Withering Hope

I close the file on my desk, trying to pull myself together. In over two decades of practicing medicine, I've grown immune to this type of situations. But there are always cases that get to me. And having known Dr. Tristan Bress and his family personally since I was a young woman makes it that much more difficult.

At the age of seventy, Aimee Bress was admitted to our hospital, where her husband had worked for many years before retiring. She had a severe case of viral respiratory disease. She was admitted three weeks ago, and her husband and daughter have been practically living outside her room ever since, though not allowed to see her. She has an exceptionally contagious form and it is very dangerous for Dr. Bress, whose age made him frail and prone to contract the virus.

Her condition worsened. Last night we informed Dr. Bress and his daughter that Aimee would not survive the night. When we told them they couldn't spend the night at her bedside due to the highly contagious nature of the virus, Dr. Bress asked his daughter to take him home. It seemed an odd request, not wanting to spend the night at the hospital, as close as possible to his wife. Before leaving, he took a little glass box out of his pocket. Taking out a circle made of old, decaying thread, he asked in a pleading voice, "Will you put this on my wife's finger next to her wedding ring?” Seeing a man who I had always associated with strength become so vulnerable immediately made me say a whispered "Yes." My weak answer didn't calm him. "Promise," he urged.

"I promise." I fulfilled my promise. His daughter returned alone to the hospital after dropping him off at home. Mrs. Bress died at four o'clock in the morning. Out of respect for having known and worked with Tristan Bress for years, I accompanied their daughter to her parents' home, to tell him.

We found Dr. Bress in a rocking chair, a blanket with layers upon layers covering him from his lap down.

His daughter thought he was asleep. But I knew better.

He had died.

In his hands, he was holding the glass box he had at the hospital. The box was empty, but a similar circle to the one he asked me to put on his wife's finger was on his, right next to his wedding ring. I thought I grew immune to everything over so many years, but I couldn't help shedding tears. Aimee Bress once told me about the time they spent in the Amazon rainforest. I remembered what those thread rings meant. I tried to hide my tears, but a closer inspection of the blanket on Dr. Bress’s lap brought more tears. The blanket seemed to be made entirely out of patches with printed pictures of their family. Some photos must have been very old, because both Bresse’s looked younger than I've ever seen them. It struck me that in all photos, no matter if they were young or not, they had that same look of intense love in their eyes that I was always secretly jealous of.

When the diagnostic of the cause of his death came—literally a broken heart—I expected it to be difficult to explain to their daughter. It's an unusual diagnostic, and one that people are sceptical about.

She smiled through tears. "My parents did love each other very much." Then she said a few words that I will carry with me for a very long time. "He loved her so much he never wanted to say goodbye to her. He wanted to leave with her."