We all know that someday it will inevitably happen. But each person is convinced that today, it won’t happen to them. For me, that hour will come someday, but not now, later. In the future. A future so distant that it’s hard to imagine.
But that moment comes. Always unexpectedly. Even when you know it. Like the chime of an old clock. There it is, the time comes to hear the strikes of its iron parts, the hidden hammer hitting the anvil. And still, you involuntarily flinch—from the surprise.
It happened. And nothing can be changed. No, not a clock, a bell. Its strikes seemed to pierce through Olga Andreevna, echoing in her head, her heart, throughout her entire body. It seems the bell’s clapper hung on her, bringing a sense of unbearable heaviness to her body. And yet, just yesterday, everything was different…
The Last Corporate Event
The day started in a special way. Everyone had been preparing for it for almost a month, ever since the date was announced. Olga Andreevna knew she looked good, simply stunning that evening.
She noticed the admiring and envious glances of the young women from the secretariat as they watched her. It was worth it. And those words from Oksana, who was always the boldest and most daring:
“Olga Andreevna, what a beautiful dress you have.”
Indeed, Olga Andreevna was appearing before her colleagues for almost the first time not in a business suit, a strict skirt, and a jacket. That evening, she was wearing an evening gown.
It was amazing. Absolutely not vulgar, but at the same time sexy and accentuating her figure. Black, with a deep neckline at the back. The optimal length, allowing for imagination but not revealing anything excessive. Just what a real woman needs. She felt young and attractive in it, and at the same time, moderately strict, intelligent and sensible, restrained and alluring.
Her friend Natasha said she looked great but it must have been expensive. Quite a bit. But what if someone proposes, Olga joked. The second time, white isn’t necessary, it might come in handy…
Even her child, her four-year-old Andryusha, named after her father while he was still alive, wasn’t upset that mom was leaving, leaving him for the whole evening with Aunt Natasha. He looked at Olga Andreevna with all his impressionable child’s eyes and just said, not yet pronouncing all the letters correctly, how mom was… different today!
Men, of course, noticed less. Yes, perhaps one of her bosses was right when he remarked in the smoking room during a fairly frank conversation after someone’s birthday that women dress for women, for men they undress. Some laughed, others grimaced, but there was some truth in his words.
But Olga Andreevna still noticed, as any woman would: she somehow inexplicably attracted the glances of men.
And she didn’t feel very well that evening. It seemed she had a slight fever. Which gave a certain sparkle to her eyes. A mystery. Who knew she was unwell, it was more likely perceived as a certain coquetry and playfulness. The rest was filled in by imagination.
As is customary, the corporate event began with the official part. Valery Sergeyevich, the head of the organization, gave a short speech. There wasn’t much to boast about this year. After praising the team and their achievements, he still had to say that tough times awaited, and not everyone would stay with them. That we needed to work even better and much more. And it was good that we had survived at all until now.
Not a word about bonuses, which no one expected anymore, but hope dies last. Yes, the old-timers said there were times when the celebration would come alive after words about additional payments. But that happened many, many years ago, the crisis dragged on.
It was surprising that the corporate event happened at all. The management still loved to show off—to others and to themselves. Yes, inviting a few partners and putting on a show, scattering in front of people—pearl necklaces, sometimes made of cheap plastic. What’s there to say, there really wasn’t much to boast about. As the chief accountant, Olga Andreevna knew this better than anyone.
And if you’re going to throw a party, it’s better to at least hand out some bonuses. She, raising a child alone, would have found something to spend that bonus on…
After the speeches, the toasts began. The palm of leadership smoothly passed from the management to the hired host. Gradually, the music, which was in good taste, changed to the usual Russian tunes. And if it didn’t come to “Vladimirsky Central,” then such well-known songs as “Night Butterfly, Who’s to Blame” most likely by mistake of the DJ, and “Accountant, My Dear Accountant” were still played. And Stas Mikhailov, the favorite of all women starting from a certain age, was not left without attention either.
It was getting hotter. Lenka and Oksanka seemed ready to dance on the table, but the presence of the management still held them back. At the boss’s table, lively debates were going on, either still about business or already about politics.
And only Olga Andreevna felt a little cold. Some chills didn’t let her relax and talk more openly than usual with her colleagues about their own, girly things. And she was also trying not to rush things and was stretching her glass of Spanish wine. A tough day awaited her tomorrow. Finally, she would get to the doctor. The boss had promised a day off for those who needed it, and Olga Andreevna had scheduled an appointment in advance, not just anyhow, but through some acquaintances of acquaintances.
