Monday, 7 December 2015

Whimper as You Fade


It’s that whimpering again. That flutter breath that squeezes the last vestiges of air in then out again that gets to me. It is so damn irritating.

Sitting in the dark as the fear she feels for her final release presages a nervous paranoia about being put to bed. She sits in her chair wrapped in a duvet her feet stretched out on a cushioned stool. I sit with her in the dark ashamed of my moaning whilst fearing the inevitable. Ashamed of my fear and the manner in which that fear turns to rage.

Anger? What right have I to be angry? It is she that suffers but in that suffering I am of little use and that impotence has me transfer my rage onto her, onto the situation I find myself in.

I hate this dark. I hate her illness but most of all I hate this loneliness. Just me and her and that damnable whimpering.

I hope my death comes quick. I don’t want death come looking for me far better I go seek him.

Dylan Thomas was right but when you have nothing to rage with all you can do is whimper.

After the carers have been, put her to bed and gone, I make her tea then sit with her awhile.

"Don't put me in a home," she pleads.

"Of course not," I say.

"I'd rather die here."

"You can't die yet," I tell her, "you know what dads like, he hasn't decorated your place in heaven yet."

And me an agnostic.

She smiles at me as I think to myself she won't last long enough to be put in a home even if I wanted to.
 

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Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

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