I lay out in the unexpected sun and read the last dregs of Gerda Saunders’ book on her early-onset dementia. She was writing about assisted suicide and when I eventually closed the book and closed my eyes I began to muse about what I would do in her place. I thought about Dignitas in Switzerland and how that would be my death of choice. But who would take me? He couldn’t and I wouldn’t want him to come with me. It would have to be someone I wouldn’t struggle to leave. A friend, or a sister? I think she would be best, uncomplicated and unemotional, pragmatic. And she would make sure that she was protected against prosecution. But I’d have to insist on white sheets, white walls and no frou frou like they appeared to have in that programme. I go to sleep with that white room in my head.
She was a challenge. I could feel her getting under my skin. Leave it, he mutters. She cannot hear what he or I say. And yet, I feel huge compassion for her. There she was sans teeth, mouthing off without any bite against doctors, the NHS and giving advice left-right-and-centre about diet and lifestyle. We all do it of course, but there’s something about her delivery and my increasing frustration at not being able to make out a word of what she was communicating. Or not. I can only take her once a week. And yet, I shall miss drawing him, and him and the volunteer. Bless her, and them all.
