Georgina
is sitting on the floor where she fell, her oedematous legs splayed out in front of
her, rolling in folds at the ankle and knee, punished by cellulitis, venous
insufficiency, heart failure, age.
One of the residential nurses, a woman in her twenties, as dark and slim as
Georgina is pale and plump, squats down next to her with an arm round her
shoulders. She adjusts the blanket round Georgina’s shoulders and points to us
as we come in through the door.
‘Here
they are,’ she says. ‘The cavalry.’
Georgina
hasn’t hurt herself, but the likelihood is she’s septic, which was probably a
factor in the fall.
‘I’m
afraid it’s a trip up the hospital,’ I tell her.
‘Oh for
God’s sake! What’s the point? Just let me die,’ she says. ‘I’m ninety-seven. I’ve
had my time. Let me go.’
‘Hey!
Come on, Georgie!’ says the nurse, giving her a hug. ‘You’ll be back in no
time. Don’t worry about it. These guys’ll take care of you.’
‘I wish
they would take care of me.’
But by
the time we’ve got the trolley into the room and sorted things out, she’s
cheered up a bit. She jokes with us about this and that, trades affectionate squeezes
with the nurse, and generally seems to be building herself up for the trip. We
make her snug with blankets and are just getting ready to go when she sighs.
‘I
really miss my mother,’ she says. ‘And she’s been gone seventy years.’
She
folds her arms on top of the blankets, thinks a moment, and then looks at me.
‘She’d
have known what to do,’ she says.
6 comments:
Yet another v special post, Spence.
I miss my mum, too. This really touched my heart.
Lovely descriptive posting there Spence.As fine as ever.
Thanks v much, Laputain, Catherine & Jacks. It was very striking how much of a presence Georgina's mum was in the room - and a palpable sense of how resilient and long-lasting these close family relationships are.
Miss my mother, too and I am 83.
I suppose it's the natural (but awful) flip side of love, that inevitably, one day you'll be separated. But then, those strong bonds of love carry on in other ways, in everything you do, deeper than dreams & DNA. Not much consolation, but something, maybe.
Thanks for the comment, Anon. Very much appreciated.
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