Azerbaijani Dream – a Woman in Baku

Azerbaijani Dream – a Woman in Baku

The presidential phone rang. Mahammad, the president of the social organization where Narmina was chief executive, called her for the fourth time this morning. The first time he caught her in the shower, where she desperately tried to keep up with her soapy hands and keep the frying out of her voice. She had turned off the water with her slippery hands and took the first orders of the day naked and wet. Orders that often had nothing to do with their actual tasks, but mostly more with their banking operations. Business that seemed to mean being or not being for Mahammad. What was probably the case, she knew. In his main business, he was the owner of a private bank. And the license was valid only as long as the President allowed it. Now she had to hurry up, the breakfast was cancelled. Her driver has been waiting in front of your house for a while. Mostly patient, only the respective driving style gave her a glimpse of his state of mind.
Because it was already after 9 a.m., Narmina had hastily said goodbye to her husband and son. Her daughter Seyla was still asleep. At the age of 21, still unmarried, this power-consuming person inevitably lived in his parents‘ house. This was a matter of course for an unmarried young woman.
Narmina, however, was increasingly reluctant to endure Seyla’s whims. Seyla wasn’t even able to clean up, shop or prepare herself for food. When there was nothing to eat, she starved. Narmina then approached her, slammed her with the doors or said that her mother could be glad she wasn’t married yet. Not only this evil-happyness and ungratefulness, Narmina wanted to remove everything from her life. Her husband Adil, her daughter and also her son Dzhamil, whom she had to give birth to for her second husband, as she had promised before the wedding. Adil was her second husband after a failed first marriage. Adil, once her great love. Or was it the other way around, had she been more his great love? What did she want? She didn’t know anymore. Narmina liked to get up late; she loved to be alone in the world of nightshade for as long as possible or to dream her dream. Her recurring dream, which led her far away, in which her body and thoughts felt light. She enjoyed the slow awakening extensively, longer than it was supposed to be. Still, she had never slept. Sliding into the day in this way was simply necessary, as she always fell asleep late when the helpful, sleep-bringing tablets finally showed their effect.
As she got into the car, she just saw her son’s nanny going into the house. The car arrived; with one last glance, Narmina captured everything that caused her to die inwardly. The place where she lived in a protective cover and not as a wife, mother and wife. Let alone as a lady who heard her quietly in herself. She designed her facade according to the needs of her self. Perfectly made up in a tight dress and on high heels. She was very different from the woman who gave birth to her daughter at the age of 19 after marrying her first husband. Then the Soviet republic fell apart, Azerbaijan had oriented itself to the west; Narmina could not and did not want to settle for this life over time. She wanted to study. Her husband could not bear an educated woman by his side. Every book she read, she had to pay with beatings and humiliations. Locked in her room, she studied the books she had smuggled into the house hidden in her clothes. True to the commandments of Islam: To use intelligence and to gain knowledge is not only the obligation for every man, but also for every woman. But if she kept these rules to him, he beat her. The family urged them to come to their senses. She should be obedient.
The driver honked through the traffic, for which there seemed to be no rules. He wanted to deliver his boss quickly in the office so that he could get another drug for his wife. Although he only had to drive a few times a day, he had a long day’s work ahead of him. He often spent his time waiting in the canteen, which was more like a kitchen, until late in the evening. Sometimes he also spent hours in front of ministries or restaurants. His main occupation was waiting.  He hurried to drive through the chaos. Those who drove the fastest, honked the loudest or even used the oncoming lane had priority. The phone rang. The president of the organization was back. In real life, Mahammad was a private banker, a friend of the great president, Alijew. Narmina knew the dependencies very well for a long time. Sometimes her boss went to Malta with the President. She called these trips „feeding pigeons.“ As a former World Bank employee, she had a clue what these trips meant. Wealth alone, however, did not necessarily free up here in Baku. Even if one of the presidential luxury allowed you to fly to Italy once a weekend to relax in a wellness oasis.
