Again… again I’m in that tiny room where Dad and I spent such a difficult week. Now I’m spending this week here with Mom. A tiny room—ironic, bitter symbolism. We always lived in a spacious house, and now we’ve had to shrink, contract, shed our husk, suspend pride, become simpler and more modest. Fall silent… pretend to be smaller than you are. It seemed that by accepting such discomfort, we were borrowing from the one who governs everything, just so he would allow us to heal. But is that how it works?

What if the one in charge has already decided how it all ends—then what? Give him even more reason to laugh at us?

Outside—same street, same parade ground where cadets of the local school march every morning. They march in formation, we don’t. We’re stuck. In the corner—my backpack with clothes and books. Packed in a way that says we’re ready to move at any moment. But not home—at least to another room. One in the next ward, “up the hill.” That’s for those who have passed the acute phase of denial and are slowly recovering. Or maybe Dad will even be sent straight home? Mom and he whisper, plan: retrofitting an entire floor for physiotherapy, running an elevator straight to the office. Plans to convince each other.

The room is suffocating. You stand between walls, between two cold metal air ducts, and it feels like they’re squeezing you in clamps. Not just your body, even your thoughts shrink.

And I think: what if this room isn’t temporary? What if we never get out, and stay here forever, taking turns caring for Dad, going one floor down to see him in the ICU, holding his hand in turns – me or mom… We will occupy this space completely, we’ll become like this room—contracted, silent, airless…

***

I change into all sterile gear, coat the clean soles of my slippers with a thick layer of antiseptic, take the protective suit made of blue material, pull on the dumpling-shaped medical cap and go down a floor. Mom is already there, on duty, never leaving her post. She looks like a guard on a prison watchtower. 

She watches everyone who enters and exits, with a loaded rifle ready to shoot anyone who breaks the rules: a faltering intern student or even the chief physician who isn’t keeping an eye on the blinking alarms. Without the guard, chaos ensues. 

The only difference is that guards take shifts, but Mom stands there with her rifle from morning until midnight.

Heavy metal door, huge sign: “Intensive Care.” A buzzer. Should I ring it? I do. A disgustingly sad melody, but so familiar… They didn’t open right away. They weren’t expecting visitors on Sunday—but visitors came…

A nurse came out and asked who I was here for, and without waiting for an answer, nodded—go on in. They didn’t expect visitors on Sundays. I tried to act bold, to hide how scared I was. Tried to crack stupid jokes, but they got stuck awkwardly between my teeth.

‘Here, I brought this special gown with me. Ha-ha… I look like a ghost… Ha-ha. Do you have many ghosts in here? Like… eh… unsettled souls?’ – I tried to sound confident with stupid jokes. But this one applied at Intensive care was the dumbest I’ve ever made. 

The nurse looked at me like I was stupid and frowned, like: yeah, we’ve seen worse… now what?

—it’s so ridiculous, I say awkwardly—how do you even put this transparent blue medical robe on? Do I wear it like a regular gown, or crawl into it like a spacesuit? 

When I was doing my own column in GEO magazine, I went to sort of a secret base on the outskirts of Moscow to write an article on a new spacesuit with a light‑proof visor called Orlan‑MK. I climbed into the suit via a ladder, sliding inside feet‑first. I was pregnant with Denis, though back then it wasn’t so obvious. I didn’t spend much time inside the suit—I was too worried it would be uncomfortable for him inside me. Well, I always tell Denis: you’ve been in a spacesuit!.

Not many can say they’ve been inside a real spacesuit. Even less often do you get to pair it with the ambiance of an ICU. Michelin-star medical experience.

The nurse snorted and sneered:
“Oh, and you know what it’s like in a spacesuit, do you?”

For some reason I said no…how would I know?

She tied all the strings on me tight, as if I were the plainest princess being primped for suitors, the corset tightened for maximum effect.

She pointed to Dad’s ward and nudged the door open with her elbow.

***

I hadn’t seen Dad in a month… just a month. I managed to fly to Canada, get my bearings in Anthony’s arms, start working, in some confusion dye my hair red, and now come back to Dad. I hid my red hair under the cap so I wouldn’t have to explain why that impulsive moment happened. I didn’t want to disturb him more than necessary.

Dad had changed beyond recognition. Lying in front of me was a completely different human—different size, color, odor.
He couldn’t stand… he couldn’t even lie on his own.

