Time was Precious

Twelve hours to go...

I should be thinking about all the meaningful things in my life. I should be revisiting the well-thumbed memories in my mind’s catalogue of experience. I should be itching to see all the people I haven’t had a chance to catch up with. I doubt they’ll come. Would I, in their position? I should be making atonement for my past errors. I should be writing letters of apology. I should be doing all the things that you’re meant to take care of. All I can think of is my own body. All I can feel is the duvet wrapped around my mottled head, the burning sensation in my stomach, hot as an inner furnace, the puckered skin that covers what once was nimble bone and taut muscle.

Eleven Hours to go...

I should be asking for my daily walk. I should be asking to see the blue expanse of sky. I should be cherishing every sight and giving myself the opportunity for exposure to them. I should be breathing the garden’s air. I should be observing the borders of this place I thought I could call home. All I can do is count down the minutes until dinner, stay static and hold my left hand with my right. All I can do is squeeze one hand with the other: an act of assurance, a way of saying, “I’ll be there for you when no one else is.”

Ten Hours to go...

I should be talking to the people around me. I should be tying up the loose ends. I should be digging out the documents that might be needed. All I can do is greet the arrival of breakfast like a half-starved stray. All I can do is stretch my begging hand in the direction of the delivery of tasteless sustenance. I feel the plate in my palm and the smell of its contents assault my senses. All I can do is wish that it wasn’t porridge for breakfast today. All I can do is wish for some variety, for some small say in the way I get to live.

Nine Hours to go...

I should be helping to direct my belongings into the right boxes. I should be making room for the next resident. I should be acknowledging the friends I’ve made. I should be staring at all the family photos I have around the room. I should be praying to God, or to the people I’ve lost, or to something I believe in; anything. All I can do is sit in my memory foam chair, staring with a glazed expression at the unconvincing characters on the TV screen. All I can do is watch the staff coming and going with beady, scrutinous eyes, failing to trust them anymore.

Eight Hours to go...

I should be serenading everyone on the piano like I did when I arrived. I should be singing at the top of my lungs. I should be leading the choir in chorus. I should be filling in the hours of the day. All I can do is sit, empty handed, staring at the framed picture that adorns the wall; the one I’ve never liked nor understood. It has a painfully pale child on a hobby horse. The child isn’t smiling. All I can do is wonder what it means. I try to get to the bottom of it, but in the end, I always give up. I wish they’d take it down from the wall. It has become an object I associate with trauma just because it reminds me of where I am and what stage I am at in life. At least I won't have to look at it any longer. Its haunting presence will be passed on to the next occupant.

Seven Hours to go...

I should be jumping at the chance to have a bath in hot, healing water. I should be enjoying having my hair towel dried and then blow-dried, by different sets of hands to my own. All I can think of is the water that has run into my eyes by mistake and the sting of it that blinds me, the claw-like nails of the mobile hairdresser as she scrubs the little remaining life out of my scalp.

Six Hours to go...

I should be regarding the impressive gardens through the wide windows. I should be watching the movements of the birds. They’ve done all they can think of to attract them to that place, in terms of bird houses, bird baths, fat balls, feeding trays, but their comings and goings barely register with me. I should be interested in everything around me. All I can do is sit and look inward, ignoring my surroundings and wishing time would come to a halt – or that it had at a stage preferable to this one.

Five Hours to go...

I should be making some wisely worded diary entries, logging my thoughts and feelings for future worriers. I should be applying the last of my make-up – the small amount of residue left in the lipstick casing, forgotten for ever by people with disposable tendencies and modern day attitudes. All I can do is sit, as if in a state of paralysis, watching it all play out around me, like a theatrical disappointment for which it’s too late to request a refund. The final curtain will be coming down shortly.

Four Hours to go...

I should be standing back while they strip everything out of my room that made it mine. I should be bowing my head submissively, showing my gratitude for my time spent here. I should be handing out handwritten cards with messages inside that inspire tears, even in those with the woodiest exteriors. All I can do is continue to sit in my chair. I don’t have the option to move around. My body isn’t willing.

Three Hours to go...

I should be taking my last cup of tea with reverence. I should be self-effacing and easy to please. I shouldn’t request extra sugar or milk, even though they know I take it. God knows I’ve been here long enough. They don’t usually forget. They’re already erasing me from their memories. All I can do is voice my needs. I’m the only one that will.

Two Hours to go...

I should be in a state of acceptance by now. I should gladly be receiving my last dinner. I should be making this easy for them. All I can do is sit with my own discomfort and sense of injustice writhing inside me. All I can do is appear biddable on the outside whilst I’m screaming inside.

One hour to go...

I should be waving enthusiastic goodbyes to the staff of the residential home. I should be thanking them for their efforts these last few years while I was still mobile. I should be glad I’m moving to a nursing home with specialised care, for those of us they want rid of but that they’re stuck with until the end. I should be smiling sweetly as the nurse wheels me into my room. I should be happy to see my new room; to have somewhere else to go. But all I can do is look around and realise this is my waiting room for death and to all that knew me, I’m already gone.