Shrinking and twisting with the pain of disease, she was vanishing before your eyes as the edges of life drew in. Her husband was kind in a gruff way, tersely particular about her food. Tears shone through the quiet conversation about the option not afforded, starkly set against the heavy obligation to participate in the unrelenting march of days. Before the stroke he was what you’d call a grumpy git. Now deprived of speech, his grunts and shouts required expert translation in order to avoid a meltdown. Stubborn, angrily dependent, meticulously precise in all things. Triumphantly choreographing the perfect routine, decoding the wordless instructions. Remembering who has two sugars and who has three. Endless key codes. Sets of teeth in glasses of water. Patience dug out when already ten minutes behind and something of some sort needs cleaning. Nervous amazement at being entrusted, required, to dole out medication, to monitor blood sugar and diet. Attempting to create homemade dinners in a scant fifteen minutes; potatoes cut small enough to cook in an eked out morsel of time. Communication mishaps. Learning to swallow exasperation, trying to encourage the tired man out of bed, to eat something, anything, whatever was in the cupboards. Later discovering that those months of apathy were his secret dying. The dread of a new round where unfamiliarity cost minutes and thus dignity. The care home that carried the air of a tired, disinfected prison. Necessary tasks hurriedly ticked off, when the aching need was company, interaction, a noticing of the other. Humanity often going unseen beneath the wrappings of age.
One of my favourites was frail as a butterfly, the sweet finale of the circle. Desperate for dinner, drearily aware of the dark drive home and the early morning alarm beckoning the dawn, I sat at the end of her bed as we cosily drank tea, told stories, and each left the other with a smile. Alzheimer’s had taken her sentences. Once a sharp mathematician, we patiently counted our way up or down the staircase. Uncomprehending fury and stiff arms resisting pyjamas. Forty-five minutes cajoling the exchange of shoes for slippers, or vise versa. Primal cries interjected with an odd word. Slow, slow. Some days the semblance of recollection, a shadow memory of affection for the family who mapped their living around her. Scratches, frustration and tears. Then, after some months, two words. My heart simultaneously broken and filled with love. A cheeky smile from the pillow as I tucked her in, and in an ending fragment of recognition, a hand gently on my arm. ‘You’re nice.’
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