Mahammad did this regularly, mostly with his wife. But a mistake, a false political word, could undo all of this. The risk of losing his banking license drove him to control everyone else around him in order to stay in the game. But however critical she wanted to see it, the weekends on which her president was recovering were also the more pleasant ones for Narmina. The phone then remained silent for a long time.
Traffic stopped once again. Narmina wanted to get to her desk quickly. The president had been brief on his last call and only gave an instruction, but called again every five minutes because he had something else to correct or something to correct that he needed immediately. At a pace, progress was made. Slowly, the haze bell also descended over Baku, the city of the winds, but they did not blew strong enough to stop the smog. They only caused the dust that came from the countless construction sites to swirl and lay down on the body. The driver turned the car on the six-lane road, left behind the newly built magnificent buildings in recent years and turned into a small side street littered with potholes. The dust forced him to keep the car windows closed despite the heat. Houses destroyed by paid tenants, walls with broken plaster and construction debris formed the backdrop for the journey on slip roads. Houses from which one had to get out in time, if it suddenly burned at night, because one had not been willing to disappear for 30,000 Manat and to look for an apartment far outside the city. The mafia of ground speculators worked ruthlessly and successfully. With the passing ruins, these thoughts evaporated. Their thoughts were now directed at the last congress of the organization, in which Aydin had also participated, after the calls. The predecessor of their current boss. Aydin had built up the organization and had been very successful with his team. Unexpected success in an organization designed solely to preserve an entrepreneur’s appearance of social engagement was a thorn in the side of some. He had gone too far with his social commitment. That’s why Aydin had to change his job, and his team was also replaced. Now he was the right hand of a minister, Narmina his successor. She had never known what exactly it was about. This was a condition for private wealth: One had to give oneanother a social touch, to engage socially or at least successfully to preserve the appearance of the social. Failing upwards was a pleasant version of possible sanctions if one misinterpreted his role. These days he offered Narmina a job in the ministry. With the prospect of earning three times the current salary. She felt a little insecurity. Why did he do that? She sometimes considered a change, after all, the offer was tempting.  A power play, perhaps. It would be a 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. job with good pay. Charming, but the third or fourth position in the line. She knew similar structures through her many years of work at the World Bank. In her organization, she could now determine a lot – but was persecuted: from the president in the shower and to the bedroom; From the thoughts she made about her co-workers when she wasn’t already half dead in bed, dead in her ladylike shell. Yes, Lady wanted her to be, to feel like a lady. She repeated that like a mantra. Ten centimetre high heels, tight blue dress; The sad-looking brown eyes, which they looked at in the mirror in the morning, were hidden behind the large dark sunglasses and her hair was tied tightly to the back. Every day she had to prove herself in a role that she is only supposed to But her version of being able to make a difference here drove her. After all, she had a free hand to replace some people. The president’s school friends, the distant uncles, a cousin, perhaps, or those who provided good relationships in a mutual utility? Maybe. Then there was the spy in the office. She certainly wouldn’t get rid of it. That was the place in every organization. Someone who doesn’t really work. She tried not to be impressed. When Narmina finally arrived at the office, everything was quiet, as always. As usual, the men sat in front of their PC, phoned or were neven there.

