I Am His Memory Keeper

Late roses in Robin's aunty's garden.

This afternoon I have the patience of Job - or a pussy cat crouched at a mouse hole.

Because I have had some sweet space and nourishing time for me while someone else has been looking after Robin all day. His lovely carers at the Mede say how much he has changed in a week....lost his confidence about walking.... more stooped....much quieter....very tired....breathless.

Tonight  after his few mouthfuls of supper, I sit beside him on the profile bed with the pillow end raised up. (The electric mechanism helps to get him half way up but he still slips sideways and panics and thinks he's going to fall off.So I have to find a way of hauling him into a sitting position without pulling on his weak shoulders or straining my back.)

And I say,

I can't go on looking after you at home. Because I think you are getting worse and you need more help from professional people like nurses. We can find a nice place for you. It's basically long term care. And I can visit you every day. What do you think?

What about the money?

We will find it. Because you worked so hard for us all those years

.

If it works for you, he says. We can see how it goes. I want you to have a wonderful life.

We had some good times didn't we, I say. And some rubbish times too.

He looks at me over the top of his glasses and says,

Yes, because I screwed up.

No, it's just what happens between people - good times and bad times - no one's fault.

But I'm crying.

Will you blow my nose? he says. I want to lie down now.

So I help him turn on his side and  cover him with the duvet. And then I go into the kitchen and cry some more. And start washing up, trying not to feel that I've somehow failed. That I'm not abandoning him. 

But still, I am his memory keeper.

 So I just feel terribly sad - for his whole big life trickling away. And the guillotine end of ours.