Ward B
Posted: 29/07/2025
It was already an hour after the visiting times had elapsed, but Bevan and I waited outside Sarika's room and watched her mother reassure her daughter. They spoke in a language I could only place as being from India, and all I could understand was the facial expressions Sarika gave her mother, a defiant smile despite the pain and medication, and a clenched fist to the sky to say that she would continue fighting.
Even before they embraced I felt my eyes well up. It made so little sense to me that life would treat a lady with so much energy and love to give to the world this way, and for two years.
At length her mother rejoined us in the corridor, and Bevan led the way to the elevator where he tapped the button to "LB"; lower ground. Sarika's mother pointed at the opposing rows of buttons where "LB" was reproduced another two times. "Those ones on the left don't work; they need a keycard," Bevan explained. "But the one on the right I pressed already. You only need to press one of them." He tapped those on the left continuously, to show how the light went out and did nothing.
The little atrium outside the elevator didn't do anything to hide a chilly nine-o'clock Cantabrian winter. Beside each other we into the underground car park, beaten back by the night and the state of affairs. Bevan turned to face me, and I raised my hand for a handshake.
"Here, I'll give you a hug," he said suddenly, and I had to oblige. It was a better idea than a handshake.
"I can't imagine what you've had to go through for the past two years," I said quietly to him.
"I know," he responded, when we pulled apart. "Life throws everything at you. You have to keep going." He took a step back and gave me a nod.
Then I turned to Sarika's mother. She had travelled from India to see her daughter off to London for treatment, and I felt of the burden she must have had too. Every day was a day where she might outlive her own daughter, but every day her daughter beat the odds. And she embraced me too.
"My son," she said.
I wished I knew what to say. My contributions felt internally tiny; my only form of support was to appear and give comfort to Sarika and her mother and Bevan. I had only met Sarika and Bevan a couple months ago, but despite everything, their appreciation and generousity was more than I could ever ask of two people, where one of them was living closer to death every day than I could ever conceive now, and the other having to relive the day where that may be the realisation and doing everything he can to prevent it. They had already meant so much to me in the three times I got to be with them. I had to check up on them and know that Sarika was still here.
But I suppose I knew that, whatever I felt, it seemed that Sarika, her mother, and Bevan appreciated my presence. So I accepted that fact silently as Sarika's mother disengaged and stepped away to rejoin Bevan.
"Goodnight," I called out to the two of them as they reached their car. Bevan responded the same, and Sarika's mother waved as I shouted. I walked slowly up the incline and out into the night, the breeze a little gentler than usual but the night still oppressively cold against my little Kathmandu liner jacket, and crossed my arms to try and keep myself warm.
I began to run when I crossed the road, and hoped again that Sarika would be okay. I continued running to my car by Hagley Park, on Riccarton Ave, and waved back at Bevan and Sarika's mother as they passed in their car.
This is as accurate as I feel I can remember of that night on the 27th of July, 2025, but I've filled in whatever I didn't have the confidence to reproduce fully. I just want to preserve this memory. I feel like Sarika's family is beautiful, and to not afford them a mention on my website would be a loss.