The evening ended. The taxi took her home. Everything went wonderfully. The tipsy bosses were pleased. The friendly team appreciated it. Wonderful. Olga Andreevna felt like a successful woman who had achieved everything in life. She made herself. And today she showed herself once again—worthy.
Paying It All
There is no free healthcare in Russia. There are insurance companies making money. There are officials running the process and getting their share from caring for the nation’s health. And there are doctors, who never see that money, so they extract the last penny from their patients, openly or covertly.
A few months passed. During this time, Olga Andreevna learned that even a dying person has to wait for quotas for treatment. It takes at least two weeks to get any serious tests done unless you pay for private services.
The doctors never directly asked for money. But in every clinic or hospital, there was always someone explaining to patients and their relatives that they needed to be “grateful.” Every treatment and especially every operation had its own tariff.
You need a certain mindset and character traits to work in this field. Maybe when young doctors come to oncology after studying, something breaks in them over the years. They are human, and most would genuinely like to help, but medicine is not omnipotent. Moreover, almost all of them have their own families, mortgages, and children to feed, clothe, and raise, regardless of their age.
Olga Andreevna would remember this visit to the oncology center forever. Until the end of her days, even if by some miracle her condition improved. Upon entering the office, she overheard a snippet of a conversation clearly about her—the doctors hadn’t finished their discussion as she opened the door. On the desk in front of one of them lay her medical chart.
“What, she came back again? I thought she died a long time ago!”
And those awkwardly lowered eyes. Like a child caught doing something inappropriate.
She gave everything. Olga Andreevna did the possible and the impossible. But health is not something you can go out and buy in a store.
In the beginning, they refused her surgery. They probably deemed her case unpromising. It was better to spend the budget money on someone else with better chances. But she found a doctor who, as she thought, was a Doctor with a capital D. Or maybe he just wanted to make money…
Some things were covered by documents, but mostly, she paid for the surgery with everything she had and didn’t have, collecting money from acquaintances and strangers. Even her ex-husband, from whom it was usually impossible to get an extra penny, gave something. Not much, but he gave. And people responded, understanding her situation. All that remained was to recover and pay off the debts in a few years.
It was horrible to ask friends for money. And to see, realize who was who. Hearing from those she once considered close friends that they had nothing, or that they had it but not now.
Then came chemotherapy, without which even attempting surgery seemed pointless. She learned so many new words during that time, those used by cancer patients and incomprehensible to ordinary, healthy people: first line, side effects…
When her close friend Natalia visited, her eyes changed day by day.
“How are you, Olya?” she would ask, involuntarily averting her gaze. “When do you go next? I’ll watch Andryusha.”
It became more and more awkward to ask her to watch the child. In the past, Olga Andreevna used to give her at least some money. Now, there was catastrophically none.
Olga Andreevna remembered her childhood. She lived with her mom and dad, and they went to the dacha in the summer. And how she played there with a kitten. Cats don’t strangle their prey. For them, hunting is a game. With someone’s life and death. She had never seen it herself, but most likely, cats chase their prey like a knot on the end of a string in her little hand. They play with it, bat it around with their paws, then lift it, even crawl under it, turn over, grab it and use their teeth. They strangle it in their embrace, clinging to its throat.
This is exactly how the country was playing with her now. On one hand, it showed a semblance of care. On the other, step by step, round by round, it drove her into a corner from which there was no escape.
At the beginning of her treatment, Olga Andreevna was still working. Closer to the second month of sick leave, the management gently hinted that they couldn’t keep her position if she was always sick, even if they wanted to be understanding.
“But you understand, Olga Andreevna, we can’t always replace you with someone,” Valery Sergeyevich seemed to say into the void. Anyone else, some girl in another position, he would have fired without thinking under some pretext.
One would like to believe he had some degree of pity and compassion left. But most likely, it was the pre-prepared and casually thrown phrase during one of such conversations that worked:
“You know, you can’t just fire a person on sick leave. Any court would reinstate them.”
As long as Olga Andreevna was on the payroll, she had a chance to get at least some money for medical expenses by taking a bank loan. They were even glad to see her at the bank.
“You have a steady income, you live in your own apartment. Your loan is approved! Sign here and get a card from which you can withdraw money at any time.”
