“My dad once told me that lying is “shouldn’t, but not mustn’t,”

but only in extreme cases. And I think that if you must lie,

then you absolutely need to tell someone about it.”

- From a high school student's notebook. Note in the margins. 2003

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“Ding!” A notification on my mobile phone.

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Things have changed over the past few years! Now, calling an interpreter to the hospital is an SMS message from the cursed agency. This year, most clients were from Ukraine.

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Yesterday, I was in a maternity ward. A tiny Ukrainian girl was born, whose father is fighting in the war. Tomorrow, I will go on call for a second gastroscopy procedure for a handsome bloke from Kiev, and the day after tomorrow – to see a boy from Mariupol with diabetes.

Who do we have today? They don’t give us a full name—just initials and a hospital number. Some K.M.

A bony man sat in the waiting room, blue eyes indifferent, voice weak.

“Are you Russian?” he asked the first and quite expected question.

He had no intention of keeping up small talk. Painkillers have not helped for a long time. He sat tied in a knot and soon closed his eyes.

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When we were invited into the oncologist’s office, the doctor calmly turned the computer screen towards him.

“I received the scan result this morning. Your liver cancer is terribly advanced. Why didn't you see your doctor earlier?” She asked with a strong accent.

“It didn’t hurt so much before,” K.M. answered grumpily, “You got it now, so treat it and prescribe something stronger.”

“Don't you understand?” She turned her beautiful eyes to me, “Please explain to the patient that he has about three months left without chemo. Or up to six, with it. He must choose what to do with this remaining time.”

I guess you can also get used to even bringing bad news. At that point, her words reached K.M., and he fell silent.

We left together, but he still had to wait for the hospital transport. He sat on a chair in the corridor.

“Do you have any relatives?” I asked, “Will you let them know?”

“Nah, no need.” He paused and suddenly turned to me. “This is not where I should be, treated for all this bullshit! I want to go home and fight for my Ukraine! Eh!” He waved his hand. “This war has been going on for a long time, and I was hoping they would help us and end it sooner.”

He hunched over again, closed his eyes and didn't move when I said goodbye.

On the same evening, I received another offer to attend his appointment a few days later.

The next week turned out to be quite busy. Every call was seasoned with similar conversations in the waiting chairs. I usually listen more than I talk. I can discuss politics, but I try to be more professional. For example, I remained silent when one patient and his daughter argued about the definition of fascism, and another spoke to me about “harmful negativity in the news.”

I kept silent.

I knew it would cease as soon as they called us into the appointment room. If we were at a debate, I would... Actually, no. One of my favourite actresses said that the demagogue will always win in any argument. I agree.

Sometimes, it's different. The other day, I was interpreting for a person who made me want to cry. I remember his words: “COVID has taken so many lives, but we tamed it. And this war will also end someday. The wounds will heal, the pain of loss will subside, the smartest will fix the crisis, and on the people of the whole world... a big and ugly scar will remain.”

There were two days left before K.M.'s appointment.

But he did not come. I asked to check whether there were transport problems, but the receptionist found him in one of the wards in the neighbouring building. I poked my head in there, but the nurse just showed me the way because K.M. hadn’t much time left for the bureaucracy.

Since then, I visited him every time I come to this hospital. He became even bonier. The nurses recognised me and took advantage of his “best mate” to tell him something important. One day, when I arrived, they literally dragged me to him. For the first time, K.M. was glad to see me. He suffered and asked to be given something to speed up the inevitable process.

They explained to him that they don’t help people die by law. All they can do is make him more comfortable and not try to save him when this very, as he called it, “process” begins.

I asked again while he was getting his injection, “Are you sure you don’t want to let your relatives know?”

“No. To hell with them. You better tell me what's happening. How's the counterattack going? I'm like in a barrel here.”

After the injection, K.M. sank back into the pillow, closed his eyes and breathed evenly.

I thought that he, as a person, was the most unpleasant of all my patients. He swore, was harsh, rude, taciturn, and was always reluctant to talk about himself. He was mocking, angry and capricious. In other words, not an angel. How the angels would behave if their insides were constantly burning... from pain or despair is still unknown. I, too, have no halo to judge.

The nurse nodded sympathetically and left.

I made up my mind, “So you didn’t hear? Ukraine won the war,” he opened his eyes, and I continued without a twitch, “It's over...”

He closed his eyes again, and a large drop rolled out from the corner of his eye, leaving a wet trail on his red skin. The eyebrows were still frowning, but the lips relaxed and even stretched a little. He fell asleep. Or fell into a coma, I couldn't tell. I left, and there was no one to visit the next day.

Lying is bad. But if you lied, then be sure to tell this secret to someone anyway.

- June 2023.