Firstly
"Is it possible to diagnose a condition without hospitalisation or intrusive tests?"
A brisk woman, as young or as old as Kerewin:
"In your case, not surely. I've made a tentative diagnosis, but without a biopsy or other explorative operation, I can not tell you definitely. The pain you describe, the weight loss and waning appetite, the site and form of the probable tumour, are all pointers, but there could be explanations other than carcinoma."
"Could similar symptoms be initiated by stress and mental discontent?"
The woman shrugs.
"I don't know. The way the human organism reacts to stress and anxiety is extremely variable."
"If I have stomach cancer, how long will it be before I die, given that I won't accept any form of treatment?"
"That is impossible to answer without knowledge of how far the disease has progressed. Even then, it is uncertain. You might live for a year and longer, or succumb within the month. It depends on many factors, not least your desire to live."
Kerewin smiles. The dark violet shadows under her eyes give a strange highlight to that smile.
"What is your objection to hospitalisation and treatment?" The doctor is curious but dispassionate.
"Primarily, that I forgo control over myself and my destiny. Secondly, medicine is in a queer state of ignorance. It knows a lot, enough to be aware that it is ignorant, but practitioners are loath to admit that ignorance to patients. And there is no holistic treatment. Doctor does not confer with religious who does not confer with dietician who does not confer with psychologist. And from what I can learn about cancer treatment, the attempted cure is often worse than the disease-'
"What you are saying basically is that you have no trust in doctors or current medicine."
"Right on."
Her cigar smoke makes a silent barrier between them.
The specialist says coolly,
"Well, all I can do in that case is refer you to my colleague with a recommendation that he gives you what you have asked for."
"Thank you. That is more than I hoped for."
Secondly
"All right, I give you this and you go away, but there's one thing," he holds up his hands, "doesn't it strike you as selfish? I mean, who cleans up the mess afterwards?"
Kerewin is silent a moment.
He goes on, almost eagerly,
"You must have relations who have some good feelings for you, even if they're presently estranged as you say."
"I don't give a damn for my relations. They feel, I assure you, the same way about me. As to cleaning up the mess — I've left a written explanation with my lawyer as to why I chose not to receive medical care. My legal and financial affairs are in perfect order. Granted, removing a mouldering corpse isn't pleasant, but there is every chance I won't be found until I'm a nice clean skeleton."
"What about dying by yourself?"
"What about it? Everyone does. The company you keep at death is, of all things, most dependent on chance. I am outside my faith with no need of its ministrations. And I function best by myself."
He sighs.
"Okay, blunt words don't affect you and you make your points coherently. Would you consider this? How about living with my wife and me instead of going away to god knows where? She is trained as a nurse, and we're both sympathetic to your point of view. We'd leave you alone until you wanted our help. I mean, you never really know how you're going to feel dying until it happens… you might want a hand to hold after all."
"Thanks but no thanks. It's very kind of you to offer but," she hesitates before saying it,
"I want to be alone."
He grins, "Okay. And you never signed this," holding out the slip for her to sign, "as far as the fuzz are concerned. It's just for my own files." He asks wistfully, "I don't suppose you'd be able to keep any kind of record as to how they help?"
"I'll do me everlivin' best… don't expect it to be too coherent, that's all. I'll leave any notes in an envelope for you."
He grimaces.
"Yes… if you change your mind, please let us know."
"Rightio," standing up, feeling nearly lighthearted now, "and as they say, hooray."
All that talk and time for this, a brown glass jar full of gelatinous capsules.
Extract of mushroom, potent hallucinogen, a painkiller of unknown strength.
Sweet weed, sweet wine, sweet taker-out of self, I have you all, she sang to herself.
And now, begin.
Thirdly
She left a lot of her gear in a commercial holding place, with sealed instructions to be opened a year from now if she didn't come back for them.
Into the aluminium-framed silk pack she gathers the basics for a tilt against oncoming death.
The three books. Simon's rosary. The Ibanez in its travelling case, with a spare set of silver strings. The hallucinogen. The month's supply of smoke. A quart of whisky for a kickoff.
Painkillers of the orthodox kind, antihistamine, Vitamin E and C and Laetrile in 1000 mg tablets.
A spare pair of jeans, another silk shirt, change of socks, underpants, leather gloves. Anorak. Very light very warm waterproof down sleepingbag.
A billy and two messtins. Firelighters and small compact set of cooking instruments.
A packet of coffee and a container of salt and some cooking oil.
The heaviest item is a drawing board with extendable legs. The Pocket at the back of it contains paper and brushes and felt-tips, and two blocks of ink.
If and when I find a place to die in, I'll stock it.
Meantime, I roam again. Hai, Te Kaihau.
The pain is always present now.
Fourthly
An odd little set of thesaurisms kept running versewise through her head:
geegaw knicknack kicksure bricabrac
That's all the whole thing matters eh, as this snowflake world splinters and glistens. Gimcrack trumpery in gold and azure and scarlet and a glory silver… becasually nerthing is-
Stink of last night's drink thick in her nostrils. Raw throated, and febrile clots of words still hanging everywhere… how did it go?
Little febrile clots of words
that choir in earfuls
humping off the page
I declaimed to the sea awash in rainbows-
The earth is wet, rained on, and the coffin smell trails out from roots and leaves.
"This," says Kerewin in a soft slurred voice, "s'll never do. Kidneys aching from the perversity of hard drinking and lying anywhere along the sandhills. And while for a sweet night me mushroom potion supplies peace, the unreeling mind ain't worth it."
She stood herself up and groaned.
It is a lonely stretch of beach. No eyes for miles. No people.
"I'm grateful, herr Gott, grateful."
She shrugged the twisted sleeping bag off her. It seemed a waste of time and effort to recall her wandering thought, and wash herself, and see about something to eat and drink, and excrete the last day's food.
She sat crosslegged awhile, hating the hard pressing growth in her suppliant stomach. In a little time, the day became a day. She washed in a rivulet, gasing at the chill of the water. Her breasts hang; her belly has developed new folds, and a horrid off centre prominence. The trickle of water lipped it, as though reluctant to come closer. The fat cover she had sneered at, that lapped her body in protective covering, had vanished. The muscles of her arms were grotesquely exposed, while thighs and buttocks had thinned beyond recognition. As she contemplated the ruin of her body, she experienced an odd urging of protectiveness, a desire to renew it. There is only one of thee, and now nearly none-
Sombrely, she drank a cup of coffee. The sullen smoke of her cooking fire trailed off to one side. Clasping the cup, still filled with this new feeling of pity for her body, she scans her hands.
For some time, they had been infected. When journeying through a town she hid them in gloves. Since it was the tail-end of winter, no-one commented.