First assessment after 6 weeks of treatment
Up at 6:30 a.m., cancer or not, it's tough. Hassan shows up an hour later, punctual and in a good mood. Today is a big strike day, and the traffic is heavy on the N20. In the cab, I think about my mother, who was born on March 23 and died far too young from breast cancer that had spread. I often regret not visiting her more often during the last years of her life. You think you have time, it'll be fine to go next week, you put it off because it's not a big deal, you know you love each other and that when you see each other, you'll feel it deeply, whether you chat about nothing in particular, whether times are tough or life is good, you love each other and that won't change. But then one day, there's no more time to put off the next visit because things are happening fast, and now the visits are at the hospital. And then one morning, you find out there won't be any more visits... I'm thinking about all this as we reach Paris, especially since, to avoid the Porte d'Orléans, Hassan took avenue Reille, which links Parc Montsouris, close to where all the members of the family lived at one time or another, to Place Denfert-Rochereau. Our mother passed away in 2004, almost twenty years ago, my goodness, twenty years!
Back in the present, Hassan had planned everything perfectly, and we get into Cochin only ten minutes late. The "day hospital" (hospitalisation only for the day, you're not sleeping there), or HDJI am not familiar with the process, as this is my first time. Rachida, my “control tower,” is already at her desk. Being the big baby that I am, I let her tell me where to go. It is very comforting to be able to trust her completely, even for the small details. So how does it work? Basically, a doctor (a female doctor in this case) sees you and directs you to the various tests you need to do during the day. On March 23, it's a bit chaotic because there's only one doctor on duty, the other one being late due to the strike.
We talk, blood is taken, prescriptions are given, and I leave for a CT scan and an MRI control room in the basement of Achard. If things go quickly, I'll try to go upstairs and check on M.
Nothing new with the scan: warmth in my throat and lower abdomen when the iodine was injected, then, “Fill your lungs, stop breathing; you can breathe.” We do this two or three times, everyone is very considerate, I feel fine. I move on to the MRI, right next door. The equipment at Cochin is more modern than at Ste Anne, no contest. One of the nurses hands me a pair of earplugs, someone props my head up, and they place a kind of plastic mask over my face, Hannibal Lecter style, which makes me laugh like an idiot. The final touch is that they've even provided a mirror: you're lying down, but you can see your stomach and legs, as well as part of the room and the glass behind which everyone is standing. The game is to not move at all, a bit like in a child's game of freeze tag. If the machine didn't make so much noise, I'd almost fall asleep. I get out, it's nearly noon, no time to go up and see M, I have to go back to Cornil-Brissaud to see the doctor for... lunch? Oh, right, okay.
It's a bit of a strange moment: you're in a room with two other patients who are also eating, and you've got a mashed potato omelet for your main course. Who on earth came up with that combination? It's edible, though... Once again, I notice that there's a certain kindness tinged with discretion among the patients. We all know that we're not here for fun and we don't necessarily want to talk about it, so everyone stays in his own bubble without it being awkward because we know that if one of us needs information or help opening a yogurt or a cheese package, all he has to do is ask, and no one will turn him down, just the opposite.
After lunch, back to my room, another round of doctors and nurses, and some good news: everything has shrunk by about half, except for the spots on my bones, which haven't changed. Not bad. To be honest, I'm less impressed by the results than the doctors themselves, but I'm relieved that I went with the right choices.
Mr. Stainless Steel
On my way out, I call Hassan. He's in the northern suburbs and tells me he won't be able to get there for another hour. It's a good opportunity to go back to Achard, this time to the sixth floor, to check on M. I arrive in the internal medicine ward and can't believe my eyes: the door is open and, on the same bed, in the exact same room, I see his legs sticking out from under the curtain. He's still there and recognizes me immediately. I'm happy to see him again, just as I left him more than a month and a half ago. He no longer needs a walker, even though he still has trouble walking without it. He explains it to me like this: “You see, yesterday I felt confident up to that point (he points to the nearby bed where I used to be), but sometimes I feel confident as far as the room across the hall.” That's how he measures his fitness, by the confidence he has in his ability to reach a certain point. I think he'll always amaze me. He's tenacious and determined. As he says, he has no choice: it's that or die. I realize that I really care about him. He's a terribly endearing person. I realize how much he made my first stay easy, fun, and interesting despite the mess we were both in. I tell him how much I enjoyed his company during that time. He replies, “Me too, same here.” I leave him after a little over half an hour, promise to come back and see him. I just hope I'll be able to.
I join Hassan, who is waiting for me at the taxi rank. On the way home, we talk about soccer, M'Bappé as team captain, Morocco's team during the World Cup, France, which should be more flamboyant with the players we have, etc. Deschamps, Zidane, Real Madrid, his favorite club. The news being good, the atmosphere is light.
