Yvonne
We all know death; it happens all the time and everywhere around the world; every second somebody somewhere is dying. We are surrounding by death and we think we know death, but we do not really know it, and humanity will never come to know it, whatsoever. Regardless of what religion or science says, death will always remain a mystery. And if one does not experience the death of a loved one, death for such a person remains an abstraction; it exists and exists not. Everybody, of course, is bound to die, and we all go through such experiences as losing loved ones, but how we are affected is individual to individual.
A Traumatic Experience
I recently said goodbye to the woman I loved—almost my partner for the past four to five years—and her death has been my most traumatic experience so far. I lost my parents some years ago, but I wasn’t as affected then as I am after the death of the English woman—as Yvonne was known to the people of the small Bulgarian town—whose death I still can’t get over.
Poor Yvonne! She literally died in my arms. Never before had I witnessed someone dying. It’s one thing to see a dead person in a coffin and altogether different to see a person dying, and dying in pain. I actually saw how death came to her. Not all at once, but slowly.
For two months, Yvonne was confined to bed, though the pain was bearable. She could not walk, she had no strength. She died of cirrhosis and moreover, three years ago she had a breast cancer operation too, so it was likely that the cancer had also affected her liver.
After she was discharged from the hospital for the second time, I had to drain ascetic fluid from her belly through a small plastic tube. The attending physician at the hospital left it for this purpose. Every two days, I had to do it for one month—as long as she lived, actually.
Three days before the end, her pain got worse and became severe; and no morphine could be provided, unfortunately. Ordinary painkillers couldn’t do much, so she had to suffer a lot.
“George, help me die, please! …Please!” she would beg me, trying to squeeze my fingers with her weakened hand.
Poor Yvonne
What could be more awful than this? Poor Yvonne! She must have been in great pain.
All this time I was by her side, day and night, so I could hold her head when she had to vomit—she was vomiting her liver. Early in the morning she vomited again, blood, and fell into a coma. The same day in the afternoon at about 4 p.m., she died.
While she was in a coma, I was praying she would not wake up. All I wanted was for her to pass away with less suffering.
Just before dying, her breathing became very, very heavy and deep, causing her to tilt her head back.
I was aware that at any moment she would be gone, so I would not leave her even for a second.
And soon after, her heavy breaths slowed down, and her right shoulder, arm, and hand started shaking noticeably.
“Oh, God, she was dying! She was taking her last breaths—her life was slipping away. I was holding her head, caressing her face, weeping.”
She stopped moving; she was breathing no more.
Suffering No More
Poor Yvonne! Finally, her suffering had ended. Her lifeless face showed the great suffering she had gone through. Her lips, with a trace of blood, were tightly closed.
For some time, I remained motionless beside her dead body, caressing her. Tears kept streaming down my face. Then everything became silent, quiet.
Her two big dogs, which did not separate from her while she was lying sick – as if they felt her end – I took out afterward. Some of her beloved cats I had already taken out.
There was nobody in the house. Yvonne was lying on the sofa as if she were sleeping. I was shattered and simultaneously relieved now that she wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.
Poor woman! She passed away in a foreign country – painfully, embittered and disappointed.
Of course, she did not think that she was going to die in this country; she wanted so much to die in England, but it all happened so quickly, unexpectedly.
Such is Life
But such is life; no one knows when or where death will overtake them. Sometimes I think she must have come here to this country just to die, to die in my arms. Destiny! Life is a mystery, and so is death as well.
Over a month has now gone by since Yvonne’s death, but I am still finding it hard to recover. I cannot forget the way she died. Her death shattered my soul to the very bottom. I know,
little by little all this will pass away—as they say, time heals—and only the beautiful memory of Yvonne will remain.
People, in general, are not just good or bad; they are both. And Yvonne, of course, wasn’t an exception. And if I have to be honest, she was a very difficult person; living together with her was almost impossible.
At least she was honest (she hated hypocrisy), and she was aware that her straightforwardness sometimes could be mistaken for rudeness. “But I am as I am,” she would say.
But of all her flaws and virtues, she had one quality that stood out, and that was her big heart for animals.
She was a big animal lover. It could be said that she died surrounded by her cats and dogs. To the very last, on her deathbed, she would say to me : “Let them come to me, George.” Her cats and dogs were her world. She lived for them.
Yvonne: I Do What I Want
Oh, her neighbours were outraged that she gathered and fed stray cats, but she didn’t care.
“Nobody can dictate to me, George,”, she would say. “In my yard I do what I want.”
I remember, at Easter and Christmas – as the tradition in this country is to slaughter lambs and pigs, especially in the villages and small towns – she would entrench herself in the living room and turn the TV volume up high or listen to her favourite music, just so she wouldn’t hear the screams of the animals being sacrificed by her neighbours in the name of tradition.
“Excuse me, George, but I cannot tolerate such barbarity,” she would say. And she would add: “If I were a writer and were to write a book – but I’m not – I would title the book The Cry of the Country’s Animals.”
Yes, she was direct; she called things by their real names when she didn’t like something. I think few people would have the courage to stand up for themselves as she did.
Now, alone in her house with her fourteen cats and two dogs, I can still feel her presence. It’s as if everything is the same, and yet not the same. Yvonne is no more; her animals, for which I feel so sorry, have remained orphans. It’s very sad, really.
In these hot August days, after I feed the animals in the evening, I like to sit on the porch and relax. The sun is setting in a slow, lazy way. I usually watch the cats playing in the garden – Yvonne’s house with its big yard is a paradise for them. Oh, I feel so good. And I suspect this must be happiness. Yes, small, insignificant things, but I feel such a sense of well-being.
Love is Powerful
Now I think I understand Yvonne’s attachment to her animals. Yvonne’s deep affection for them surely brought a kind of communion into their relationship. Love is powerful, and nothing can stand against it.
It must be so.
Who would have thought that at sixty-five years old I would be in love? But that only confirms the saying that love knows no age.
Darkness will be descending soon and the stars, one after another, will appear in the sky. It is silent and quiet in the garden. Oh, gardening was Yvonne’s relaxation; it was like a meditation for her. She was just crazy about flowers.
The dogs are at my feet, watching the cats play in the garden too. Maybe Yvonne’s spirit is also somewhere around, or maybe she is watching us from heaven. Who knows?
Certainly, Yvonne wouldn’t want me to mourn her death, but to celebrate—I know this for sure—and to take care of her furry friends.
And soon, the songs of Shirley Bassey, one of her favourite singers, echoed loudly all around in the twilight, just as she loved to hear them.
Rest in peace, my dear Yvonne!
(c) George I. Vasilev
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