Notes From the Dementia Ward. Finuala Dowling
Читать онлайн книгу.
loved one has to face.
Distract her from her hallucinations
by engaging her in a pleasurable activity.
Caring for someone with dementia
can be very rewarding.
On another page Google offered
a photographic view of a vulva
but I have a thousand places inside
where Google has never been.
6. Lastness
Lastness
All this brouhaha about birthdays and first days
while anniversaries of lastness pass us by.
Hallmark has nothing to say about
the last time you laced your daughter’s shoe,
the last time a stranger looked twice at your face,
the last time you swam naked,
the last time you ran so fast your chest burned,
the last time you made love and meant it.
Even if by carrot juice and determined zest
you have missed these listed lastnesses –
making meaningful naked underwater love
after lacing your surprised daughter’s shoes –
you’ll never avoid them all. In particular,
there will be a last day when you steer
your mad mother down her own front steps,
drive her silently from her own house
for the last time, carefully not saying:
‘Look back, Ma, look up – that was your home.
You are seeing and leaving it for the last time.’
Carefully not saying:
‘Because you no longer lace shoes.’
7. Your children, parents, siblings, spouses, pets, bêtes-noires, acquaintances
Your children, parents, siblings, spouses, pets, bêtes-noires, acquaintances
They will all die
but not in the right order.
7. Self-portrait from the dementia ward
Self-portrait from the dementia ward
After a few mouthfuls of supper
she lies back on her pillows,
struggling against the bedsore to be comfortable.
Words elude her: ‘Everything is so . . .’
and she moves her elegant fingers
in a way to suggest a Jackson Pollock painting.
I think about prompting her
but I want to hear the substitute –
the synonym that her shattered genius will provide.
Even so I am surprised:
‘. . . modernistic,’ she says eventually
and closes her eyes,
exhausted by the last stand,
the self-portrait.
8. How I knew it wasn’t me
How I knew it wasn’t me
I only realised I was at risk
when my brother phoned to check if I was still alive –
he’d heard it on the radio:
a woman fitting my description apparently wept
on the harbour wall before she dived.
‘So it wasn’t you?’
a query rising in his tone.
I too – as I replied – couldn’t help sounding
unconvinced
as if searching for stronger proof.
After verbally confirming my existence,
I walked to the bay window and considered
the breakwater, the beacon,
the beckoning sea
and the woman who jumped in my place.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.