Long golden hair cascaded over
her shoulders and veiled us from the indifferent chittering of squirrels and
the curious eyes of sparrows in the branches of the old Oak above us. Her sweet
laughter reverberated down her arms and through the press of her small hands into
my chest; coaxing my own laughter from me. My eyes traced every detail of her
face – from the curve of her lips, the straight slant of her nose to the
crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
Slowly I reached upwards to
touch her cheek, barely able to contain the overwhelming elation I felt
swimming inside my chest. Amidst the joy, however, there was an undercurrent of
something else creeping in. Anxiety? As my fingers brushed along the line of
her jaw, my lips began to tremble. A squall of fear was flooding in and taking
over. I firmly held her face between both of my shaking hands, just to make
certain she was real and here with me.
She continued to smile down at
me “Something troubling you?”
Relief cascaded over me at her
words. I drew in a shuddering breath in an attempt to still my nerves. “Lucy… Promise
me you will never go? Never disappear?”
Lucy’s eyes searched mine, and
she slowly lowered her lips to my ear. “David…”
Then, she vanished.
***
Again,
as I always do when I dream of her, I came to with a weak and wavering cry that
can only be elicited from a body old and frail. And again, as my thoughts
recollect themselves, confusion subsiding, I look down at my now old and
weathered hands with a heavy heart as they feebly grip onto the arms of the
aged and threadbare armchair. The ugly, mismatched chair she used to love, once
so garishly bright and out of place. I was often struck by the subtle irony of
it; that this chair I once so strongly disliked and had countless disagreements
with her to dispose of over the years was now the one place I would use to
cling to her memories. At night, when the loneliness crept in and battered at
my fragile heart, I would come to this chair and think of her, taking comfort
in her memories and presence that lingered here.
I
could still feel the warmth of her breath grazing the length of my neck. I
closed my eyes.
Dawn
was breaking now, and I prepared myself for the journey ahead, glad to now be
going where I wouldn’t have to endure the silent stillness of what was once a
lively and loving home.
As
I retrieved my hat and coat from their stand, my eye caught on a pair of her
shoes, untouched and blanketed by years of dust. I could still recall with
crystalline precision the very first moment I realised something wasn’t quite
right, about twelve years ago.
***
“Love? Whatever is the
matter?” I called to her, my stomach tying itself in knots as I approached her
quickly where she sat at the foot of the stairs, crying as though her heart
might break. I could never abide my wife’s sadness if it so happened to strike
her. Yet, as I knelt at her feet, I was ready and willing to do whatever it
took to take that sadness from her and make it all okay again.
“These stupid shoes! They
don’t work!” she sobbed, hiding her tear-streaked face behind fisted hands.
My gaze slid to her feet, the
laces haphazardly knotted and trailing outwards.
“Love?” My fingers gently
found the back of her neck and traced soothing lines and circles. “What did you
do?”
“I’ve been trying to tie them!
I can’t do it…”
I watched as she demonstrated
with uncoordinated hands. Her fingers, usually so deft and swift were suddenly
clumsy and directionless.
“Sweetheart…” I said with
kindness, taking her hands and kissing them. “Let me.”
***
Stepping
onto the bus, I fumbled for my travel pass before flashing it to the driver who
casually nodded his acknowledgement. It was early, and the bus was almost
vacant. I sat with haste on the first seat available, as though my being closer
to the front of the bus would bring me to my destination that little bit
faster. I wrung my hands with agitated impatience. I’d survived the long,
desolate night. But the ten minute journey merely filled me with an increasingly
potent, unquenchable longing.
As
was almost custom, my mind drifted to more memories of her.
***
“Mr Reed…” came the amiable,
yet professionally well-versed voice of the Head Nurse. “I understand how
difficult this is for you. But, I assure you that this will be in the very best
interest of you both. The assessment that was carried out clearly indicates
that your wife is very much in need of round the clock care – care that is far
too strenuous for yourself to carry out alone adequately. Of course, it is
still largely your decision, but we do strongly advise that you consider this
option.” The nurse smiled at me with sad, understanding eyes.
