not the end, but...

C's light went out at around 4.40 this morning.

I'll be back

passing thought

Sometimes I think that C will never get out of bed again, will never see our garden again, or walk around it with me, will never taste fresh figs again, or gulp cold water on a hot day, or lie in the sun in a hammock and reach up to pick an orange from breakfast, or wear any of those fine clothes and shoes with which she bedazzled the streets of every town she has graced with her presence: and then I think, oh but she did do those things, and dozens, hundreds, of others equally exquisite and bliss-provoking, and she did them many, many times.

And then I think about something else.

still here...a vignette

Yesterday, and I’m talking to the visiting hospice nurse to fill her in on C’s condition. We were standing either side of the bed, talking over C, who is in Sleeping Beauty mode: her face, still lovely, and pale beneath the fading tan, is framed by the lace of her nightgown and the broderie anglaise trimming the pillow. She has been asleep for hours, and did not move when the nurse, Viv, came in.

Viv and I were discussing the best way to minimize the occasional acute pain she has been getting from the ascites that has swollen her abdomen, and which is greatly aggravated by any movement, and particularly coughing. The nurse had suggested she would be more comfortable if propped up in bed, but I pointed out that in stillness, C was in absolutely no pain, but when moved, was in agony – brief, admittedly, but still agony.  ‘She doesn’t like to be manhandled,' I said.

Timed to perfection,  the words ‘Speak for yourself' floated up from the frail figure on the bed.