Her assistant was a bright young woman, slim, clear-eyed, listening. The same was true of the other younger women in her office, all of whom exuded more energy than most male colleagues. They knew little about their employer’s background. Nobody here had too much expectation. Commitment has been carefully demonstrated, always with the possibility of taking a step back. play from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. The doctor had forbidden her from anything else. After that, it would not consume renewable energy. She was exhausted by the various roles she had to play. Refuted by the social contradictions. But her version of being able to make a difference here drove her. After all, she had a free hand to replace some people. The president’s school friends, the distant uncles, a cousin, perhaps, or those who provided good relationships in a mutual utility? Maybe. Then there was the spy in the office. She certainly wouldn’t get rid of it. That was the place in every organization. Someone who doesn’t really work. She tried not to be impressed.

When Narmina finally arrived at the office, everything was quiet, as always. As usual, the men sat in front of their PC, phoned or were neven there.Her assistant was a bright young woman, slim, clear-eyed, listening. The same was true of the other younger women in her office, all of whom exuded more energy than most male colleagues. They knew little about their employer’s background. Nobody here had too much expectation. Commitment has been carefully demonstrated, always with the possibility of taking a step back.
Others were unwilling to make an effort without additional pay, expressing their demotivation with silence, flight into illness, or verbally aggressive. Working with the employees was comparatively like working with a pile of sand. Whenever someone she had built up had worked her way up, dared, the sand have to gave in with a smile.
At noon, Narmina fled when it wasn’t too hot. Out on the dusty streets, into the building noise to buy fruit, bread or food in one of the small shops. Of these shops, there were hundreds of shops scattered across the city on every small street corner; often only small covers, as glued to the house wall. Sometimes Narmina bought some cake from a baker, who handed her the parcel straight out of the bakery through a window out onto the street. A short distance down the street, four benches stood in front of two tables in the sunshine in front of a seemingly dilapidated building. Inside was a restaurant with surprisingly acceptable cuisine. A few times she had sat there in the sun before. Inside, businessmen mostly sat. Every now and then she made room by donning her red dress. The power of this color intimidated, she quickly realized. She loved this dress simply because she felt comfortable in it and didn’t see it as a message. Well, if it was also useful to protect her facade when it was exhausted. That was one of their little escapes. Sometimes Narmina hung on to a daydream in which she was alone, smelling the salty sea, getting out of the way of everything, her family, her boss, her thoughts, her daugh She was allowed to do everything That Narmina was not allowed to do. The son she had born for her husband was not easily accessible to her. The son who was a condition for their connection. Father and son experienced a lot together, played on the computer or watched football. When her husband wasn’t sitting in front of the TV, he chatted on Facebook or played on the PC. I have three children at home, she thought. Her husband had the time she lacked. As an independent lawyer, he was underutilized, partly because he worked mainly for the political opposition. His wealthy family had disinherited him after the marriage and excluded him from the privileges of the upper class. He had to leave the apartment where he had lived, lost his car and his share of the family fortune. When he met Narmina, he had been a rich man. He could afford everything at that time and lived in carefree luxury. Now he was no longer even able to feed his family. He can’t protect me, so I have to work, she said. Although not so under this pressure. It must have been love, otherwise it was unexplainable that he took this shame upon himself. They did not marry a divorced woman with a child. And to accept the loss of his wealth, yes, that was love. But love does not last forever when status and income are lost. In the evening, Narmina set off for this home. It was already after 7 p.m. and the driver had it easier now, because the traffic had already levelled off at that time. In the distance, the three high-rise buildings ignited in the play of light glowed near the promenade, before which the water features illuminated with changing colours glistened. Starbucks, KFC, McDonald’s added to the facade. With her boss on her ear, she entered the house. In the semi-darkness the screen flickered, the jerseys of two football teams hung on two chairs. A few half-full plates of leftovers from dinner and bowls of nuts were on the table. Narmina hated that. The nanny was now 65 years old, she couldn’t clean properly anymore. And she didn’t care, she knew that. For Dzhamil, the nanny was the right mother. She had been there for him every day for 12 years, playing with the boy, cooking his favorite dishes for him. If she were released, she would not even be able to visit. So Narmina cleaned himself. She did not endure stickiness and dirt, even in a small dose. Her husband did nothing. She had sent him off for shopping a few times, with the result that he called her more often from the store and asked what milk he should bring, how much fat it should have and what rice he had to take. Every other weekend he went to his mother. With his son. Narmina was never allowed to join. The mother-in-law worked consistently to get her son divorced. At just 40 years old, he would still be young enough to be able to afford to start a new family with a virgin with the help of his family fortune. But she also enjoyed being alone, but always accompanied by this trace of poison. After the housework on Saturday night, she showered, took her tablets and then tried to sleep. If she was lucky, she dreamed of her dream. As in heaven filled with weightlessness. Liberated from the earthly. Sometimes she didn’t seem to care what the way out of her life would be. Illusion, death or hope? Perhaps as in death with full consciousness, in the hereafter merged with the universe. In a space that is to come after all existence. Very close to God without being dead. At itself, in the blue sea on the Bosphorus. Alone, without family. She misses nothing, is simply herself in this dream and can shape her reality. No children, no husband, no mother-in-law. A small apartment and time to read a book on the beach. She herself is surprised at how easy it makes this thought of not missing anything in another place in another time.

