Where we are

When one of our many nurses visited us on Saturday she quietly gave me a gentle, but very salient reminder: every day is precious. This is where we are now. We are in Keith's final days.

It was not just the physical changes that made this clear, there was a subtle restructuring of the support around us, gently, quietly. A couple of nurses coming every day, regular phone calls, extra medication to have in "just in case". A nudge to me that I might need more help soon, can you have some extra help with the girls perhaps? 

The deterioration over the last week has been swift and destructive. No longer is Keith able to come downstairs, he is too weak. He has oxygen to help him breathe. He struggles to walk from room to room, we've started using a wheelchair. His weakness is intensified by the weight of his legs and abdomen, full of fluid and hard to move. I can encircle his upper arm with one hand now, the muscles almost seem to disintegrate beneath my fingers. He has fallen twice; he can't be left alone for fear he falls again.

Yet physical deterioration is relatively easy to deal with compared to watching him lose his mental capabilities.  This is the saddest part. He has become confused and unable to communicate properly. His thoughts are for the most part jumbled, surprising, remarkable. It makes him angry sometimes, scared sometimes, but for the most part it is OK if I tell him it is. It is quite fun sometimes, too, the randomness of the confused brain. He can still talk about football with complete clarity, as if that part of the brain is unaffected. His love of sport is quite clearly going to be with him until the end. Is it that at the very end of our days, we will all show our true colours in this way, when we are reduced to knowing only the things that matter most? I see Keith now stripped of the outer levels of his mind, reduced to his very core, and for him it is made of love, humour and football. He is immensely affectionate, still very funny, and still desperate to see Manchester United lose. 

The underlying thread to all this is not lost on him though. Take yesterday: he was telling me that if you want to survive riding into a Western town with cowboys you have to be the fourth rider because that one never gets shot. All well and good, I thought, I'll bear that in mind for next time. Then in a heartbeat, in the next breath, the cloud lifted for a moment and he said:

"Sometimes I think I see things, here. Sometimes I think I see my soul trying to leave the room." He started crying, he hasn't cried in a while, I had begun to think he was unaware of what is happening to him. But no. 

"I wonder if that's what it'll be like. I'd settle for that, my soul just leaving the room. That sounds nice."

He says he loves his Mum, his girls. He says he loves me.

I am sorry if this is hard to hear or if it is too much information. I have never experienced death before and so really I am just telling it how I see it, right now, at this moment. All I can be is here for him now, gently absorbing the confusion, giving the randomness of his self a safe place to be. We are doing it to the soundtrack of 5Live Sport, Match Of The Day and 6Music. We are doing it together, all the way, to the end. 

Thanks for listening, thanks for the comments, for being there: you're awesome. Kisses xxxxx