This pit is deep. Unfathomable.
He can’t hold on. He’s falling.
The sides are slippery with stinking slime - the putrefying puss of
disease. Raging relentlessly in the dark
and dreadful depths, a maelstrom of malice and misery awaits him.
The thin sheet covers his trembling body like a shroud. The spasms are worse - violent and frantic – as
if entombed in some ghastly sarcophagus, battling to be free.
His jaw is clenched tight. His eyes locked shut. His hands, clasped together in a fearsome
grip, across his chest. And the
shuddering goes on and on and on.
I direct the fan towards his face, to help release the
breath that seems trapped in his throat.
‘There’s nothing left that I can give him,’ says the Doctor,
her third visit of this terrible week, reluctant to add even more to the
cocktail of 37 tablets a day.
‘Is he still taking Lorazapam when he’s like this?’
‘He had nine before I could get him out of bed.’
We speak in whispers – he’s so fragile the slightest sound
might hurt his ears.
There’s a groan. A whimper. He needs to move.
Ever so carefully, making sure not to snag the catheter –
the latest intrusion in an already violated body - I remove the sheet. His nakedness is of no concern: clothes
cannot be tolerated today. His skin, so
sensitive that the gentlest brush of my hand burns like acid. I attempt the procedure of hoisting him from
his chair without actually touching him.
Impossible, of course. He
grimaces in pain, but he does not protest.
Les, who seconds ago had unwittingly called in for a quick cuppa,
finds himself witnessing the unfolding of a horror story. He watches with wide, worried eyes, mesmerised.
There’s nothing he can do.
Nothing the Doctor can do.
Nothing any of us can do.
But wait.
Wait for Nigel to hit the bottom of this latest pit. When he hits, he’ll stay a while. There’ll be a pause, a period of rest. Then, pure determination will drive him to
begin the agonising and gruelling climb out.
When at last he emerges, he will have changed. There
will be a greyer hue and new sallowness to his skin, his limbs will be much
more futile and consequently there will be numerous things he can no longer
do. The clarity of his speech will have
deteriorated further. His overall
weakness and vulnerability will be obviously increased. He will have moved on. Be in a different place.
And he too, will be different. A significant part of him will be left in the
bottom of that pit. But the haunting
apparitions of the horrors he endured he will carry with him and they will be forever
reflected in the depths of the shadows that hide in his eyes.
Later, much later, when the
carers have gone, I sit in his room and watch him sleep. A
little extra morphine has helped to calm him, but the rapid eye movements
behind his eyelids indicate that he’s dreaming.
Where have your dreams taken you?
I wonder. Are you in your wheelchair? Or can you still run and climb and ride your
bike and erect complex scaffold structures in your dreams? Maybe you’re on the golf course? Can you feel the swish of the driver as you
smartly strike the ball, or the delicate stroke of the putter as the ball drops
in the hole? Perhaps you’re in the pub,
enjoying a pint.
Or perhaps you’re with me?
Where are we? What are we doing?
Is it our wedding day? You, with your Mexican ‘tash and sweeping
quiff, looking resplendent in your smart grey suit and platform shoes. Me, feeling like a princess in the dress my
Mum has made. Are you holding my hand as
we stand, freezing in that church?
I wonder if we’re on holiday,
lazing in the sun, sipping a cool G and T.
Could be in Tenerife, our first ever trip abroad with the kids. The first time I’d been on a plane, pretending
to be brave, but secretly terrified. Are
we melting in Malta or are you reliving the fun of Florida? Remembering the delight on Ellie and Becky’s
faces as they marvelled at the awe-inspiring, endless procession of Disney’s
characters; or are you listening to the piano player who held Craig captivated,
whose tuneful rendition Craig has since belted out a thousand times?