The phone rang. It was Adil.

Kernspin. Spinnen im MRT

Wenn man halbnackt in die Röhre gefahren wird um eine Magnetresonanztomographie zu erfahren, ist man nicht mehr die Person, die man kurz zuvor war. Die Wahrnehmung der Dimensionen verändert sich. Es ist, als würde man kleiner, jünger und verliere an Durchsetzungskraft und Selbstbestimmung. Nicht jedem mag es so gehen, nicht jeder mag es sich eingestehen. Mir geht es so. Verschiedenen Stufen der Kompetenz sind mir bekannt. Eines Tages habe ich diese unbewusste Inkompetenz entdeck, Ängste von mir fernhalten zu können. Ich habe keine Angst vor nichts und niemand. Illusion. Dabei kenne ich die Stufen der Kompentenz, die für jederman gelten. Die unangenehmste Stufe auf der Treppe des Selbstbewusstseins ist die unbewusste Inkompetenz. Die Stufen verlaufen von der unbewusste Inkompetenz zur bewussten Inkompetenz, oder von der unbewussten Kompetenz zur bewussten Kompetenz. Zu wissen, was man kann, ist sehr beruhigend. Was man nicht kann, braucht man im Normalfall nicht zu wissen.
In gewissem Maße trifft das auch für Fähigkeiten zu, die man bewiesenermaßen nicht hat. Objektiv betrachtet ist das MRT ein guter Praxistest der Selbstbetrachtung.

Röhren sind demnach nicht einfach nur nichts für mich, sondern ich bin ihnen völlig ausgeliefert.
Als ich noch ein Kind war, musste das anders gewesen sein. Im Stadtpark gab es einen großen Spielplatz mit einem lang ausgestreckten Krokodil, durch das man bäuchlings hindurch robben konnte. Die Krokodilröhre war so eng, dass der Rücken an der Konstruktion scheuerte,wenn man sich nicht klein genug machte. Mir verursachte das Krokodil immer ein wenig Unbehagen. Je größer ich wurde, umso höher stieg die Wahrscheinlichkeit, stecken zu bleiben.
Jetzt bin ich mir immerhin meiner Inkompetenz bewusst, also selbstbewusster. Selbstbewusstsein entsteht aus einem sich-selbst-bewusst sein.
Ich bin es gewohnt, das Sagen zu haben. Das funktioniert meistens, auch wenn ich nicht vorne bin. Das Sagen zu haben bedeutet, dass andere mir folgen. Manchmal bin ich nur hinten und greife korrigierend ein. Wenn andere mir auch folgen, wenn ich nicht da bin, führe ich. So bin ich es gewohnt, habe schließlich lange daran gearbeitet. Soweit ich mich kenne, ist mir die Kontrolle über Situationen und Personen wichtig. Das ist sozusagen mein „Want“. Hier habe ich nichts zu sagen. Stehe entblößt. Die Entscheidung, die ich treffen darf, ist es quasi, die blaue oder die rote Pille zu nehmen. Betäubt und benebelt in diese MRT-Matrix einzufahren. Oder die Realität wahrzunehmen. Ich wählte Letzteres.

