When Siobhan moved to the home she lives in now, there was another woman remarkably similar to her moving into the room one door down. The same size and height, style of clothing, the same short ash blonde hair, the same way of holding their heads at an angle as if they were hearing music in the distance. They were so alike that in the beginning some of the carers mixed up their names and would say Goodnight Lilly to Siobhan and vice versa. Except for the fact that Lilly sang. Lilly sang in her armchair, and in the halls, and at the dining table and as her illness progressed and sporadic outbursts of confusion and agitation became more constant, she still sang. A high soprano voice singing along with the pile of Cds stacked by the little grey stereo with the tinny sound, operas and crooners, tenors like Caruso, Carreras, Pavarotti and Domingo. Wait till you hear Lilly sing says the lady who is drawing room numbers and surnames on my Mothers clothes with an indelible black marker to ensure they are re-hung in the proper room post laundering. In the intervening 6 years I heard Lilly sing a lot, and sat in her room listening in awe as the small body and tilted head retained the memory of the lyrics while the memory of spoken words was unraveling, the brown innards of a cassette tape unspooling itself. Once, long after there were words from Siobhan, I almost dropped the phone one night as I called out my phone number to a person and began ......087............ 9826472 said Siobhan and smiled. The body retains the memory of all the events that have preceeded and they become installed as the hardwiring of ourselves. They make us who we are, and who we think we are. Im pink therefore Im spam. As Christmases turned into Easters, and Summers, then Autumns I watched the seasons turn and the decline of these 2 small women, one whom I document here nightly and one who only gets documented on the last night of her life. In this lifetime. Over the last year I have kept an eye on the soft singer in the room down the hall, as if using her as a yardstick for my own Mother, her neighbour. Some nights I stole in quietly on tiptoes, through the open door, and pressed play on the small stereo, filling the room with the music she loved and informed the small shape in the white bed with the patchwork throw, that it was me, Siobhans daughter. There was never a response, just a sideways glance from the face turned to the wall, the pillow bolstering her body, in the small of her back. A nurse informs me that when a person is crossing they move the bed away from the wall and into the middle of the room so the family can gather, to witness and be close, to say goodbye, to pray, to hold, to retain a memory, to assist in the passing. I am smoking in the drive waiting for the jeep that will take me home, staring at the impossible sky, the moon, a space station, the heavy charcoal clouds flitting overhead when I meet a woman from the night crew turning in to work. I vent about death for about 16 minutes without drawing a breath while she tries to look at her watch discreetly a number of times. How do you deal with it, how do you cope, has it changed your perception of your own mortality, what and where and when and how ......... I tail off running out of air. Acceptance, they all get it, all of them. Acceptance, it has changed my thoughts about it, and has negated the fear of death I had she says calmly while looking me up and down, this ragged woman in mismatched clothes and wild curls, smoke streaming down her nostrils. I knocked the closed door and was about to launch into a stream of introductions about stuff when I realise the room is empty and Lilly is lying alone, her eyes sliding sideways to give me the glance. I want to say hello, ............ and goodbye says I to the staff when I asked permission earlier. Her eyes are cloudy and unfocused as if she is already looking into somewhere other, and the room is silent. There is no music here tonight. All of the pronouncements and thoughts and prayers I had thought to offer or say disappear out the window like a puff of smoke, and I place my hand on her small shoulder and feel the heaving in my chest and swallow the burning tears and the brick in my throat and say God Bless, Lilly and close the door behind me. Tonight, I walked past her room to get a spoon to feed Siobhan a choc-ice and saw the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door. On the way back the door opened momentarily and a nurse came out. The bed was in the middle of the room. Tonight, I offer a prayer of safe passage and delight and joy to Lilly as she makes her solitary journey , and hope that a choir is leading her across a bridge of sighs, home. Just do the dance that youve been shown, by everyone youve ever known, no matter how close to anothers, your steps have grown, there is one dance youll dance alone Jackson Browne. ps Lillys name has been changed and that is NOT my phone number. MDM 30th May 2014
Posted on: Thu, 29 May 2014 23:10:37 +0000
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