18th June 2006 – Daisy, daisy

I noticed today that I hadn’t seen Daisy for a few days. Then I noticed I hadn’t seen Molly. Molly – with her enormous leg – was always either in the chair by the door, or shuffling it down to sit outside her room. And Irene, where’s she been, haven’t seen her for a day or two either.

I ask Susie – who’s there so often that nothing much gets past her. They all died, Daisy in her sleep, just of old age, Irene just dropped down dead – undiagnosed ovarian cancer apparently – and Molly struggled against death but it got her too, heart failure.

I wonder if I am the only relative that feels a little jealous and I suspect I am. I look at Susie’s face as she lovingly cares for Donald, feeding him a thick creamy calorific yoghurt and wiping his chin and I know she’s not jealous. I look at Jim, reading his paper one-handed because, sitting beside his sleeping wife, he won’t let go of her hand. I know he’s not jealous.

I look across at Dad. And I’m still a little jealous and a lot appalled, appalled that I really want this man’s life to end. I know it’s not just for me, I don’t want him to get worse, to have the flashes of lucidity and clarity when he knows what’s happening and gets scared. I don’t want him to lose his dignity, to end up being helped in and out of a chair and fed calories. I know it’s not just for me, but a bit of it is. The bit that wants to stop coming here, the bit that never wants to smell that smell again, the bit that I’ll ignore and come back tomorrow and the next day and when I need to I’ll feed him thick yoghurt.