We might be wandering along the
Champs d’Elysees in Paris, or you could be cleaning windows with Craig. You could be moving us all to Scarborough in
that rickety old van; swinging from the scaffolding; singing in the bath; zooming
down the aisle in your wheelchair with Becky on your knee to deliver her to her
future husband; watching the grandchildren open their presents on Christmas
morning; hurtling headfirst towards the tarmac as Ellie and her bike collide
catastrophically into yours; losing a few quid in Vegas or simply meeting me
from work.
Wherever you are … I miss you.
So very, very much.
I miss us.
We never expected this. Nothing in our dreams ever led us to where we
are now.
But here we are. Here
you are. And they gave you only three to
five.
‘Every day is a bonus,’ you have said since you hit the five-year mark.
And you have embraced every single, unexpected day with courage, with
laughter and with love.
You seem a little more settled.
Breathing deeply. I’ll sleep on
the chair in your room tonight. I want
to be here in case you wake.
I’ll just catch up with Facebook …
‘Live for today: tomorrow isn’t promised,’ says a post on my
page.
I won’t dip into the thousands of comments, I can guess the
sentiments expressed in them. Something
along the lines of: ‘take nothing for granted;’ ‘you never know what’s round
the corner;’ ‘life is a gift, treasure it;’ ‘live every day as if it were your last.’ That’s a good one.
Hasn’t everybody vowed to do that at some point? -
Usually as the curtain closes on the coffin of a loved one. That’s when decisions are made to make the
most of the rest of your life. Filing
out of the crematorium, the plot to get the better of death takes shape. Death won’t sneak up on me before I’m good
and ready, goes the rant. I will not die
harbouring regret. I will make sure I
have said and done all that must be said and done. Not another minute will I waste. I will welcome each day with joy - I will live every day as if it were my last!
In my case, this noble determination is generally forgotten
by the time the first glass is raised to toast the dead.
But, assuming my resolve could be sustained for more than an
hour, how would it actually work for me?
Would I linger more as I walk the dog? Would I hold my face to the rain as I do to
the sun? Would I smile and have a
little chat with fellow dog-walkers?
Remark on the lovely day, the swell of the sea, the cloudless sky?
Actually, would I even walk the dog?
Possibly not. On my
last day, wouldn’t I want to be surrounded by family and friends? Who would I want to see? Who would I exclude?
Perhaps I might take a moment to sit on a bench, read its
memorial plaque and ponder on the lives of those already loved and lost. I could share their beloved view of
Scarborough for a while.
I look at Nigel’s sleeping face and listen to the sound of
the ‘NIPPY’ rhythmically forcing air into his lungs.
Would you like a bench?
I ask, silently. On the golf
course, perhaps? The eighth tee ought to be the place. I can imagine what you would want the plaque
to say:
“Don’t drive into
that clump of trees on the right …”
Such gamesmanship would guarantee their drive would slice directly
to ‘Casson’s
Copse’, so called because you were a constant visitor to that little
clump of trees.
‘Cass, you bastard!’ they
will say, smiling a little, as they remember your inimitable laugh.
If every day were lived as our last, bills would go unpaid
and savings would be spent. There would
be little point in following the soaps on TV or getting hooked on a new box
set.
Imagine Christmas day – expecting to depart on Christmas Eve
there would be no gifts, no turkey and no tree. Twenty people turning up for lunch and not a
sprout in sight.
Of course this old maxim shouldn’t be taken literally. Spending the time we have doing what we love
to do, being with the people we love to be with and making the most of the present,
is the point.
But most of us have to endure in the present much of what we
despise, in order to be able to do what we love at some point in the
future.
Because isn’t it the future that drives us? What we plan for? We make dental appointments and save for
holidays. We set ourselves long-term
career goals, invest in pensions, and take out twenty-five year mortgages.
Once again, I look at Nigel’s sleeping face.
So much for planning, eh, Nige?
What of our future?
Of yours?
The ethereal spectre hovers at the end of Nigel’s bed. I have become accustomed to its
presence. Tonight, strangely, it does
not seem quite so ugly. Neither is it as
menacing as once it was. There is
something different about it, something intangible.
And then, I see it -
And then, I see it -
Compassion.
