It’s the imposed stillness that struck me the most. She is held captive by her stroke-ridden body, wholly reliant on others to tend to her needs. The room was pleasant enough, though it had a slight miasma of detergents and urine. And we had to go through all the hoops regarding keeping the lurgy at bay, gloves, aprons, flow tests and not being able to use the loo (for half an hour almost) until we were in her room. All understandable of course but it meant we had to rush off next door right after saying hello. We went into his bathroom (they’d had adjoining rooms) and his dressing gown was still hanging from a hook behind the door (his bed had been take away, not sure why). His funeral is next week. We talked about it. I watched her as we did. She holds all the grief in. It was so sudden. I thought it was dementia, she said. They wanted his childhood teddy to put in the coffin. (He couldn’t stand the idea of cremation, she said, so he’s to be buried in a wood. His sons have organised it all. She can’t go. She can’t travel, they said.) They asked us to raise it with her, about the teddy, that is. We did. His name is Osborne (though we both thought she said Oswald, her voice is a whisper). She has three others. All with names and of varying heights and sizes. Osborne is the largest, a great spread-legged bear, much battered for who she had knitted clothes. I sat with him on my knee until we had to go. She holds herself with such elegance, even though she is constantly rubbing, and flexing her hand and leg. We do ballet exercises, she says, in a chair, obviously. She had so much and it is gone. What can you say? I wanted to hold her.
