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My wife is sleeping soundly. Safely propped up by the hospital bed under her goose down duvet. The latter I had bought for her only recently. To combat the constantly nagging chill which her malnutrition caused.
She could not tolerate the weight of heavier duck down duvets over her. We have several, good quality duvets. All bought cheaply at charity shops many years ago and carefully washed. Purchase was usually prompted by the magic "duck down filling" just visible on the faded labels. We had the luxury of snobbery and would avoid anything which suggested added feathers. The certain sign of cheapness, poor insulation quality and lots of extra weight.
The first rain in ages is promised for tomorrow evening. I have been rather lax in leaving stuff outside because of the long run of sunny days. Yet another new weather record in March sunshine set for Denmark. The boxes and packing materials scattered along the drive are going to get decidedly soggy, soft and heavy. Particularly by the time the promised, Friday skip filling and collection day arrives.
The kitchen proved to be a goldmine yesterday. If you like Swedish, art glass bottles. Or 8 pairs of unused secateurs. The saddest part of my wife's hoarding is that she did not get to fully enjoy her belongings. She claims to know where everything is. Though the evidence of finding multiples of things suggests otherwise. Unless duplicates or even octoplets were her thing?
There was never anywhere she could display her beautifully coloured bottles/vases. They needed backlighting to really come alive. She allowed herself only a few on the window sills. Or collecting dust on "her" series of sideboards.
Her beloved cat figures are mostly crammed into a tall, dark, glass fronted cupboard in the living room. I found many more china cats yesterday. All carefully wrapped in newspaper and boxed in "her" kitchen cupboards. Though I only checked a few small bundles at random during my reorganisation siege.
Keeping busy is a vital defence against the tears. Shed not for myself. But for my almost unrecognisable, frail, lifelong partner. Downstairs in the bed in the now near empty "living" room. Though we always lived upstairs to avoid the chill. We would only do her always perfect, Christmas dinners at the dining table downstairs. Though even this was always surrounded in boxes of her "stuff."
A roll of "Persian" carpet remained trapped behind the dining chairs for 20 years until I finally threw it out last week. Mouldy underneath and covered in woodworm dust from above.
She always wanted to move to a bigger and better house and away from the local, 2-legged scum. Unfortunately she would not pull the trigger on anything we could remotely afford. Which usually meant a semi-derelict farmhouse. Of which there are many in Denmark. Usually stripped of their agricultural land to further enlarge a major holding. Often the smaller farm was abandoned for economic reasons. Or having no offspring willing to take over the crippling burden of poverty and debt. Plus the workload which no union would possibly tolerate. Denmark has the handy way of charging the offspring the offspring for buying their own parent's farm. A perfect guarantee for the "Farmers Party" to increase their land holding for small change.
Having spotted a new potential home, online, I would tricycle off across the island. To photograph and hang around another scruffy property. It was soon all too obvious why the places was so cheap. Far too many, stinking pig farms nearby. Too many barking dogs. Too near a deafening motorway or main road. The warning signs of some raving lunatic. Stacking his agricultural scrap. Or vast stacks of mega-bales tight against the property boundary. I would return, show her the pictures and we would compare our feelings about the property.
My wife liked her silence for her gardening. Even here, in a small hamlet, there are endless car doors banging. Noisy trucks, giant tractors and illegal scooters passing along the road. Though we are set well away from this road the traffic noise often intrudes through the winter-sparse, shelter belt trees. The Thursday jet fighter training is just another sore point for outdoors people like us.
My crime against common decency was not providing my wife with a well lit, display area for her glass and china collections. Even her larger gardening tools are standing under a shed roof overhang. Or share "my shed" with "my lathe" and "my wall clocks." Along with "my own" boxes of long untouched detritus from countless, previous hobbies. No wonder she always wanted me to tidy "my" larger, home-built shed. Though she did manage to take over a corner behind the door with her mother's, few remaining belongings. Now despatched to a far better place.
I had the priceless luxury of space. Which I constantly denied her without ever knowing it. By my own hoarding of long unused tools, timber and scraps of plywood. Or odd bits and pieces. Which might just become valuable one day. Or would be vital to a later project. I shall carry that guilt to my own grave. My only defence was my almost complete lack of awareness of her collections.
Ignorance is a better word. She hid them all so skilfully within the fabric of the assorted, secondhand furniture. I really hadn't a clue what she was up to as the house slowly shrank around us. It's burden of long-unopened boxes went almost completely unnoticed. I was never allowed to peek. Which became an auto-inhibitor against further exploration.
There is still a tall stack of dusty banana boxes under the steep, open stairs. Contents completely unknown. Other than that they came with us from Wales. To be left untouched for 25, long years. She said there were some drawings by our talented son Tim in there somewhere. Whom we have not heard from since moving to Denmark. He does not seem to have an online presence.
There is one blessing from my wife dying safely "at home." She does not have to be subjected to the drug-addled torture of commercial, Danish, old people's prisons homes. As did her mother. Before finally escaping via the online undertaker service. Her mother's last "home" was an obscene, money printing mill of human misery behind a smart, ex-hospital facade.
Terrifyingly understaffed, usually by East Europeans and largely functioning at the taxpayer's expense. She had all of her antique ornaments stolen over time and managed to break a hip falling out of bed. Despite being totally paralysed into a complete stupor by her drug regime. Perhaps this is how sociopathic oligarchs launder their dirty money?
