jmgoyder

Well so much for the red wine idea. When I went into the nursing lodge this afternoon I could see that it wasn’t going to work today. I walked in through the entrance doors to the unlocked side of the section where Anthony is, past the foyer and into the big room where various activities happen, and stopped short when I saw that there was, indeed, an activity going on.

I stepped back and apologized for my intrusion into what I found out later was an occupational therapy session of skittles (like bowls), but I was immediately welcomed in by a combination of residents, carers and staff. But I hesitated, as my eyes searched the small crowd of people sitting around the ‘bowling alley’, looking for Anthony and, as I stood at the doorway, and the woman in charge began to finish the session, I saw him in the far corner, sitting in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the room. He didn’t see me and, as I waited for the bowling session to evolve into afternoon tea, and those residents who could walk vacated their chairs to sit at a long table that had been set up, I watched him for a few moments before rushing up to kiss him and help him get to the table.

In those few moments I saw what other people see – a big man, slumped in a chair with a look of such blankness on his face that, if you didn’t know him, you would assume he had utterly lost the plot. You would walk past him assuming he was beyond communicating with. You might give him a glance of pity and keep walking, not noticing that he turned his head just a fraction to see if you were someone he knew. I read in his expressionless face such a look of undisguised sorrow that I wanted to run at and through him like a ghost-angel and turn around and find him back to the way he was. I also wanted to run away, to sob, to smash the room up.

Instead, I joined him for afternoon tea with a group of other residents, many of whom are from the dementia section. Ants is in the high care section but the dementia section is next door. I shared some chitchat and chocolate with the residents, carers and volunteers as I sat close to Anthony, who gripped my hand in his and who couldn’t stop looking at me. Then I helped him back to his room and settled him in (with the help of a walker contraption which he is now supposed to use instead of the walking stick).

We then had our usual discussion about coming home – him saying how he wanted to come home for the day/night, and me saying he had become too heavy for me, and him saying he could try harder etc. Then, just as I was about to begin yet another explanation as to the why of our predicament, Anthony began to yawn and yawn and yawn. Every time I reached a point of extreme eloquence he would yawn again. Finally, I said, “Am I boring you?” And he said, “You are a bit.”

I laughed all the way home!

So here is cheers; I have decided to have a glass of red wine.

I am a beer girl myself but Anthony prefers red wine. I remember when we’d go out to lunch or dinner, the waitress would always give him the beer and me the wine and a bit of laughter would be exchanged before we swapped drinks.

This afternoon, I decided to do something different and go see Ants at 5pm instead of earlier in the day. I rang him beforehand and he answered the phone (a miracle in itself!) and I said I was coming in to have a drink.

It was WONDERFUL! I now think this might be the best time to visit because the atmosphere is more mellow than the flurry of daytime. I took the bottle of wine into his room and poured him a glass and I opened my beer and we had a drink together, laughing and talking and then his dinner was brought in and I helped him with that a bit and then I had to go, and he was fine!

Thank you, red wine!

When life holds its breath

And the rubbish bin hasn’t been emptied yet

And the dishes haven’t been done again

And you hope for the unthinkable

That you will only be able to breathe again when he can’t

When your friends either overwhelm or discard you

When your family pities you and can do nothing to help, no matter how hard they try

You can always smash the lung balloon of life and make it breathe again

Or not

You can remember every single moment of your life with the person who is dying

Loud, boisterous parties in the kitchen with the stereo blasting

Discovering little bits of each others’ stories like drops of sweat or dew

A single perfect camellia

A cheeky half moon

A baby, now grown as upright as a karri tree

A child who doesn’t remember, but knows his father was not always as ill as now

A teenager who doesn’t remember our holidays, our joy, our frivolity

When life holds its breath

All you can do is wait for the inevitability of death

And hope the slow motion can be fast forwarded in order to skip the bad and boring bits

So that your own breath will come back

So that things will not be endlessly paused

A story with a definite resolution

A bird dead or alive but not dying, not dying

When life holds its breath

You have to tap it on the shoulder

Make it see what you see

Give it mouth-to-mouth

Kiss death, kiss life

Brandish humour like a sword

Overcome fear with love

Embrace the influx of crows

Stop wondering why

Stop crying and crying and crying

Take the white peacock feather from the ground and put it behind your ear

Wrestle the dreams of falling by becoming a giant

When life holds its breath

You have to make sure you can breathe for yourself

You have to hold the hand of your dying husband

You have to candle yourself into a glowing smile

You have to flap your wings like an angry gander with no tomorrow in mind

You have to remember and love all of the people you once knew who were dying and you did nothing

And understand the why of the fear of impending death

The loneliness of now and the absence of then

When life holds its breath