My black humour, it seems, will follow me into the grave.
I rather like the idea of dying like a French heroine lying back on a chaise longue bringing my hand to my forehead from time to time and sighing piteously. There are two problems in that: I can't independently move my right arm and I would have to buy a new outfit of clothes as well as a chaise longue. I could manage the sighs. But, I am finding that these last ten days or so are full to bursting with arrangements and re-arrangements: cancelling the fish delivery, setting up a new bank account for the carer's money so that, at the last, it won't be put into a frozen account. I even suggested to my nephew that I should contact the post office with a change of address. He found that dubious as I cannot be sure of what address. I've rather liked the idea of being “thrown into outer darkness where there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth”. But, with the universe expanding at the speed which it is, it will have to an enormous throw and, anyway, the glittering galaxies would probably catch me up before too long. It's unlikely the post office would allow a worker to travel that distance to deliver my mail. And I've always wondering at the “wailing and gnashing of teeth”. Whose teeth? Mine, or will there be a theatrical cast of extras or would those of you left behind have to undertake these activities?
It will be a lot easier to leave out the word “outer”. I could be thrown into darkness via a trapdoor being opened in the floor and that would certainly allow for the delivery of mail even if, as I will be in darkness I will not be able to read it.
All this having to take responsibility is making me live in a third person novel. I'm having trouble getting in touch with the first person. What exactly am I feeling?
Well I can tell you this: I've experienced a pregnancy craving. I found myself longing for souvlaki. The longing was fortunately, at a reasonable time of day when the Greek shop round the road was open, so my longing could be satisfied. Birthing and 'deathing' would seem to have something in common.
Throughout all this rigmarole I need to say something about my carers who have been endlessly supportive. The difficulty in getting me supported so that the sling, which will catapult me from the bed to the wheelchair, can be inserted is horrendous. Every time I remember the speed with which my two morning carers complete this task, so that I am not in such dreadful pain for more that 2 – 3 minutes, brings tears to my eyes. So that puts me in a first person novel. I feel such love and gratitude.
