Martine arrived with a small step, fragile and firm at the same time, her upper back arched, rounded towards the ground like the handle of a cane.
We gently hold his arm, we help him settle into the big armchair in the living room - a real bergère, covered with a pretty fabric like at home, not one of those ugly upholstered metal and skai seats. baby blue mattress pads that hospitals use all the time.
We talk, looking for a good cushion.
From the adjoining kitchen escapes the aroma of a cake, or a pie perhaps - lemon, we bet.
Here is the octogenarian with his back well secured, but a somewhat resigned expression, settled in for the private recital that the singers of the Marseille Opera are preparing to give to the residents of La Maison, a pioneering palliative care establishment which turned the back to hospital codes.
The nurses, like those close to her, know: it happens that Martine says she wants to leave.
And then that she is no longer in such a hurry.
Thierry, thirty-something reached…
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