Korridorium

♫ Mjúk viðkoma ♫

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I enter the cor­ri­dor, this one I’ve walked down so many times in recent weeks. Behind that white door over there, you lie, with a machine aid­ing your breath­ing. Sud­den brain hem­or­rhages sent you into a coma within hours, and the doc­tors say too much dam­age has been done to your brain to hope that one day you’ll wake up and be the same again.

I hold your hand. The heart-lung machine’s bub­bling and hiss­ing have become oddly calm­ing and meditative—but only since I let go of my protest against all of this, my anger, my bewil­der­ment, my despair, and my hope for a mir­a­cle.

When we’re alone, I qui­etly rem­i­nisce about our shared expe­ri­ences, the trips we took, the movies we saw, par­ties, sem­i­nars, and meet­ings with friends—or just lit­tle quirky every­day anec­dotes that come to mind. Some­times, I also play your favorite music on the small cas­sette recorder.

Peo­ple suf­fer and die all over the world—constantly. Why does it hurt me so much to see you lying here while I’m indif­fer­ent to every­one else? Almost inaudi­bly, I ask you the ques­tion, imag­in­ing you could speak to me, and you say: I’m not suf­fer­ing – you are.

And then, for a few moments, a few heart-lung machine breaths, it’s as if you’re hold­ing my hand and offer­ing me com­fort, courage, and hope through your silent pres­ence.

Today, they’re turn­ing off the machines, and you’ll be trans­ferred to a hos­pice. I’ve cho­sen a small, cozy room for you: through the win­dow, you can see trees, and you can hear the birds sing, even though it’s in the mid­dle of the city.

You’re going to like it.

And if you no longer want to stay, you can leave. I still hold your hand, but I’m no longer keep­ing you here.