My wife's nose was whistling. So I went downstairs to check on her again. She was just surfacing from a dream. Somebody had asked if she was ready but was unable to say whom. She asked why she couldn't get up and move around? I explained that she hadn't been eating enough. So lacked the strength. Why was she sleeping day and night, she asked? I said she needed the rest and held her warm hand. Which she clutched with remarkable strength.
Then I used a wet, sponge lollipop to moisten her constantly dry mouth. She said she wanted tea and a currant bun. I suggested she wait for breakfast time. She asked how long her recovery was going to take? I told her that nobody could possibly know. Then she gradually went back to sleep.
The nurses were obviously wary of liquids running into her lungs last night. As I gently spoon fed my wife with tiny drops of tea. My wife has fluid on one lung already. Though she was spared the potential intrusion of drainage. When she left hospital early. Her voice is weaker than ever and she really struggles to speak. Or even make a coherent point at times. I presume this is the morphine and all the other drugs fogging her mind.
I can hear her nose whistling again as I make endless typos at 5am. Surrounded in the debris of an all too hasty removal of a large, concealing curtain. Boxes of vinyl LPs compete haphazardly with boxes of books and other junk. Stacked on a raised stage behind the inevitable, flat screen TV. A load of my clothes thrown over the top of everything. Just to get them out of the way.
This used to be where I had my large loudspeakers on either side of a series of TVs. Where we would both sit and watch films and TV together. Then old age arrived. With the constant struggle to hear the dialogue on Netflix. So we moved onto YouTube and its damned adverts. The dusty boxes of DVDs and CDs still remain to taunt me. Untouched for years once the film was seen. Only music could be enjoyed repeatedly. Until that too was slowly removed from my daily experience. Now I have only tinnitus for company.
I went back to bed for a couple of hours. My wife was half awake when I went down to check on her later. She wanted tea again. The house is getting cold without the help of the recent sunshine. I am going to have to light the stove. I had firelighters delivered with the shopping. Hopefully this will aid in a problem free burn from a cold start.
It was down to 60F /15C indoors. With the help of the firelighters and a stack of criss-crossed kindling the stove started effortlessly. Two compressed wood blocks were added to the dying hot coals and all is well.
Until it became too hot! I had to open the door to let some of the heat out! A different nurse came by to see to my wife. Whom keeps complaining of having a dry mouth but won't have anything I offer. Though she had a little tea. Which I tipped slowly into her mouth from a tiny spoon. Her memory is extremely fuzzy now. As is her vision. She can't easily see the toys and ornaments I have arranged for her. She keeps asking why she can't get up.
Two more nurses. One of them pushed my wife to have her injections. Just to keep her stabilized. My wife was unhappy about this after the event. She wanted to stay awake but soon fell asleep. She felt she was being denied the ability to be aware of her last available time on this earth.
I have made a start on sorting my wife's clothing. I probably won't want to do it "afterwards." It was typically scattered throughout many drawers, bags and boxes. I hardly recognised any of it. She never wore any of it while I was around. Which was most of the time. One hundred jumpers, cardigans and jackets. Two hundred vests and tops. One hundred pairs of trousers, jeans and shorts.
Perhaps I exaggerate slightly but the clear, poly, bin bags are now running the length of the bedroom. At least two 100 litre bin bags per clothing item. Her sock collection alone my end up filling three whole bags. With each new discovery I feel I never really knew her. Was she happy in her rural isolation? Squirrelling away her little treasures? It is much too late to ask. She is confused and hovering in a morphine haze. I have lost track of the cubic meters I have gained throughout the house.
Decorative and nesting baskets were hidden away in the bedroom. Behind and inside furniture. Rolls of carpet runners. A suitcase. The dust so thick on some of it it that it must have been there for at least 20 years. I found bank security details. Which she could never have accessed. Simply due to to the impossibility of reaching it. Boxes of mixed trinkets and curtain rings. Interspersed with everything imaginable. Old broken padlocks, a hinge, some string, assorted zip ties. Rubber bands, artist's paints and chalks. Spatulas and paint scrapers. Where to start? Who would want it all now?
I don't resent her one item or cubic centimetre of the entire lot. Not if it made her happy and brought her some pleasure. Now my wife is complaining that the drugs have knocked her out again. When she so wanted to be in the present.
Multiple visits from more nurses and home helps today. All very kind, caring and pleasant. I found some old pictures of my wife looking absolutely gorgeous. Probably in her 30s. The prints were hidden away like all the rest. I left one picture out for the nurses. To remind them that even dying old ladies were once active. Articulate, funny, desirable and much admired by all.
The gentleman pharmacist called again. With more drugs to hide her pain and calm her fears. Then a young lady brought the grocery shopping I had ordered earlier. I tried to make her into yet another nurse. So it took a moment to correct my confusion.
So many visitors in so short a time. My wife is beginning to feel overwhelmed but still very grateful. Her deep breathing was spaced so far apart at one point that I thought I was losing her. Then she woke and wondered what was going on now. I spent an hour holding her hand but the conversation was very one sided.
The British food shop is delivering micro pork pies tonight. One will have to be thawed out before I can offer a tiny bit of one to the impatient patient.
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