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Hysteria has a way of repeating itself; my pledge to stop drinking was well-meant but not well-kept. This did not go unnoticed. “There has to be an end to it, Sam,” she said, seeming to sway obscurely in the peaty mists of my consciousness. “I don’t even believe I can find love for myself any more. I want to go away, not be with anybody for a while.” Before she had a chance to be with herself, Fate caught her by the hair. * I first remember her complaining about headaches while we were out Christmas shopping. I thought it was the cold. They always seemed to be at the same point at the side of her head, above her ear. Then she starting forgetting appointments and the due dates of orders she had placed at work. She would relate the same anecdote several times within the space of a day. It was unlike her; she had always been so organised. * In early January, Opal was diagnosed as having a brain tumour. Surgery was obviously risky, but the doctors rated the chances of successful removal of the non-malignant tumour as excellent. The operation was arduous, but went well. I visited her in hospital. She was in a two-bed room with a view of the ambulances arriving at the neurological ward of the University Hospital. They had shaved her head and dressed it with an elasticised bandage. It looked like an ill-fitting ski-mask. Her eyes had sunken into a greyness that had conquered her face. She was wan and poorly nourished, as if something was eating her instead, but she smiled at me as I entered. They had put her on morphine sulphate. It killed the post-operative pains but, in turn, caused her moods to swing precariously between euphoria and despondency. I bought her a Sony CD Diskman and ‘Citizen Dan’, the complete, digitally-remixed Steely Dan collection. “Even Here At The Western World is on it,” I said, pointing the song out on the credits. We had often joked that the ‘skinny girl’ in its lyrics was a cryptic reference to her. She glowed, briefly, and kissed me dryly on the cheek. They kept her in intensive care. After three weeks it was clear that something had gone wrong. The surgeon, one of the world authorities on cerebral tumours, told us that if they were to operate again they would be able to remove a remnant of the tumour they had failed to reach the first time. The dangers of anaesthetising her for longer had been too great, he said. Provided they were successful, Opal would be able to live quite normally again. Opal was so ebullient and optimistic that there was really no discussion. She wanted an end to the uncertainty, she said, presenting me with a small envelope and telling me not to open it unless something happened to her. Surgically, the second operation was successful. But then, in the weeks that followed, Opal’s behaviour became increasingly erratic. Her short-term memory dwindled and, although she always recognised me, she erased nurses and doctors within moments of their introduction. Eventually, she was admitted to a closed hospital in the suburbs of Hamburg. One night, she managed to get out and was found by the police in the village, wearing only her night-gown and slippers, looking for a chemist’s shop. *
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