It was a cold, wet, windy day in April 2001 when we moved
Liz out of the hospice, and she cried as the ambulance men manoeuvred her
wheelchair into the ambulance.
Some of the nurses came out to wave her off. They stood
there getting soaked as they tried to convince her she was going to a lovely
care home and that she would be getting the same level of care she had been
getting here. Some of them said they would come and see her when they were off
duty, but I knew they were just being kind. When all was said and done, she was
just another patient and they had their own lives to lead.
Dr. Kirkham took me to one side. “I meant what I said. If
you’re not coping, call me.”
“I will,” I said.
“And feel free to drop in for a coffee if you happen to be
passing. You’ll always be welcome.”
My emotions were all over the place and I suspected that at
some point I would be making that call.
I left my car at the hospice so I could accompany Liz in the
ambulance, and I held her hand as we drove through the rain and the mid-morning
traffic.
As I wheeled her into the reception area at the care home,
Anne, the manager, saw us through her office window and came out to greet us.
She put on a beaming smile and extended her hand to Liz. “Welcome,” she said.
“I’m Anne. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Liz shook the outstretched hand. Her yes contained barely a smidgeon of enthusiasm.
“The room’s all ready,” Anne told me. “Would you like me to
get someone to take you up there, or can you remember where it is?”
“Third floor, fourth door on the left if I recall,” I said.
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll drop in and see you later, Liz,” Anne said.
“Yes.”
Anne vanished back into her office and I pushed the
wheelchair into the corridor leading towards the nursing wing. I explained to
Liz that the home had four lounges. “And this is one of them,” I said, stopping
at the residents’ lounge to the left of the corridor. Several people looked
over and smiled. “And every Thursday they have a pianist in to entertain
everyone,” I said. “He plays the music of Ivor Novello.”
I knew she liked the music of Ivor Novello. We both did. I
got no response.
I pushed the wheelchair a few steps further and pointed out
the lounge to the right of the corridor. “Here’s another of the lounges,” I
said. “This will be nice for meeting visitors.”
Liz glanced in and looked away.
I moved her on to the double doors opening into the
restaurant. “This is the restaurant. And I’m told they have a really good chef.
And since you’ll be a resident, you’ll have your own table so we can eat in
here when we feel like it.” From the look she gave me, it was unlikely we would
be eating in the restaurant.
“Would you like to see the hair-dressing salon, and the
cinema?” I said. “It’s on the next floor down.”
Liz shook her head.
I pushed her to the lift and pressed the button. “You’re on
the third floor,” I said.
I might as well have been talking to the wall.
Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true
story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of
my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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