At first he seemed like he was just asleep or deeply relaxed. Like he is just getting some kind of treatment — a private room, his own team from a Balinese spa. Except he’s lying under a thin hospital blanket, and this is nothing like a resort in Indonesia. 

Like he’d booked the “near-death experience” package or taken some experimental wellness detox. And I almost see a beautiful tanned lady whispering “Om Swastiastu” – a traditional Balinese greeting that translates to “May God bless you”… while adjusting the IV drip. 

Stay in the fantasy, just take yourself out of this place and  don’t look at the tubes. 

Too many of them. Two fine tubes going into his nostrils up to a machine that hissed rhythmically behind the headboard. Another one—into his hand, carefully taped, as if the doctors feared it might slip out of the vein, now glaringly visible under the skin.

I stepped closer and saw his hands. They lay on top of the blanket, fingers slightly bent, as if trying to hold onto something. But there was almost no muscle.

I wanted to scream that it’s all untrue, not real, that it’s not my dad. I would still love this version, But where is the one I am used to? My dad is different!

To hide panic and tears rising, I calmly put on rubber gloves and, as if nothing’s wrong, shouted at the doctor updating the sensors in the chart:

– Sooo… how are you doing without me here? Treating him well?

The doctor looked up, prepared to put me in my place with one phrase like he did with nagging relatives—but then looked harder and thought better of it. Well, he could’ve answered.

Mom apologized and said it was my first time in ICU and I didn’t yet know the rules.

• What rules? – I asked melodiously to hide my shaking voice. The doctor replied as if in a ‘Fight Club”:

• First rule: don’t talk to the resuscitation team!

• And if I need to ask something? Like… really important? – I asked, frightened.
• We return to rule one: don’t talk, don’t ask. – He fiddled with tubes, connected, disconnected—either faking activity or really doing something vital.

I asked Mom which side to approach from. The doctor answered himself, I stood under the monitor. I wanted to ask if I could hold Dad’s hand, but dared not—so I just said:
–  I’m taking Dad’s hand!!! Just letting you know.

• Go ahead… take it. If you want to say something, lean closer.

Does he not hear well? Or why so…? I thought, but didn’t ask why.

• Because you’re wearing a mask. I can’t even hear what you’re saying, – the doctor understood what I was thinking.
• So you don’t hear because I’m silent. Because you said not to talk! 

The doctor gives me a look. Mom apologizes again.

• This is your other daughter, not that one, a doctor, but the one from Canada? – Ouch! That was quite a comparison! 

As if exchanging Russia to Canada makes me kind of ‘expired’ or ‘damaged’.  

– That daughter who… – the doctor asks and pauses.

• Yes, that’s her, – Mom answers.

The doctor somehow laughs and says:
–  Ah… then it makes sense.

I don’t know what makes sense to him or what he and Mom spoke about. But I feel like they’ve talked a lot behind my back. Probably discussed my user manual. Or at least the warning label. I can imagine how that sounded from my mom. 

• Go talk with dad. Tell him something. I’ve been talking for days with him.

I hold Dad’s hand. How much weight he’s lost! Can a person really change so much in just a month? I don’t know what to say to him. What should we talk about? I cannot fake that I don’t see an elephant in the room. I can’t get used to his new look—I can’t think of anything else. I share what’s on the surface: how I flew in—I just got off the plane. Everything is happening so fast it doesn’t feel real.

Dad begins to say something. Hard for him, but he tries so much. He looks strange, but those brown eyes are the same.

I notice a blurred bruise on his hand.

–  Who sat on you so carelessly? – I ask to continue joking.

–  Low white cells, he explains. Even a small injection leaves a bruise that big.

– Scheherazade…-  dad says suddenly.

What? I don’t understand.
– You in that blue gown look like Scheherazade. – He explains. 

Scheherazade. The legendary storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights, who tells tales each night to delay her execution by a king who kills all his brides at dawn – just because he’s bored. Her wit and courage, and storytelling skills save her life and transform the king.

I laugh—so sweet it is to hear that. Dad always saw me as a great storyteller.
In school, for the New Year’s party I was Scheherazade. Other kids made up predictable, easy winter characters. Dad was reading me One Thousand and One Nights. Those stories stayed with me. What struck me most wasn’t the magic carpets or djinns, but the essence: a woman told a new tale each night, stopping at the most suspenseful moment—to save herself, to not being killed so that the king would hear the ending. She held a powerful man’s attention, who could’ve ended her life, but instead she had him hooked, eagerly awaiting another night, another story.

