One afternoon I cuddled up to what was left of her and cried like a child. She tried to cradle me like a mother. - Don't cry, darling. It will be alright. - What if your pain is from cancer? - Well then I’ll die from cancer. - But you might need serious pain medication. - No more pills. Sometimes, for a few days or weeks she’d forget not to eat and drink, put on a few grams and get back to making political predictions: That Boris Johnson, he’ll be next Prime Minister, mark my words. To transgenderise Roth writing about his father:
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A year on, I'm reconciled to the choices Myra made. And I've forgiven myself for not being as forebearing as I might have.
I find myself standing at the Myra-bed having conversations with her: — You were right about that clematis – it wasn’t dead. And would you believe, the lily-of-the -valley are already full of flowers? Fragrant little bells. — Myra Bells. (Bell was her maiden name.) — I’m sorry I argued about making this flower bed, Mum. It’s lovely now. A special place to stand and chat to you. — Hmpf. (She wasn’t above an ‘I-told-you-so’.) — By the way, that camellia you rescued has more flowers on it this year than ever before. Whatever did you feed it? — TLC, love. |
Author & COSharing conversations had with our dementia-living parents. ArchivesCategories |