Kristen had given birth to twin girls. Jane and Jade were as
cute as they come, and Liz would sit up in bed with her pillows plumped up
behind her and smile happily as the twins romped on her bed. Kristen brought
them, and James, round most days.
On the days Liz felt well enough to get up and get dressed,
we would sit at the dining room table and work on 1,000-piece jigsaws. And she
spent a great deal of time watching daytime TV. The asinine programmes the TV
stations were putting out bored me senseless and I stayed busy by getting on
with decorating the flat, and taking long walks. These seemed to help burn off
my stress. And occasionally, if Liz seemed okay to be left on her own, I would
arrange a game of golf.
Liz could still walk, although not more than three or four
hundred yards at a time, and when we came back from walking a short distance
down The Avenue and back, or round the shop windows in Westbourne, she would
have great difficulty climbing the stairs to the flat. I realised it was a
mistake to have bought a flat with no
lift, but this was being wise after the event.
As time went by, Liz spent less and less time up and more
and more time in bed. And Sue, our doctor, came more and more often. One day,
the two of them sat on one of the silk sofas holding hands with tears in their
eyes. I had never seen a doctor cry, and the scene upset me so much I had to
excuse myself and go and lie down and have a weep of my own.
The last time Liz walked unaided was on Christmas Day, 2000,
when we went to a pub in Westbourne for a turkey-and-all-the-trimmings
Christmas lunch with Kristen, her husband Graham, and the children. Liz managed
the walk back holding onto Kristen’s arm and mine, but Graham and I had to
carry her up the stairs to the flat.
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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