Men… they are interesting. We think they’re driven by basic instincts, that those instincts matter most. But it turns out an ordinary fairy tale can bind them to a woman far more than physical desire ever would.

Mom sewed me a glittering blue costume. At the New Year’s party I acted out a scene from one of those thousand stories and felt that the costume suited me—my nature shone through it. I didn’t want to take it off. I stayed in the image for days, sitting under the Christmas tree, weaving more characters into the tales, imagining new plots and stories.

But in none of those invented stories did Scheherazade return to her childhood home to save her father… the person who recognized magic and storytelling. How I wish it were as simple in the fairytales.

A clever, witty character or a twist of fate—that’s enough to conquer death. 

In imagined stories, death is something you can negotiate with. Try to get in touch with death in real life and you’ll be on hold listening to elevator music for eternity.

I remember the tale where Sinbad the Sailor meets Azrael, the angel of death, and outwits him. During his voyage, Sinbad landed on a strange island inhabited by one frail old man who begged to be carried across a stream. The old man climbed onto Sinbad’s shoulders, but then strangled him with his legs and began beating him. Try as Sinbad might, he couldn’t shake the old man off—his life became tortured slavery. Day after day, the old man wore down Sinbad as he had others. But Sinbad tricked him. He pretended to be obedient and followed orders. One day the old man relaxed, and Sinbad managed to get him drunk. The old man loosened his grasp and Sinbad knocked him down, cracking his skull. A parable of relentless fate: you can postpone death with deceit, but you can never truly defeat it.

• Scheherazade… dad repeats and smiles. We’re all masked except him —he’s the only one whose smile is visible.

I take his hand. Now it’s my turn to tell Dad stories. Not for a miracle, just to tell, so he feels I’m here, so he isn’t scared. So he knows: I’m near, his little girl in the blue gown with silver threads, who remembers all his stories—and now she’ll tell her own.

How can I extend your life for at least one more story?

After that I don’t remember what happened. Only feelings. Something the doctor said, something Mom… She asked me to speak louder—but I was so stunned no words came. It’s Dad who always speaks. Or I begin and he continues, always more knowledgeable in any topic I brought up. And then I get this chance to be the only storyteller simply because Dad can’t talk much, and I’m lost.

I tell him some insignificant things – about the difficulties arriving in Moscow—how my sister met me in a snowstorm. Mom texted Friday, I took the first flight to you… Packed quickly. This time one suitcase, and it’s half empty. Anthony helped pack. I threw things on the bed, and he neatly folded them.

He knows how… Dad smiles something like a smirk. He knows—Anthony’s OCD and “neatly folded things” is more than care; it’s a need.

• At least someone can reunite lost socks in pairs! Dad says slowly. And Mom adds:
• First he’d color-code everything in his mind. – I fall silent. – Does he hug you on schedule?

I think for a second: could his love for me be just mechanistic? Maybe our relationship rests purely on his pathological need for order, where separation is too chaotic, too scary an event he won’t allow in his balanced sterile world?

• Mom, why are you planting these thoughts? – She loves the father of her grandchildren. 

I continue: how was the weather on the day I left—a hurricane wind that cancelled morning ferries, as if nature itself didn’t want me to go. Why talk about the weather? Does Dad need to know it? Or now, like the English, we stick to decorum and skirt the surface: talk about rain and wind, but stay silent on the real. On what everyone sees but pretends not to.

I go back to Anthony:
–  I found such curious paintings at a flea market—just for your collection. And I said to Anthony: “Would be nice to bring them to Dad, but how—so fragile, so bulky.” And I forgot. But now I open my suitcase—and there they are! Carefully packed, the glass unbroken. Imagine? I didn’t expect that.  I’ll put them in your office—you’ll return and see them right away.

These are paintings by Canadian Indigenous artists I found at a flea market. Dad raised me to find beauty in what no one else needs.

Dad is still the same… joking, his mind just fine. That’s what matters—the mind works… the body will recover.

I’m standing smiling, holding his hand. I don’t want him to see how I’m shaking. I know why I shake: fear that just one month changed someone so much—and tomorrow could change him more. Fear the transformation might be irreversible.

