The french windows in my room open wide onto an extensive back garden. The care home's lawn, shrubbery, wildlife and residents are all framed for me by these doors. I view all this from within my wheelchair. I end up looking out on this landscape for a huge part of the day. Putting a lot of effort into getting the maximum amount of interest and stimulation from it. I've taken to observing events in minute detail, from the changes in weather, the arrival and passing of seasons, to the tracks of birds and aeroplanes in flight, Then there are the smear trails of snails, the insects and spiders who slide or scamper across the glass. the scuttle of leaves. I've closely watched the working methods of the gardener, for instance, as he mows the lawn. He is quite impressive I must say, very neat and precise. Fascinating to see it all happen. It's almost meditative. I would never have been that patient when I was his age. I couldn't wait to get such everyday manual tasks over and done with. Hurrying on to the next thing on my invisible to do list.
On fine sunny days, I get rolled out to take my recreation al fresco. I sit in my wheelchair by a bench with members of my family or carers, but mostly on my own. People are, understandably, reluctant to come and see me these days, it must be so unrewarding to visit, its distressing for them I expect. It is certainly distressing for me. They never see how I cry inwardly, to myself once they are gone.
I experienced a great upwelling of sadness as the nights drew in. When the patio doors needed to be closed to keep in the heat. As the last rays of summer sunlight vanish behind the poplar trees at the bottom of the garden. Left to gaze out at the looming gloom, until its absorbed into complete pitch black. At some point my Filipeno carer Doris will arrive - 'Mr Turner time to turn you around. Shall I turn the TV on? Do you want to watch anything tonight? She'll turn me around, looking directly into my eyes. Trying to gauge from the simplest expressive eye movement, my preference from a short list of programmes she rolls off. Since my accident I am, what my doctor casually refers to as 'a lock in', Moving my eyes, but nothing else. Mind alert as ever. Emotionally taught and frustrated, at not being able to vent it all out loud. 'No more fucking Pointless, Please! I don't really enjoy what I see on television, its so trite. Though it eats up the time I guess. I want to communicate what I most desire. But I feel effectively buried alive in my body.
However, the pitch dark evenings brought much more than I expected. More than a few fluttering moths trying to batter themselves to death on the patio windows. Familiar faces have begun to appear, glowing, hovering, emanating within the darkness. At first it was just my wife, but it expanded, within a matter of days, to a veritable parade of the good, bad and the ugly from my past life. Relatives close and distant, just popping by to see how I am, I guess. I wonder really why they are coming. Does this mean something? 'Preparing me for death? What is their purpose? What is mine now? Though they do speak to me without speaking. I hear nothing, but can intuit what they mean. Mostly its just greetings and polite how are you's. My Mother visited yesterday. She was trying to communicate something to me, I couldn't quite fathom what. I felt quite a lot of emotional cross waves, heavy and mournful. When she retreated from view, I felt grief all over again. I spend all my time isolated, except for when these spirit faces arise. There are days when I hate Doris arriving. I want to scream - 'fuck off!' - loudly right in her face. But can't, obviously.
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