A death and a story

When it comes to a 700-page book, everyone's first reaction is usually, “How is one supposed to read this?” Indeed, it takes a considerable amount of time to read a 700-page book. 

But have you ever thought about the difficulty of writing a 700-page book, which is daunting even to read?

As someone involved in these matters, I can easily say that it is very difficult.

Especially if the work you are writing is a novel, it is much harder.

My university classmate Ümran Düşünsel was a good writer; the book ‘Halname 2016’ (Ütopya Yayınları, Ankara, 2017), which she signed and sent to me, was exactly 698 pages including the table of contents, and it always stood right in front of me on my bookshelf.

When I received the news of Ümran's death yesterday, I took another look at the book and encountered a section that surprised me greatly. Now, begging Ümran's pardon, I will plagiarize—to use the fashionable term of these days—one of the countless stories in the book. This is what she wrote in her story titled “Until Death”:

“There was no window, nor a clock. The lights never went out. Mete’s consciousness was clear. But he couldn't estimate the time that had passed. Was it dark outside, had it become morning, he didn't know how many days he had been there. Or had the day not even turned over at all? Had it felt long to him? He only knew that Behice had been brought in after him. She wasn't breathing, her lungs weren't enough when she was brought in; it turns out her saying “I can't even breathe without you” was not in vain.

In the end, Mete noticed that the hand he was holding was growing cold. The devices and tubes connecting him to the bed did not allow him to get up. Their beds were side by side. He had wanted his Behice to be opposite him so he could see her face. And he could grip her hand tighter. 

She continued to grow cold. 

He called out. Even he didn't hear his own voice. He squeezed her hand harder. He wanted her life to pass into him, to mix with his blood. 

The nurse on duty noticed and ran over. Others came one after another. They didn't want him to see the intervention; they pulled the curtain and separated their faces. Mete closed his eyes. He didn't let go of his wife's hand. He resisted not letting go.”

xxx

The story ‘Until Death’, numbered ‘fourteen-zero-five’ in Ümran’s ‘Halname’ book, was only this long. Yesterday, the friends who shared the news of Ümran's death in our WhatsApp group also wrote these details:

“Ümran was ill; they intubated her on December 29. While she was lying in the hospital, her husband Niyazi Davran died at home on January 9. Their son found his father just like that, and 10 days later, on January 19, we lost Ümran. Because she was lying in the hospital, she could not receive the news of her husband's death; she passed away without knowing he had died.”

How similar Ümran’s story, which I wrote above, is to what they experienced. 

The deaths of the two spouses seem to have happened exactly as written, except for minor details. I was very surprised; writing is such a thing—one can pen the future without knowing it.

xxx

We didn't see each other very often. Many years passed with short text messages during holidays. One day, I think she had sent a holiday or New Year's message, and while replying, I had written only “Me too”—perhaps out of haste, I don't remember well. She had later told a mutual friend that this short answer of mine had hurt her; I was very saddened when I realized I had hurt her. 

While remembering her with mercy, I must also express my belated apology for that short message I wrote.

Take my advice: do not write short text messages to your friends; you might regret it one day, and it will be too late.

May dear Ümran and her husband Niyazi rest in peace.