She was back in the home when we went to see her yesterday. I wanted to write ‘back home’ but she isn’t back home. Her home has gone, as her husband and all that she knew and loved and cherished. She is reduced down to one room that houses the remains of that fullness – the photographs, the baby drawings from grandchildren, her books and her multitude of teddies. She was confused after the trauma of hospital, a new hip and being buffeted about -“They only gave me half a hip. I asked them if they were cost-cutting.” Bemused, she said: “I’d couldn’t remember how to brush my teeth this morning.” They also forgotten to bring her handbag and laptop with her back from the hospital. She was particularly upset about her bag. “All my jewels are in there,” she said, and she showed me her now naked wrist usually delicately adorned with a couple of enamelled heart-shaped bracelets that her late husband had given her. She was lying on the bed, too tired and too sore to sit in the chair. She is tiny. Her skin is soft and cool to the touch. He loves her. I love her. We whisper encouragement. Keep going. The will is there. I know it and he knows it.
She will recover.
