When I wheeled Liz into her room, a senior member of the
nursing staff followed us in. She introduced herself and told Liz how to tilt
her bed. “So you can sit up comfortably to read, or watch TV,” she said. “And
it has an air mattress, so you won’t get bed sores.” There was a cord hanging
over the bed from the ceiling. “And if you’re not feeling well, pull this cord
and someone will come running.
Liz sat in her wheelchair in the middle of the room taking
it all in, but I knew she wasn’t interested. She didn’t want to be here. I
suspected she didn’t want to be anywhere, except perhaps with her maker.
While the nursing staff settled her into bed I went back to
the hospice to get my car, and Liz’s things. When I got back, Kristen was there
with the children. She helped me put Liz’s things away.
I visited Liz morning and evening. In the morning I arrived
at eleven o’clock, plus or minus a few minutes. I had done this at the hospice
and Liz had come to rely on me always turning up at the same time. It was
little more than a change of venue for me, although it did mean I got more
exercise because I walked whenever the weather allowed it. I would stay for a
couple of hours in the morning, and from around seven to nine thirty or ten in
the evening.
In the morning, if she was well enough they would get her up
and wheel her down to the reception area to wait for me and I would walk her
round the gardens then take her into the red lounge on the second floor for
coffee. If she wasn’t downstairs waiting for me, I would go straight up to her
room and we would stay there. We did eat in the restaurant once, but Liz was
uncomfortable because people tried to talk to her and she couldn’t respond.
One Saturday evening we were sitting holding hands and
watching TV when she whispered: “Do…you…have…any…drugs?”
I have no idea how she managed the words; she must have been
practising them for hours. But I knew why she had asked the question. “No, my
darling,” I said, leaning over and stroking her hair. “And if I did have any
drugs, I wouldn’t let you have them. Anything but that.”
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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