Vielleicht treffe ich Morpheus aus dem Film „Matrix“ und kann die Realität überwinden. Ähnlich wie in dem Film „Matrix“, wo die Hauptfigur Thomas Anderson eine großartige Wandlung vollzieht, indem er tagsüber bei einer Software-Firma arbeitet, nachts aber als Hacker Neo im Cyberspace unterwegs ist. Hier stößt er auf den Begriff der „Matrix“ und auf den Namen „Morpheus“. Als er einer geheimen Botschaft auf seinem Rechner folgt, trifft er eine Hackerin. Sie sagt ihm, dass er in Gefahr sei und dass ihm Morpheus mehr dazu sagen könne.
Nun, dass erwarte ich von meiner Reise in den MRT schließlich auch.

Neo wacht dann plötzlich in seinem Bett auf und denkt, er habe nur geträumt. Als die beiden sich endlich treffen, kommt es dazu, dass Neo in einer anderen Welt aufwacht. In einer grauen Welt der Realität.
So fühlt es sich momentan hier auch an.
Aber ich glaube an ein gutes Ende.

Morpheus erklärt Neo – nicht mir -, was passiert ist: Im 21. Jahrhundert hat die Menschheit Maschinen mit künstlicher Intelligenz erschaffen. Als sie die Kontrolle über die Maschinen verloren, blockierten die Menschen den Zugang zur Solarenergie, um so die Maschinen auszuschalten. Die Maschinen konnten aber die Menschen versklaven und nutzen seitdem die menschlichen Körper zur Generierung von Energie.

Genauso: ich werde hier meiner Energie beraubt!

Tatsächlich liegen die Menschen bewusstlos in Tanks und leben in der Matrix, einer computersimulierten Welt. Einige Menschen konnten der Simulation entfliehen und wollen nun auch den Rest der Menschheit befreien. Ein Orakel prophezeit, dass ein Auserwählter das System zerstören wird. Morpheus ist sich sicher, dass Neo der Auserwählte ist.
Was für eine Lüge! Und das bevor die gelbhaarige Ente Präsident der USA wurde.
Bevor die schöne Corona ein erstes Experiment startete.
Man hat immer die Wahl zwischen Illusion oder Realität.
Ähnlich wie in dem Buch Hologrammatika, wo die heruntergekommene Umwelt mit eine Holomask aufgehübscht wird. Lediglich mit einer speziellen Brille kann man die Realität wahrnehmen.

So spinne ich vor mich hin. Die Zeit vergeht, doch wie wenig Zeit die Gedanken benötigen! Diese Reise durch unwahrscheinliche Welten lassen mich zu dem Schluss kommen: Ich sollte die Illusion wählen. Immer! Eben habe ich noch die Realität favorisiert. Wie leicht ich doch zu manipulieren bin. Nur das dies hier keine Simulation ist. Und ich nicht wählen kann. Nur ein wenig Betäubung könnte ich haben. Kann ich mir sicher sein, in dieser Röhre? Dabei bin ich ein freier Mensch. Der alte Anarchist Stirner kommt mir in den Sinn. Stirner und die Freiheit des Menschen. „Der Eigene, der Individualist, ist der ursprüngliche Freie, weil er nichts mehr schätzt als sich selbst. Er weiß, dass seine Freiheit vollkommen wird, wenn sie in seiner Gewalt ist. Mit einer Handvoll Gewalt kommt man weiter, als mit einer Handvoll Recht.“
Das scheint das Erfolgsrezept von Putin und Donald Trump zu sein. Ich wusste gar nicht, dass die Anarchisten sind.: „Nehmt Euch die Gewalt und Eure Freiheit kommt von selbst. Wer die Gewalt hat, steht über dem Gesetz.“ Na also. Für mich aber gilt der letzte Satz. Ungefähr geht es um die Selbstbefreiung, die man letztlich nur selbst erringen kann.

