Take a parachute and jump ...........
Tonight there is a new piece of "equipment" hanging on the bathroom door. It resembles a parachute with canvas straps and colour coded buckles. It is to raise Siobhan from her Stephen Hawking chair into a Surita Hoist, to assist with swinging her body to a commode.
There are so many things in the bathroom now I can barely fit my hips in to warm the cloth I use to wipe her face. There is a commode, a hoist, a parachute, a chair to be showered in, as well as a toilet and sink.
I run the flannel under the scorching taps for a hand scalding minute to gently wipe her face and itch her eyes. The woman staring back at me from the mirror is barely recognisable as Me.
I remember once reading a lovely line from Liz Gilberts million seller "Eat, Pray, Love" which talked about how we often mistake our image in mirrors, or quick glances in shop windows where we spot ourselves rushing by and in that moment try to salute our mirror selves, or smile and begin to say hello until we realise, and awkwardly stop.
Gilberts line was "Never forget that in an unguarded moment, you recognised yourself as "friend".
It is in this vein that I try to smile at the woman in the mirror while I check my face for signs of ageing, puffy circles, crows feet, or that downturned mouth thing. Apart from more Chins than a Chinese phone book, I appear to be escaping quite well.
I just look exhausted despite sleeping for about 9 hours yesterday. Maybe I will just age by looking like I have been up all night for about a year.
There are no wrinkles in a balloon.
Siobhans own face is remarkable in that she does not have a single line in it. In fact, as the pockets of her brain become slowly coated with the plaque that is shutting them down - * Think Kettle element and limescale to get the picture* - she appears to have even erased the frown lines on her forehead and between her eyes. I was such a "divilskin" as a younger woman that her face has every right to resemble a soft brown paper bag that has been folded and re-folded many many times.
Doctors with clipboards would walk around wards in the hospital looking for her. I watched this happen numerous times and would follow them out saying "Are you looking for Siobhan?"
They could not reconcile the date of birth on the chart with the face in the bed.
The lifts in the hospital are mirrored too. I would ask the ward sister to disable the electronic tag on her ankle that would close the doors in our faces at our approach. I was always making a break for the border - and would take her up to outside, to sun, to air, to noise and children and humanity in all its shapes and forms and watch the hatch, match and dispatch play out in the car park.
We would sit around the back at the stores entrance outside while I read to the silent figure in the chair with the massive sunhat, our twin selves reflected in the late evening sun on the dry grass.
One evening as the lift doors glided open and our twin selves were mirrored back to us, Siobhan opened her eyes wide in pleased surprise and smiled at us both. She tried to speak and I smiled and said "Well, there's the women" -
I watched as her eyes clouded and a look of shock and then understanding dawned on her as she heard my voice come from the woman in the mirror, and the awful, shocking realisation that the other woman was HER.
I give silent thanks now that she does not recognise that woman, or any woman anymore. Mostly on the evenings when I have to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop from screaming aloud. I give thanks that she is unaware of the enormity of what we witness. I give thanks that she is a warrior and that she is still in my mirror as I reflect on her life
There are so many things in the bathroom now I can barely fit my hips in to warm the cloth I use to wipe her face. There is a commode, a hoist, a parachute, a chair to be showered in, as well as a toilet and sink.
I run the flannel under the scorching taps for a hand scalding minute to gently wipe her face and itch her eyes. The woman staring back at me from the mirror is barely recognisable as Me.
I remember once reading a lovely line from Liz Gilberts million seller "Eat, Pray, Love" which talked about how we often mistake our image in mirrors, or quick glances in shop windows where we spot ourselves rushing by and in that moment try to salute our mirror selves, or smile and begin to say hello until we realise, and awkwardly stop.
Gilberts line was "Never forget that in an unguarded moment, you recognised yourself as "friend".
It is in this vein that I try to smile at the woman in the mirror while I check my face for signs of ageing, puffy circles, crows feet, or that downturned mouth thing. Apart from more Chins than a Chinese phone book, I appear to be escaping quite well.
I just look exhausted despite sleeping for about 9 hours yesterday. Maybe I will just age by looking like I have been up all night for about a year.
There are no wrinkles in a balloon.
Siobhans own face is remarkable in that she does not have a single line in it. In fact, as the pockets of her brain become slowly coated with the plaque that is shutting them down - * Think Kettle element and limescale to get the picture* - she appears to have even erased the frown lines on her forehead and between her eyes. I was such a "divilskin" as a younger woman that her face has every right to resemble a soft brown paper bag that has been folded and re-folded many many times.
Doctors with clipboards would walk around wards in the hospital looking for her. I watched this happen numerous times and would follow them out saying "Are you looking for Siobhan?"
They could not reconcile the date of birth on the chart with the face in the bed.
The lifts in the hospital are mirrored too. I would ask the ward sister to disable the electronic tag on her ankle that would close the doors in our faces at our approach. I was always making a break for the border - and would take her up to outside, to sun, to air, to noise and children and humanity in all its shapes and forms and watch the hatch, match and dispatch play out in the car park.
We would sit around the back at the stores entrance outside while I read to the silent figure in the chair with the massive sunhat, our twin selves reflected in the late evening sun on the dry grass.
One evening as the lift doors glided open and our twin selves were mirrored back to us, Siobhan opened her eyes wide in pleased surprise and smiled at us both. She tried to speak and I smiled and said "Well, there's the women" -
I watched as her eyes clouded and a look of shock and then understanding dawned on her as she heard my voice come from the woman in the mirror, and the awful, shocking realisation that the other woman was HER.
I give silent thanks now that she does not recognise that woman, or any woman anymore. Mostly on the evenings when I have to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop from screaming aloud. I give thanks that she is unaware of the enormity of what we witness. I give thanks that she is a warrior and that she is still in my mirror as I reflect on her life
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