Surgery.

I have had the worst moment of my life.

At four o’clock this afternoon we took the elevator from ward 323 to the sixth floor. That’s where the surgical ward is located. Abbe was in my arms when the anaesthetics nurse connected the soporific to the needle in his scalp and slowly I felt him getting limp and heavy. I carefully put him back into the big crib, we kissed his forehead and said goodbye. Then my little being was wheeled, sleeping, through the doors marked ”surgery” and I died.

I don’t recall ever being so tired. Had I been awake for three subsequent days and nights and ran the New York marathon a couple of times in a row I would have been left with more energy than at that point. It was as if someone had punctured all my energy supplies in one blow. And all the spare ones. When the doors of the elevator closed, we fell into each other’s arms and cried.

Loudly, desperate and catharsic.