It would seem impossible to imagine a phrase encapsulating a greater concentration of desperation than “children’s hospice.” It was difficult for me, even mentally, to come into contact with this side of reality. Hospice had always seemed like a hallway of death, which you’re better off not thinking about.
According to the unwritten yet insurmountable law of attraction to fear, I was put on a very complex trajectory. It began with a scandalous article about a St. Petersburg children’s hospice centre, flashing before my eyes on a random website. It continued at the public hearings that took place at the Civic Chamber of the Russian Federation, and then at a conference on ethics in journalism at the Institute of John the Theologian. Eventually, through all of this, I was a member of an excursion to the first children’s hospice.
We hope that, even in our time, humanity will acquire some kind of omnipotence, and science will somehow bring us youth, health, perhaps even immortality.
We had already had the chance to acquaint ourselves with Archpriest Alexander Tkachenko, the hospice organiser and director. So I had a good idea of how everything was arranged, and of the experience and sincere admiration in the work of all people involved there. I still could not, however, rid myself of my painful feelings of anxiety and sadness. I kept thinking to myself that I mustn’t cry — no matter what, I musn’t cry.
Everything turned out to be quite different. I had expected to be met by death and desperation, but instead, opening the doors to the cosy quarters, I was greeted by life and love, a completely different hospital to the one in St. Petersburg’s Kurakina Dacha park. I will never forget the feeling of weightlessness and joyous surprise I entered into in that moment, emerging from a thick shadow to bask in a warm patch of sunshine.
Father Alexander explained that master classes of some sort took place on a nearly daily basis, or else artists paid visits to make presentations of their own, making use of the hospice’s huge cabinet full of all sorts of costumes and props.Clocks of all shapes covered the walls of the cosy dining room, seemingly taming the time they kept. As we arrived, the children and their parents were decorating gingerbread cookies for dinner, and carried the magical smell of cinnamon, ginger, and honey. Father Alexander explained that master classes of some sort took place on a nearly daily basis, or else artists paid visits to make presentations of their own, making use of the hospice’s huge cabinet full of all sorts of costumes and props. Every millimetre of this large house was bright, at once calm and vividly colourful, impeccably clean and visually appealing. Not a single item was broken or shabby, not a single corner overlooked. Not one! All of the space was inhabitable, warm, homey. Looking around, climbing the stairs, viewing the children’s drawings on the walls, I realised that, here, beauty and immaculacy are not luxuries, but vital necessities. They provide comfort and support all on their own, to the little patients, their parents, and the staff. I also realised that my own everyday life contains a great deal more coldness and restlessness than can be found here.
The seen and the heard suddenly formed into a coherent picture: only by appreciating and respecting Life, every moment, every breath, can such a setting be created. After all, we often treat life with the disregard of an appraiser in a seedy pawnshop — it is too short, it is stressful and unhappy, the world doesn’t please us often enough. Life is worth nothing if it doesn’t include an expensive car, glamorous travel, an endless assortment of cheese and strawberries at five in the morning on New Year’s Eve. We devalue life, grovelling in misery of what has gone unfulfilled and in regret of what wasn’t achieved, or was lost, or passed by. We argue that it would be better to die than to live as an invalid. In response to every other triviality, we are ready, without hesitation, to claim that it would be better to die. We dare to tell parents who have lost a child how it must be impossible to survive, not realising that, in doing so, we reproach them for remaining alive. Or, just as bad, we urge them to try for another, as they are still young.
We do not value or respect life, which means that we are afraid of and refuse to accept the reality of death. I think that’s why news about even the most trivial medical discoveries immediately appears, widespread and with catchy headlines: “British scientists claim a person can live up to 150 years,” or, “Green tea prevents cancer and age-related struggles.” We hope that, even in our time, humanity will acquire some kind of omnipotence, and science will somehow bring us youth, health, perhaps even immortality.