In the good old days, Raskolnikov, the hero of Dostoevsky, had one enemy charging him high interest: the old woman. In the worst case, he could go to her with an ax and repay the debt—all at once and in full. But Olga Andreevna’s creditor was almost the state with its monetary policy, which resulted in having to repay more in Russia than in any other European country, several times over. And the mere thought of an ax was a direct path to being accused of extremism.
She had to part with the car almost immediately. Then, when there was absolutely nothing left to repay, there were realtors. Olga Andreevna sold her apartment to survive and continue paying. To doctors, nurses. Caregivers. For medications that couldn’t be obtained when it was time to continue procedures, and they weren’t available until the end of the year under quotas. Plus for Andryusha’s kindergarten. Plus, damn it, the year-end performance. Plus stationery and educational toys. Plus utility bills, while there was still an apartment.
“You understand, you need to sell urgently. And you have an alternative deal, you can’t just check out onto the street… Plus, you still need to settle with the bank for the previous mortgage, though there isn’t much left…”
Realtors carefully avoided the word “crisis.” Of course, the truth was that since the old days, all Russians had lost half of their savings. Their only home had lost about half its value. This simply isn’t felt until money is needed. Who would think of appraising their only apartment, which there’s no reason to sell because there’s nowhere to go from it.
The biggest problem was the child. What to do? Keep the living space for him at any cost? But it would still be taken for debts. Or sell it and try to save herself, his mother? The doctors didn’t say the situation was hopeless. Maybe, after all, she would manage to pull through? Miracles happen sometimes, don’t they?
Several times she had to resort to the extreme. Andryusha stayed with his father’s new family for some of the most critical times. But Olga Andreevna saw: something wasn’t right with Andryusha there. He couldn’t explain, too young. But any mother could tell from his look that it was bad there. He wasn’t wanted in the new family…
And all this was under the conditions of seemingly endless nausea. Falling hair and a head covered with a scarf. Like an old lady in church, Olga Andreevna tried to joke about herself, looking in the mirror at such moments.
First-line chemotherapy. A rented apartment instead of her own. Second-line. The child would go to school in a year. But how would he go? How long would the remaining money last?..
Olga Andreevna knew she was strong. She had to hold on. We’ll make it through…
No Need to Consult a Fortune Teller
When science proves powerless, various cult practitioners and other gurus flock to its temple-like anthill like ants.
For cancer patients, the remnants of money left by Russian medicine are taken by fraudsters. If any funds are left at all. Some leave for another world without even trying.
To healthy people, it seems incredible and may even evoke a sympathetic smile that people believe. A small hall gathers many like Olga Andreevna, patients grasping at the last hope like a dying person taking their last breath. Their faces are pale and downcast. Ahead, it seems, there is no future, and nowhere to look.
The rather shabby interior of a hall, rented cheaply by the organizers. People exhausted from helplessness. And suddenly, someone comes out and says the disease is curable.
The words may vary. The process itself is mostly unchanged. It’s based on a miracle, demonstrated here and now. With a display of the “healed,” those who have changed their lifestyle and used the miracle drug, for which one needs to pay.
There were also trips to the old healer woman. Who whispered away ailments and gave some herbs almost for free. And to the unrecognized doctor, whose discovery is not acknowledged by the global giants—the pharmaceutical corporations of the West, the main source of evil and incurable diseases.
And lastly, the road to the temple. Olga Andreevna had visited this church once, from time to time. To remember her father. Just for major church holidays like Easter. And now she came here again.
The atmosphere of peace and tranquility. The quiet, barely audible crackling of cheap candles in the ostentatiously gold-decorated temple. The stern faces of saints from icons. The scent of compassion for Jesus and the hope of gaining eternal life in exchange for her humility and faith.
Olga Andreevna waited quite a while for Father Vladimir to talk to him. She felt that if she could stand through the entire service, maybe the illness would retreat. Weakness and aching pain prevented her from fully listening to the spiritual shepherd’s words. But she endured. And finally, she approached him.
“What is your name? Olga? Pray, Olga. God sends us trials. Let your loved ones pray for you. All that is required of us is humility…”
She had already humbled herself. Olga Andreevna had accepted in one way or another that she was dying. She even occasionally found herself thinking that she wished everything would happen faster, to stop enduring this increasing pain. But what about Andryusha?
Her child, her beloved son, was truly not needed by anyone. What would her elderly mother do with him? Or how could he live in his father’s family, where the new wife seemed to dislike him from the first minute? You can’t deceive a child… An orphanage? Her child, Andryusha, has no future. Or does he still?
