‘Please, Georgy,’ she said, after several silent minutes had passed. ‘Please, just this.’
‘You’re sure that you’re strong enough?’
‘I am now,’ she said. ‘In a few months’ time, who knows? But now, yes.’
I nodded. ‘Then we will go,’ I told her.
There was a range of signs to predict Zoya’s illness which, taken together, should have been warning enough to me that she was not well, but separated by several months as they were, and appearing alongside the typical aches and pains of old age, it was difficult to recognize the connections between the symptoms. Added to this was the fact that my wife kept the details of her suffering private for as long as possible. Whether she did this because she didn’t want me to know of the agony she was enduring or because of a reluctance on her part to seek treatment to alleviate it is a question I have never asked her, for fear of being wounded by the answer.
I did notice, however, that she was more tired than usual and would sit by the fire in the evenings with a look of sheer exhaustion on her face, her breathing a little more laboured, her countenance a little more pale. When I asked her about this fatigue, she shrugged it off and said it was nothing, that she simply needed to get a better night’s sleep, that was all, and that I shouldn’t worry about her so much. But then her back began to trouble her too and I could see her wincing in pain as she put a hand to an area at the base of her spine, holding it there for a moment until the agony passed, her expression contorted with distress.
‘You need to see a doctor,’ I told her when the pain seemed to be lasting for longer than she could possibly cope with. ‘Maybe you’ve pulled a disc and it needs to be rested. He could give you an anti-inflammatory or—’
‘Or maybe I’m just getting old,’ she said, making a determined effort not to raise her voice. ‘I’ll be fine, Georgy. Don’t fuss.’
Within a few weeks, the pain had begun to spread towards her abdomen and I noticed a distinct lack of appetite as she sat at the table, pushing her food around the plate with her fork, taking only small morsels into her mouth and chewing on them carelessly before pushing the dish away and claiming that she wasn’t hungry.
‘I had a big lunch,’ she said to me, and fool that I was I allowed myself to believe her. ‘I shouldn’t eat so much in the middle of the day.’
However, when these symptoms continued for several months, and she had started not only to lose weight but to be unable to sleep with the agony of her condition, I finally persuaded her to visit our local GP. She returned to say that he was running some tests on her, and two weeks later my worst fears were confirmed when she was referred to a specialist, Dr Joan Crawford, who has been a part of our lives ever since.
It seems a curious thing to me that I took the news of Zoya’s illness worse than she did. God forgive me, but she seemed relieved, almost happy, when the results came through, imparting them to me with consideration for my feelings but without any fear or devastation for her own condition. She didn’t cry, although I did. She didn’t seem angry or frightened, both of which emotions poured over me throughout the days that followed. It was as if she had received… not good news exactly, but a piece of interesting information with which she was not entirely dissatisfied.
A week later, we sat waiting for Dr Crawford in her office. Zoya appeared perfectly at ease but I was restless in my chair, fidgeting nervously as I stared at the framed certificates that hung on the walls, convincing myself that someone who had been trained in this disease and had received so many qualifications from famous universities would surely be able to find a way to combat it.
‘Mr and Mrs Jachmenev,’ said Dr Crawford when she arrived, late but brisk, her manner entirely businesslike. Although she was not unsympathetic towards us, I felt immediately that she lacked a degree of compassion, which Zoya put down to the fact that she was dealing with patients suffering the same illness every day and it was difficult to view every case as tragically as the relatives of its victims would. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. As you can imagine, it gets busier and busier here every day.’
I wasn’t entirely reassured to hear that, but said nothing as she studied the dossier which lay on the desk before her, holding an X-ray up to the light at one point, but betraying nothing in her expression as she examined it. Finally, she closed the folder, placed her hands on top of it and looked at the two of us, her lips pursed in what was an approximation, I thought, of a smile.
‘Jachmenev,’ she said. ‘That’s an unusual name.’
‘It’s Russian,’ I said quickly, not wishing to entertain any small talk. ‘Doctor, you’ve examined my wife’s file?’
‘Yes, and I had a conversation with your GP, Dr Cross, earlier this morning. He’s spoken with you, Mrs Jachmenev, about your condition?’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘Cancer, I was told.’
‘More specifically, ovarian cancer,’ replied Dr Crawford, using both hands to smooth out the papers before her, a habit which for some reason put me in mind of bad actors who never know what to do with their hands on stage; perhaps this was my way of not entering the conversation entirely. ‘You’ve been suffering for some time, I expect?’
‘There were symptoms, yes,’ replied Zoya cautiously, her tone suggesting that she did not want to be chastised for her tardiness in reporting them. ‘Some back pain, fatigue, a little nausea, but I didn’t think anything of it. I’m seventy-eight, Dr Crawford. For ten years now I’ve woken every day with a different complaint.’
The doctor smiled and nodded, hesitating for a moment before speaking in a more gentle tone. ‘This is not uncommon, of course, in women of your age. Older women are more at risk of ovarian cancer, although typically they will develop it between their mid-fifties and mid-seventies. Yours is a rare, late-in-life case.’
‘I’ve always tried to be exceptional,’ said Zoya with a smile. Dr Crawford smiled in return and the two women stared at each other for a few moments, as if they each understood something about the other one of which I was necessarily ignorant. There were only three of us in the room, but I felt terribly excluded from their company.
‘Can I ask, do you have any history of cancer in your family?’ asked Dr Crawford after a few moments.
‘No,’ said Zoya. ‘I mean yes, you can ask. But no, there is none.’
‘And your mother? She died of natural causes?’
Zoya hesitated for only a moment before answering. ‘My mother did not have cancer,’ she said.
‘Your grandmothers? Any sisters or aunts?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘And your own medical history – have you suffered from any major traumas during your life?’
There was a moment of vacillation on her part and then Zoya suddenly burst out laughing at the doctor’s question and I turned to look at her in surprise. Seeing the look of hilarity on her face, the fact that she was doing all that she could to stop herself from shaking with a mixture of amusement and grief, I didn’t know whether to join her in her laughter or bury my face in my hands. I wanted to be elsewhere, suddenly. I wanted none of this to be happening. It had been the most unfortunate choice of words, that was for sure, but Dr Crawford simply stared at her as she laughed without any comment; I suspected that she witnessed any number of bizarre reactions during conversations such as this one.
‘I have suffered no medical traumas,’ said Zoya finally, composing herself and stressing the penultimate word in her sentence. ‘I have not had an easy life, Dr Crawford, but I have been in good health throughout it.’