her the cancer has spread, that there’s no hope of recovery.

      She took the news calmly, without obvious emotion. With every reverse, she had dared to keep hoping, finding positives in every negative development, but she wasn’t silly or blind; she knew the look of a dying man, she had seen it before. “How long?” she asked.

      “Difficult to say, It could be days, maybe weeks. We will keep him as pain free as we can. Otherwise, there is nothing more we can do. I’m sorry.”

      She said, “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure why she said thank you. Thank you for what? For trying? She couldn’t fault them for that.

     The houseman asked if she had any further questions. She said no, she just wanted some time alone with Geoff, the questions could wait until tomorrow.

     The housemen and the nurse withdrew. There was a whispered conversation outside the door of the small room. The nurse reappeared briefly to ask Carla if she wanted to see the hospital counsellor. She replied that she had seen him once and that once was enough. She preferred a cup of tea and would make it herself. The nurse rejoined the housemen in the corridor. A few moments later they could be heard departing for the staff room. A door opened and shut, and there was silence.         

      Carla closed her eyes and tried to clear her head of all the redundant arguments she had previously considered and dismissed. This was not a time for thinking. She had done that, so had Geoff. All that remained was for her to do what they had agreed; this was no time for tears and strong emotions, she must be strong. For the next few minutes, she must think only of the plan. First, she must secure the door with the chair she was sitting on. She carried it across the floor and carefully wedged it between floor and door handle. That done, she drew the curtain over the adjacent window, re-crossed the room towards her handbag and took out Geoff’s revolver. She remembered his instructions, take off the safety catch, use both hands, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it, fire at point-blank range. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and then with a groan lowered the gun to her side. She must be mad, she thought. Either that or stupid. What was the use of a gun without bullets?

      She reached for her bag and extracted the box within. She inserted the first bullet, dropped the next and watched it roll off the bed onto the floor. Her hands were trembling now. Outside, in the corridor, she could hear a trolley being wheeled along. As it passed, she pushed a second bullet into the gun and then another. Three more and it was done. She told herself to be calm, that it would soon be over. She pushed the muzzle gently against his head, whispered she loved him and squeezed the trigger. Two doors down the corridor the nurse screamed and a male voice shouted an obscenity. In a few seconds, they would be at the door. Her only regret was for them, for what they would find. For her, the worst was over. She levelled the gun against her own head, knowing that she must not miss, that she could not miss.

Copyright Richard Banks