Dad’s bed is surrounded by equipment. One is a dialysis machine. That means his kidneys failed and now his whole life will be dialysis. Life by schedule, hours daily, through this artificial filter? Every day? For how many hours? Can we get a machine at home, so Dad doesn’t have to go? Could his kidneys recover one day so he’s not dependent? Though… if this is the worst complication—fine. Let it be. It’s not a sentence, just a new condition of life. And we accept any condition!

• Anthony bought a new car… It’s just… new. I haven’t seen one like it. You open the door and the logo lights up on the pavement. Speed is projected onto the windshield. He cherishes it.

Dad brightens and says something boyish about cars.

It’s so stuffy in the ward. Closer to midnight. Time flows differently in ICU. While no one’s kicked me out, I’ll stand here by Dad’s bed. But it’s so stuffy—in a blue gown, in a dumpling-cap, in rubber gloves. Why did I even put on socks?

And then I feel the hot air suddenly thicken, the doctor’s voice muffled as if cotton’s stuffed in his mouth.

That’s it… Oh… I know I’m about to pass out. No big deal… I’ll slide down to the sterile ICU floor. Perfect place to faint. But how I don’t want to faint in front of Dad. He’ll know why I was scared. He’ll know what I fear—not just imaginary creatures trying to take him away, but the ordinary physiological transformations that are in some ways unflattering. Everyday horror at how his body changed. Honest fear. Embarrassing to admit. Dad—handsome, strong, with his mustache and thick hair—now looks different. It’s frightening to see. And the shame that comes with that fear makes it worse.

Stop… hold on, don’t fall. I turn sharply to Mom. I can’t imagine how she sits here all the time.

• It’s so stuffy… you know… it’s really stuffy. Mom, could you unpack me a bit?
• Go ahead… just go.

Aha… she got it.

I can’t go back to Dad even to say ‘Goodnight”… I can’t. I know I’ll pass out immediately. The nurses already have enough patients. Well… nothing says “supportive daughter” like collapsing dramatically on the hospital floor.

I rush out of the room and crash into a doctor. I collapse into his arms. He’s stern, like all ICU doctors. They’ve developed immunity to relatives collapsing like this—but I’m not a fainting act. I truly fall.

• I feel like throwing up, I moan.
• Get away, – he says pretty rudely. – The exit is that way! 

They see human drama every day. If they had to hold everyone, who would do the real work?

• I’m going to throw up! —I say! – Right here, on your floor.
• I’m on duty! I’ve no time to deal with that. I’ll open the door. 

I’m sliding down, weightless in his arms, he catches me before I fall. Even with his sharp tone, he doesn’t let me go. 

A grumpy guardian angel with a defibrillator. 

Later, I remember sitting in a chair, vomiting into a bucket, he’s taken off my cap and is gently holding my hair. The cold of his hand steady at the back of my burning neck. He frees me from the stifling gown, wipes the heat from my face with a cloth. The room smells of antiseptic and metal. 

He gave me another cloth. I wiped my mouth. I apologize – well, that’s what you do when you throw up in front of someone you see for the first time in your life.

– I know I’m distracting him from his real work. This isn’t just  a clinic—it’s ICU. Every minute of the on‑duty doctor’s time is priceless. Thank you…

– Just off the plane? – He asks.

– Yeah… how do you know?

He’s silent. Mom must’ve told him.

• You must be that daughter who came all the way from Canada to be a donor?
• Yep… the fourth attempt. 

I don’t want to excuse myself for the long flight, so I say it plainly. I need to share it with someone:
– Honestly, I didn’t expect to see him like this. Just didn’t expect. We talked by video; I got it. But seeing him in person…

• Well… not everyone would even think to find our dear ones in intensive care. Time to refuse the illusion that love belongs only to the living and well.

He helps me to my feet and escorts me to the door.

• Have a nice shift! – Oh, what a stupid thing to say to the ICU doctor. –  I hope it won’t show in your report.

I open the heavy door. Out there—it’s cool and quiet. Very late past midnight. And Mom is still in there, just sitting, just holding Dad’s hand.

I flop onto the bed and pray for this only: to fall asleep… just to fall asleep. Vancouver – Moscow time difference—have mercy, let me sleep. Fall into oblivion where there are no conscious thoughts, just unconscious. To sleep, so I have strength tomorrow, so I can relieve Mom, so I can invent more stories for Dad.