After two years, the battle
was lost. Being seventy-eight years of age myself, I had to admit that continuing
to care for her myself just wasn’t feasible. I stared lifelessly at the floor.
I wanted to be the one to care for her. She was my wife. My life for the past
fifty years. My old, tired body was letting me down now, and I just couldn’t
keep up any longer. But I reminded myself that this wasn’t about me. If there
was one thing I could do, it was to ensure she was properly taken care of. Even
if it can’t be me.
“Yes…” came my defeated
response. “Please… take good care of her.”
***
The
structure of the care home loomed above me as I approached on foot from the bus
stop. There was a sign to the left of the large double doored entrance that
promptly read:
Lark
Care Homes
Your
loved one’s needs are ours to appease
I
pressed the security buzzer nestled into the wall just next to the sign and
waited attentively for the response, as was routine.
“Hello, Lark Care Homes, how
may I help you?” came the tinny voice through the small
speaker.
“Good
morning, Stephanie, it’s David. May I come in?”
“Oh, good morning, Mr Reed!
Come on in.”
There
was a brief buzzing noise followed by a faint click as the double doors
unlocked, admitting entrance to the building.
As
I crossed the threshold, my senses welcomed the almost clinically clean
environment of the Care Home. All was still in the early hours of the morning.
I always liked to arrive before the rush of morning duties.
My
heels clacked on the linoleum floor, the sound carrying down the corridor and
echoing against the pristine white walls as I ambled my way towards my wife’s
long term room. It may sound strange, but this place, in all its cold and
clinical detachment is where I had felt most at home over the past ten years.
Even
as she began to forget…
***
“David…” began the duty nurse
with sympathy “this is something that can happen as Alzheimer’s progresses, I’m
afraid.”
“But why?!” I struggled to
contain the whirlwind of emotions tearing through my very being at that moment.
After all we’d had, after everything we had endured thus far… Lucy… my wife…
she could hardly recognise me.
As the months went by, it took
longer and longer for her to recall who I was. Until one day, six years ago,
she’d forgotten me altogether. I’d become another nameless, faceless part of
her daily routine.
But I was happy to be just
that. If that’s all I could be, I’d take it gladly and with a smile.
Lucy gave me the kind of life
anybody would be lucky to have. Now it was my turn to make hers as comfortable
and easy as I possibly could. Until the end of her days.
***
“Ah,
David!” said Nick, this morning’s health care assistant. “Lucy is up and ready
for her breakfast if you were wanting to take care of that again?”
“Yes,
thank you Nick. What is she having today?” I glanced down at the breakfast
trolley Nick was now wheeling through Lucy’s bedroom door and followed him
inside.
“Ah…
apple pancakes, I believe?” He stopped the cart at the end of Lucy’s bed and
turned to face me. “I’ll just leave you to it, then?”
Nick
bustled hastily from the room, ready to handle his next patient as I
purposefully drifted towards my wife who was sat up in bed, her eyes fixed
towards the window.
The
warm morning sunlight was now reaching through thick, pink clouds to kiss her
face. At eighty-six years old, she was still beautiful. Always so beautiful.
The butterflies she’d caged inside my stomach when we were twenty-four were
still there. I knew they always would be.
I
carefully took her hand in mine and studied her face as she stared curiously at
the large Oak tree across the verdant gardens of the Care Home.
“Love?”
I entreat her “It’s me. It’s David.” I no longer expected a response from her.
But I’d tell her all the same. Always the same.
I
prepared her breakfast, cutting it up into small bite-size pieces. Apple
pancakes… they smelled just like the ones she used to make every Saturday. It
was almost too overwhelming to bear. A tear slid down my cheek as I fed the
first bite to her and I hastily wiped it away with my free hand. This was not
the time to feel sad. We were together, after all.
“Hey?”
I
looked up straight into Lucy’s attentive eyes. She’d not looked at me like that
in years.
She
smiled then. Forming those same crinkles at the corners of her eyes that I
loved so dearly, only much deeper now and spotted with the tell-tale signs of
years gone by.
She
leaned towards me, and I placed my ear to her waiting lips.
“Something
troubling you… David?”
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