**Farewell to the Motherland**
Everything was behind her. Five minutes ago, the taxi driver, ordered through a special service, had called, and she had asked, persuaded him to come upstairs to take her bag. Of course, it’s not his duty, but for money, you can always negotiate.
And now she was riding in the car. The driver wasn’t Russian. Who was he? Classical music was playing in the car. One of the most sorrowful, heart-wrenching pieces of all time—Oginski’s Polonaise. In fact, its real name is “Farewell to the Homeland,” and it was written when the composer was leaving Poland, occupied by Russia.
“Is it okay that we are listening to this music?” the driver asked.
“It’s fine. Do you like classical music?”
“Yes. I graduated from…”
And he named a conservatory in one of the former Soviet republics. Astonishing people all around. Why do talents end up here, in this life and these conditions? Could it be pleasing to God that they were born in their cruel and indifferent country?
Andryusha was silent, pressing against his mother in the back seat. Bright city lights drifted by outside. They were heading for an evening flight. They had to hold out, endure without medication for almost another day. Without painkillers. And not show it, or else they wouldn’t be allowed on the plane.
For the first time in her life, Olga Andreevna had deceived everyone to escape. She was expected by prior arrangement in one of the European countries—to be admitted to a clinic. She didn’t even intend to go to it. It was pointless: to get an invitation, Olga Andreevna used the very first referral, when only an initial examination was needed. When no one knew about the incurable diagnosis.
It was too late now. Behind her was a senseless, costly operation. Several rounds of chemotherapy. The loss of all friends and finances. The car and the apartment. The very last of her money was enough only for the trip abroad, there and back. Hope was gone, but she had a decisive and irreversible plan to end it all once and for all.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”—as usual, the border control officer asked a completely meaningless question with a tense face. Only someone who is no longer allowed to leave the vast, but limited Homeland could see off the departing with such a look.
“Tourism,” Olga Andreevna answered to avoid giving herself away. Stamp in the passport. Next.
Boarding the plane. Takeoff. She was feeling worse and worse. The medicine was wearing off. How hard it had been to get that painkiller! How many papers needed to be collected to receive it. And that queue of the doomed and their relatives. And the angry whispering behind her back: she came here with a child, to infect others!
These people believe in something. Many of them are still undergoing chemotherapy and are afraid of infections. Her beloved Andryusha was a potential danger and evil to them. But who could she leave him with to come here alone?
It was good that Andryusha fell asleep, leaning his face against the window over the dark night sky with distant city lights fading away. Now she could adjust him and cry without disturbing his childlike soul. Cry her heart out, but quietly, so as not to wake him and not attract the attention of others.
Her heart was breaking, but she knew, had decided for herself, that there was no other way out for either her or him. She had prepared for him a completely different, perhaps worthy future… One where people do not decide whether to save themselves or leave something for their child, knowing in advance that any answer will be wrong.
…
Olga Andreevna and Andryusha did not go into the city. She simply approached the airport staff, showed her certificate and discharge, and explained in broken English that she was ill and urgently returning back. And she had tickets for the next flight to Russia. She was registered. But she boarded the plane alone, hiding the second boarding pass.
Yes, she abandoned her child. The plane was in the air, and now she could sob uncontrollably—no one could do anything to her anymore. Andryusha was in for a different, better future. Perhaps a good family. Friends who wouldn’t reproach him. A school where a child’s status wouldn’t depend on his parents’ income. Another Homeland, which wouldn’t turn its back on him if he found himself, like her, in a real and insurmountable trouble. She hoped that kind Europeans wouldn’t send Andryusha back. That’s what she wrote in her farewell note, left in the pocket of the child’s jacket. She did everything she could.
The pain was becoming unbearable. The medicine, administered back home, had finally worn off. She was returning to the Homeland. To die together with Russia. Without hope, without a past, and without a future.
And in the waiting hall of the distant airport, among the crowd of people, stood a boy with wide-open eyes, looking at the new world. Happy and worried people with their rolling suitcases and bright bags walked past him. Some hurried, some strolled slowly, unhurriedly. Life itself was flowing around him. The bright colors of kiosk signs beckoned him. But he was already big enough to understand that he couldn’t go anywhere. He just needed to stand and wait. That’s what his mom told him. He didn’t know yet that he no longer had his only and most beloved mother.
Aleksei Sukhoverkhov (c)
