Heart of summer. Early August. All of Holland is on holiday. We are sitting in the flesh-colored morning light, in his back room, stuffed away behind the nurses’ station.
He is sick as hell and just 32. I am sitting next to his mother and his girlfriend. The intern and nurse are standing behind me, breathing carefully. He sits with his back to us, at his table. Visibly fighting for air. Short of wind. Hands covering his eyes. I notice his bent back. Track his breathing. 30? 35 times a minute.
The window is open. The sweet smell of summer is wafting in. The contrast between the beauty of outside and the cruelty here inside takes me off guard.
A few weeks ago, I admitted to him that I liked him. Probably not the most professional thing to say. But he clearly appreciated it. He had charisma. The kind of guy who lights up a boring party.
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