Wir verstehen das, sagt die Ärztin, was ich ihr nicht glaube. Wie lange es dauern würde? So um die 35 Minuten, meint sie. Ach so, ich hatte mit 20 Minuten gerechnet. 20 Minuten könnte ich schaffen, meine Angst zu überwinden. Habe ich bereits einmal bewältigt. Zweimal um genau zu sein, allerdings einmal etwas jämmerlich, fast weinerlich……..

Einmal war ich recht gut im Kernspin gewesen, wenn man bedenkt, wie nah der Tod scheinbar ist. Lebendig im Sarg, so ist das. Einmal war meine Schulter starr, das andere Mal hatte ich ein Geschwür in der Halsgegend. Alles musste durchleuchtet werden. In dieser Form einer Matrix kann ich auf Erfahrungen zurückgreifen. Ich habe allerdings das Gefühl, dass das Unbehagen mit jedem Mal größer wird und meine Haut dünner. Was die MRT anbetrifft, helfen Erfahrungen nur bedingt. Und ich verfüge nicht über meine Individualität.
Also 35 Minuten in Sekunden herunter zählen, was ist das schon. Aber nein, nicht einfache Sekunden. Sehr bedeutende Sekunden, die zu Beginn schnell vergehen. Nach etwa 10 Minuten werden die Sekunden schneller. Dann vergisst man die Zeit, um sich ihr anschließend, wie zur Strafe, wieder sehr bewusst zu werden.

Eine Ärztin, die im Vorraum an einem Monitor sitzt, erklärt mir, was sie sich anschauen wird. Man kann sehen, wo sich eine Arterie verschließt oder eben nicht. Will ich das wissen. Mein Kardiologe will das wissen. Mein Hausarzt will es wissen.

„Schaffen Sie das“, fragt auch die Assistentin. „Mal sehen, wir versuchen es.“ Es war weniger eine Frage denn eine Ansage.
Hinlegen. Die Blutdruckmanschette ist angelegt. 180 zu 120. Wozu benötige ich da noch ein Stressmedikament, um die Belastungsfähigkeit meines Herzens im Grenzbereich zu testen? Mir bleibt keine Kraft, charmant zu sein. Charmant die Kontrolle zu behalten und mich selbst zu behaupten. Kein „fly me to the moon“ in der Kapsel. Nur meine Gedanken rasen, fliegen wohin sie wollen.

„Wir machen erst ohne Medikamente normale Aufnahmen, dann holen wir Sie wieder raus“, erklärte die Assistentin.

Ich will gleich wieder aus der Röhre klettern. Aus dem Sarg heraus, der mir zwei Zentimeter über meiner Nase mein Sichtfeld verschließt. Ein Sarg! Ich werde sterben, wenn ich erst das Stressmedikament bekomme. Das ist der mich beherrschende Gedanke. Die erwartete unbekannte Angst, die zu der bestehenden Angst dazukommen würde, lässt mich in den Abgrund meiner Seele schauen. Ein Satz von mir gesagt, von mir selbst zitiert. Mir ist kalt. Ich zittere. Den Klingelballon halte ich fest in der Hand. Ich denke an andere Menschen, die im vergangenen Jahr gestorben sind. Was man so denkt in einem Sarg. Jüngere als ich. Ich lebe und stelle mich bescheiden an. Ist doch für einen guten Zweck. Für mein längeres Leben.

„Ich fahre Sie jetzt rein“, sagte die Frau in weiß, nachdem ich für eine Messung kurz draußen war. Die Kanüle drückt, eine Spritze wird bereitgelegt.

