ellen bell

Some early mornings I am assailed by it. I try to turn it around into something real, something to welcome. It takes time, and then the daylight comes. And he wakes.

We talk about the fact that she might be choosing to die. He struggles with it but is also alive to the need to accept it if it is the case. She is a force. Always has been it seems. But it is a balance. She may be just low from dehydration and, once that has been dealt with, could regain a semblance of vivacity. I want she wants. What is best.

She told him that the carers had said that she was dehydrated, and that’s why she isn’t able to eat. Something to do with a dry mouth, I believe. They are going to get the doctor in to see her. It was only a few days in the ward but it clearly knocked her. She’s so fragile, easily tipped over. Keep her safe. Let her be comfortable again.

She is still in hospital. Apparently there wasn’t any available transport to return her to the home. She is stuck, wholly reliant on other’s, not whims, but circumstances. I want her to be back in her home, which, while no heaven, is hers and over which she can exercise a modicum of control.

Am I better? I ask myself on waking. It’s too early to say. Not yet. I used to kick such things out quite quickly from my body. I am a bad patient, an impatient one. I swallowed the stuff from childhood about not malingering, so taking rest in order to recover isn’t easy. I need to be utterly floored to do so and that is rare. Something isn’t quite right. That’s all. A bit under the weather. Whatever that means.

She had a fall again. Outside. She hit the back of her head and bruised her coccyx. Now she is in hospital. In a mixed sex ward. Poor love. So strong, yet so fragile.

She comes across as a good woman, kind even, but still I am uncomfortable, as is demonstrated by the inane things that come out of my mouth when I pay my now annual visit to see her. I read things as ticking offs when they probably aren’t, which just adds to my agitation. It’s the handing over the body thing, it’s mine not theirs. And I believe that I know it better than they do. And there are the pills. I don’t want them, at least not anymore. Agh! We just don’t mix. Accept it. And behave with as good grace as you can.

Sometimes, as we all can be sometimes, I suppose, when I wake him for breakfast he is grumpy. He says its the dreams of the second, post-wee sleep. This morning it was hard for him to shake it off. Let me be understanding. Always.

I don’t know what it is. It’s been hanging over my head, and weighing down my heart for some time now. Am I bored with myself and the life that I have made? Is that it? A need for change? But how can I implement this without disrupting the pleasure he seems to derive from this life of ours? It’s a crossness borne of fear. I don’t know what to do with myself, at least what I will do with myself when all this is over. It will be a caged sort of freedom, a freedom with constraints. I struggle with this disease – I know my blessings. I do.

They think that they may have a buyer for the flat downstairs. Yet more change. The daughter said that he’s buying for the quiet. He’s studying and doesn’t want to be disturbed. They’ve yet to exchange contracts, so we will see. It is still a change, for good or bad.