Translated material
“I am dying. Sorry"
One day in the life of the correspondent of "such cases"
I flew to Samara to meet with the patients of the hospice. These are two women, one of them is called the same way as me. I call Eugene to agree on time. The voice in the tube is quiet, and it is felt that she hardly pronounces words. “Zhenya, I probably can’t meet you. I got worse. I am very bad. I feel that ... you understand the end. I'm dying. "
What can I say to the person who dies right now in my telephone tube? I say that I am very sorry. And what I hope she will be better. And that I understand everything. And something else stupid, because in such a situation all words are stupid. She asks to call tomorrow night, suddenly it will become better? I promise.
“I am dying. I'm dying. " These words are spinning in my head all day. Eugenia and I met a month ago in the Samara Hospice. She was thin and weak, in a burgundy robe, with barely warm thin beautiful hands. I stung her fragile hand, she stung mine in response. She smiled all the time, told how she likes in the hospice, how she is infinitely grateful to those people who help her here. And she said that her elderly patient and her daughter constantly laugh at her wall. And she listens to them - and laughs too. I really wanted Eugene to become the heroine of my text. I was warned that she had little time, that I should have time. And I tried to manage, I flew in a month - and, it seems, I was still late.
The next morning I call the door of the apartment of another woman, she has the same middle name as mine. Nina Leonidovna, opening the door for me, hastily runs away to change her to the cabinet - she wants to go out to my dress. And with a hairstyle - in a hurry, she combs her hair upstairs.
Nina Leonidovna 67, her son died of cancer a year ago, and her husband, with whom they are together 50 years old, is dying of cancer right now. The life of Nina Leonidovna is one continuous grief, and all her thoughts are only about how unfair, that the son left, and how painfully her husband leaves. She says, says, says - only about them, not a word about herself. And I ask: "Nina Leonidovna, how do you feel?" She raises her eyes - tired and empty. He is silent for a long time, as if he is listening to himself. And then he says:
It turns to the window and looks like tears. I understand that I picked it where it is not necessary. I reassure it, we watch family albums. At my request, Nina Leonidovna recalls an acquaintance with her husband, the first kiss that she wrote to him while she was waiting from the army. She smiles and as if forgets for a while about reality.
I am going in a taxi, and in front of me is her face with these unbearable eyes. And the words: "I do not feel." Shaking my head, as if it could help them disappear. It does not help.
In the evening I call Eugenia. I'm very afraid that she will not answer. But she replies: “Zhenya, I'm still here. But I'm not better, I'm worse. I can’t even open the door to you in the morning, I just won’t crawl. Excuse me, I really wanted to talk to you. But I ... I'm already all ... on the finish line. Thank you for what you do for what you write and help people. This ... it is very, very important. All the best to you. " In the beeps in the tube. I will never hear her voice again.
After a conversation with Eugenia, I come to my senses for a long time. I understand that it happens that people are dying, that I can’t do anything about it. And two hours later Nina Leonidovna suddenly calls me.
-Eugene, sorry ... Have you ever painted you?
-Uh ... it seems not.
“You have such a face ... It is before my eyes all day.” It is ... there are very few of them. Can I try to draw you?
A lump approaches the throat. I swallow it and say: "Of course, if you want ... I do not mind." She is silent, and then says again:
- You left today, and I cry all day ...
- Excuse me, I upset you, probably my questions?
- No no. I better, I feel good. Thank you for arriving, for talking to me. You know, I had the only son. And now he is gone.
I can't live without him, I don’t know how to live without him ... Can I, sometimes I will write to you in Weiber? And come to our Kagor and fried potatoes? My husband has fired today! Come!
I can’t come to her - after half an hour I have an appointment with a doctor. And I should not allow her to write to me in Weiber, because many, many of my heroes write to me, cry, complain and share, erasing my personal boundaries. I am always afraid to offend them in silence and go crazy about it. But how can I say Nina Leonidovna? I promise that I will certainly come to visit when I will be in Samara the next time. We put the tubes, and I understand that I can’t no longer. I dial my editor Natasha Morozov and roar in the phone. I cannot really explain to her what I am crying. But Natasha understands everything and knows what to tell me. Natasha I have not only the editor, she is involuntarily and a psychotherapist.
I am already sitting on an airplane from Samara when a call is heard from an unfamiliar number. “Eugene, I read, you help everyone! My name is Maryvanna, can you help me on this issue? They gave me the earth, as if I have it. But I do not have this land. And I have been fighting for two years, the tax awarded that I have it, but I don’t have it. I turned everywhere, wrote to the president, and nothing! I have a mountain of letters! We were exhausted with my husband already! Help!" I don’t understand how I can help her and, to be honest, I don’t understand the essence of the problem at once. But I promise to transfer the number to Samara journalists.
This is another side of the life of a social journalist - people call and write with any of their problems. But I cannot respond to everything, and even more so to solve many of them. Here another grandmother calls and complains: “My neighbor steals chickens. I can not find a council for him. The police do not help. Well, write about him! " I listen to her and think: "They probably play me." And then I think that it is unlikely that a draw, just a person was brought by stolen chickens and a conflict with a neighbor - all this is important to her. But what can I? Just advise contact the police again. And I advise, feeling very strange: she did not help, but she hoped at me.
A year and a half ago, I stopped sleeping. At all. A doctor who recently could finally choose me from insomnia and a nervous disorder, explained that the whole thing is in my work. I accept everything too close to my heart, but it would not be necessary. But teach me differently! "Eugene, did you think about changing the work?" - the therapist asks me. I understand everything, but I do not want to change, I love her, I chose it myself. Today I will tell the story of Nina Leonidovna, and tomorrow we will collect money to help the Samara hospice. So it works - we talk about how a variety of organizations help people in the regions, and you sacrifice funds to their work. And with your money, the Samara hospice relieves Eugene’s pain and extends the life of Nina Leonidovna's husband. And when Eugene whispers thanks to my phone and thanks the Samara hospice, I feel involved and useful. And this feeling blocks everything. Someone should write about all this? Why not me?
To the work of “such cases”, we also collect money for my work and the work of our other journalists. We, like the Samara Hospice, like many other organizations, live on donations. I will share a sad fact:
The monthly donations in favor of “such cases” are signed weakly, although they read us wellAnd they sacrifice money well with the topics we are talking about. Sometimes, when we are announced on the glider, how much we gathered to the work of the portal this time, it is insulting to tears. At the same time, ticket prices and hotels are rising, business trips are getting more expensive, like life around. Already now, we can hardly fly to the distant regions, and many of the necessary business trips are cut off because there is no way. And there, in conditional Siberia, there are also those who need help. And we could help, and will definitely break out someday, but not now. I don't know what we are doing wrong. Why doesn’t we manage to convey the idea that the stories of people who cause compassion and desire to help are written by us, living people. And we also need help, we need resources to tell them and not go crazy. In general, if very frankly, then sorry. And again, I don’t know, for again, I ask you to subscribe to a monthly donation in favor of the “such things” portal.