Es klopft und hämmert im Sarg. Presslufthämmer ballern lustig. Ich schließe die Augen und zähle. Für einen Moment schalte ich ab. Ich versuche an Nichts zu denken. Dann erscheint Ripp Corby´s Gesicht vor meinen inneren Augen. Ripp, mein Freund, der nicht älter zu werden scheint und immer gut aussieht. „Hallo Ripp flüstere ich“, symbolisch eine Hand erhebend. Es ist eine eher verzweifelte denn lockere Geste. Ich sehe sein blasses Gesicht direkt vor mir. „Ich dachte er stirbt jetzt“, sagte Ripp mit belegter Stimme. „Jetzt stirbt mein Vater“. „ Jetzt sehe ich Ripp direkt über mir, wie ein breit gequetschter Luftballon an der Decke des Kernspins, flackernd im Stakkato der Presslufthämmer.

Ripp hatte mir erzählt, das sein Vater vor einigen Tagen angerufen hatte. Er fühle sich nicht gut hatte er schwer atmend gehaucht. Ob Ripp vorbei kommen könnte. „Ich sprang aus dem Bett“, hatte Ripp berichtet. „Wenn mein Vater um Hilfe bat, musste es schon schlimm um ihn stehen. Ich stürzte ins Auto. 40 Minuten würde ich benötigen. Was würde mich erwarten? Mein Vater hatte seine Küche etwas angekokelt. Er hatte eine Pfanne mit Fett auf den Herd gestellt und war kurz ins Wohnzimmer gegangen, wurde dort abgelenkt und hatte die Küche nicht mehr im Blick. Und die Pfanne nicht.

Das hatte sich so harmlos angehört, dass ich erst am nächsten Tag hinfahren wollte.
Mein Vater hat sich dann selbst mit dem Schrubber an die Arbeit gemacht, klagte Ripp. Im Alter von 83 mit angegriffenen Herzen. Der ganze Feinstaub wurde losgelöst und hat ihm den Atem geraubt. Ich machte mir Vorwürfe! 40 Minuten! Das könnte zu spät sein.
Mein Mobilphone hatte ich zum Glück dabei. Welch eine Segnung. Nie hatte ich mich so erleichtert gefühlt, als die Verbindung klappte. 112. Feuerwehr. Ich habe kurz geschildert was Sache war. `Wir fahren hin, kommen Sie in Ruhe nach`“.

Ripp´s Ballongesicht erweiterte sich über mir und platzte.
Ich erinnere noch aus seinen Erzählungen, dass er die Wohnungstür weit geöffnet vorgefunden und die Feuerwehr seinen Vater bereits mitgenommen hatte. Der Mantel des Vaters, seine Schuhe, die Prinz Heinrich Mütze und andere Kleidungsstücke lagen wild durcheinander neben Kanülen und Gummihandschuhen auf dem Flur hinter der Eingangstür. Wiederbelebung, Verlust des Sprechvermögens und Wiederherstellung dauerten ein gutes Jahr. Ein kleines Wunder des Willens.

Und den Ärzten, die die eigentlich aussichtslose Wiederbelebung durchgeführt hatten: „Man kann nie wissen, was der Mensch will und was er kann. Ich würde jeden wiederbeleben“, hatte einer betont.

Plötzlich zieht mich die Schwester wieder raus. Ein Arzt neben ihr und sagt: „Ich bin der Arzt“ und spritzt das Stressmedikament.
Drei Minuten volle Power. Mein Kopf kribbelt, sage ich, was normal ist, sagt der Arzt. Er ist nicht beeindruckt. „Der eine verspürt eine Enge, der andere einen Druck. Ich fahre Sie jetzt wieder rein, noch dreißig Sekunden; es wird laut werden.“ Das stimmte. „Einatmen, ausatmen, einatmen…“, höre ich über die Kopfhörer. „Wie lange noch?“
„Fünfzehn Minuten, wir beeilen uns. Wir müssen alles wieder neu einstellen. Für jedes neue Bild. Einatmen, ausatmen, nicht mehr atmen!“ Lärmendes Aufnahmegerät. Schwere Platten auf meinem Brustkorb. Festgeschnallt auf der Liege, kein Entkommen. Knapp die Hälfte geschafft.

Wird fortgesetzt.