It took him seven days to die. They told them they were going to give him the syringe driver and that it may take a couple of days. It took seven, she said. Seven days without food or water. How can the body last so long? They gave him enough morphine to knock him out, she said. But not enough to kill him? I asked. They’re not allowed to. We wouldn’t treat animals like that, she said. No. We wouldn’t. We’d put them to sleep. Make it easy for them. Not let them suffer. They did all they could, she said, bringing us endless cups of tea. I had to pour it down the sink it was too much. She is still in grief. To be so helpless. They all stayed with him, sleeping upright in a chair in his room. We held his hands< she said. They said he wouldn’t feel it but he may be able to hear. So we played music. He loved music.
She cuts my toenails as we talk. I don’t know her well, though we’ve both been going to her for years now, he regularly and me just every 6 months. Need to look after your feet. I ask so much of mine. She’s dyed her hair blonde. She is a prickly woman but I like to hear her voice. There is a no nonsense to her that I always find attractive. She admits to not liking the company of women. She is bristly.
He cut himself shaving. Just a wee nick. A spot. And it gushed out. We couldn’t stem the flow. He is lying on his bed now resting. It was too much. Has it stopped? I have to go to work now. Soon. And the rain just pours and pours. I got soaked walking. Saturated. So be it.
Am I still hurting? A little. Though the outcome is better. I can stay at home. And work and prepare the house for Christmas. A little. In our way. I think of the two of them in another home with another life – let it be. There are other gifts to be had. Those that are mine. Just mine.
