1– The
hospital
He had been
in the chronic care hospital for fourteen months; winter was here and it was
very cold; a blizzard was predicted. My
mother went to visit him as usual in the late morning. Her tiny frame, well dressed with an Italian
aristocratic air, demanded care, for my father. She was all too familiar with the remnants
of humanity that lined the hallway, on stretchers, in wheelchairs, or merely
flopped over on a lounge chair. These
people were in their last days and they deserved attention.
Moans,
chants echoed along the corridor; outstretched hands pleaded for water. She did what she could, making her way to
the nurses’ station and when her words were unheeded, she helped them
herself. These were lost souls;
abandoned by their loved ones, reliant exclusively on the health care system.
As she
entered his room, she saw that his condition had worsened. He was refusing food or water and told her
that he wanted to die. This saddened her
and she talked to him, hoping her words would instil some measure of hope, but
today was not good.
His head lay
on the pillow, his blue-grey eyes lucid, and his mind intact. My father was ninety-one and a half. A little over a year ago he was living at
home, going for solitary walks, enjoying nature in his garden and taking care
of my mother who was prone to anxiety disorders. This big, strong man who had survived being
struck by lightning in his teens, WW2 on the front and years in POW camps in
both Libya and England, was now on his deathbed.
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