The Boat
©copyright 2009 Frans Bezuidenhout
| “Seven bleeding ulcers”, I heard her say while hurrying from one building to my next lecture. Why mentioned seven, and not just say, bleeding ulcers, I mused walking into the lecture hall. She did not respond to my invitation two weeks later, but there was a slight colouring of her cheeks, where she sat in the middle of the venue. Surrounded by other students she seemed lonely. Distracted, I turned from my PC to find her standing at my door. She slowly walked to the chair and sat down, anxiously rearranging her dress. Waiting, her silence added to my rising frustration. Neither mentioning her name or reason why she had come, she stood made her way to the door. Calling after her, I invited her to come again. Arriving unexpectedly that morning, she blurted, “They do not believe me.” Uncertain, I walked to the window, where I noticed a solitary vessel battling waves on uneasy sea. White streaks rushed from its bow, crashing over rocks. Turning towards her, where she sat, I described the scene— not knowing what else to say. “That’s so much like me; only, I do not want to live any longer.” Bewildered, I kept silent, not able to think of anything encouraging, while realising: theory is one thing, reality another. She silently left. Three days later, sensing that she was ready to talk, I closed the door as she sat down. “I do not want to live any longer,” speaking in a hushed voice— this time I was ready. During the next three weeks I listened, never once interrupting— for her, this was a lesson in trust; for me— an opportunity to listen without offering solutions. She struggled through pain, hurt and longing to be believed and understood. Strong winds blew salt into my office. I walked over to the window to shut it, noticing the boat battle huge waves towards the harbour. She must have been sitting there for some time when my thoughts were interrupted by her plea: “I want to live, help me.” Over the next days we spent hours together— long enough for her heart to grow lighter. Then, one day, waving good-bye, she casually mentioned: “I have decided not to continue my studies.” The phone rang, irritated I barked, “Yes.” “I thought I’ll let you know they have diagnosed rare cancer ... they give me one year." Noticing the boat make its way into rough sea, I heard her say: “I thought you’d like to know.” Keeping an eye on the boat dipping and rolling through each heavy swell, where shoreline frothed and foamed as waves beat rocks relentlessly, I blurted: “Do you want to live or die?” “Live. Live … until I die ... you showed me how,” she said softly.
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