Visiting my aunt is good, but hard.
She can’t move much now, even turn
her head to look at things, so
we have to set stuff up
on her left—like the
potted prayer plant
I brought for
colour;
air.
The place where she lives is “nice”, but still
it’s not home, and she longs for that—
and they keep losing her stuff;
and she’s in a nappy
they don’t change often
enough, which must
feel so ick
for her,
right?
Mum visits her each week, but others
in that place have no-one, nothing;
many have dementia, so
I hope they don’t realise
no one outside cares
enough to come
by for them
now and
then.
They lost her glasses, and her phone, too.
No way to contact anyone.
She cannot walk, or eat by
herself these days, which blows,
and she must wait for
e-ver-y-thing
and then wait
again,
so
it can’t be much of a life really—
but it’s hers, and she knows who we
are and her face lights up to
see us and she always
remembers our names
and how we fit
together
and it’s
sad,
so sad, to see her like this, with her
skin so thin it’s translucent and
you can see her veins, her bones,
her tendons, everything.
She is so so thin,
like a doll or
a tiny
frail child
with
consumption. She has nothing to do.
I noticed her playing with her
blanket ‘cos that’s all she can
do, like literally
that’s all that’s left for
her to do now—
unless the
tele’s
on—
but with that! she’s in a shared room, and
there are two tv’s but just one
remote—only one—which is
cruel since both occupants
of the room are bed-
ridden and too
far apart
to pass
it.
My aunty loves dogs, so I made this
little knitted dog for her and
she loved it but of course they
lost it on her and if
we hadn’t come there’s
no one who would
notice that.
But we
did.
Another time I brought in a book
from the library—a book on dogs,
of course—and she was entranced.
She hadn’t had such fun
in probably months.
But she can hold
a book and
turn a
page,
and she can talk about the things she
sees—so why is she sitting here
with nothing and with no one?
Are they just waiting for
her to die so they
can give the bed
to someone
less “with
it”?
Sure, there’s a touch of dementia in
the mix—or maybe she’s just not
masking anymore… She plays
with words and sounds, like I
do, too—“Appetite,
appeteet”—or
thinks she went
on a
flight.
My cousin put her here and then flew
away on holiday as planned,
and she boarded her dogs, too.
It wouldn’t have been so
bad but my mum was
unable to
visit then—
broken
leg.*
But turning back to the dog book; she
couldn’t keep it with her when we
left—everything gets lost
in that black-hole of a
place. But I felt so
mean to take it—
her only
thing to
do.
Last week, my aunty fell out of bed
in the night. She broke her nose. We
asked them to put up guard rails
on the sides of the bed,
but they won’t, because
they said it’s a
restraint—not
legal,
but
I call bull. She can’t walk—can hardly
move—yet somehow safety rails are
not allowed—which makes me so
MAD I can scarcely speak.
But Mum says not to
rock the boat—they
treat her well,
and are
kind.
I think Aussies get special training.
We don’t make a fuss. Not even
about the most important
things: human rights and such.
They said they would put
a crash mat down
by the bed—
but did
they?
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Read the first one you posted, and found it incredibly sad, but too true, in my experience. The practical and common sense ideas get thrown out with rules and regulations that make no sense when people’s wellbeing is at risk.
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wow, you were quick to read it! it was only live a short time!
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So sad, Catherin. It’s as though your aunt is disappearing into the shadows. Or maybe they misplaced her…
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Yes Nolcha, it’s pretty dire
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I wrote a prose piece today, based on a prompt, from the point of view of my aunt. Can I call it a poem?
Aunty J
I don’t really understand or remember what’s going on, most of the time. I’m in this bed.
D— must be out right now. And when is R— coming? I don’t know why she hasn’t come yet. They told me she died, and I thought she did, but actually, now I’m not so sure.
Maybe D— died too and they didn’t tell me.
I forget to feed my dog. And often he goes missing, the rascal. Some people act like he isn’t real. He runs off.
L— visits me a lot. Usually with that young A—. Sometimes with Cath. When L— comes, the dog turns up too. She knows where to find him.
I want to get up and go for a walk. I keep trying to do that. My legs don’t seem to work well.
Once I fell out of bed and got nasty bruises. I was trying to go and wash the dishes. Afterward, they told me there were no dishes for me to wash. I’m not sure how that’s possible. I eat. There must be dishes.
They treat me like a baby, feeding me lunch! It bothers me. I want to eat by myself. But they’re kind, so I try to be patient.
They put the bed down really low. And they put soft mats on each side.
I do a whoopsie sometimes. Right there while sitting in the bed. I can’t control my bowels. I don’t understand it. It’s embarrassing…is it?
They change the sheets on the bed — while I’m lying right there in it! It hurts! They turn me this way and that. It hurts. I whimper and say ouch, but they won’t stop. They’re always in a hurry, maybe that’s why. I’m covered with huge bruises and sores. My skin is so thin.
They won’t let me drink, either. And when they tip a cup to my mouth, some always dribbles down the side of my face. Ugh. I don’t like the feel of it.
L—’s my sister. She used to bring me grapes. I really like those — I can hold them and eat them by myself. It’s a drink and a snack in one.
The skins are a problem, though. I don’t eat those, and it bothers L— when they fall on the bedspread and get stuck to my fingers. She likes to stay clean. I mean, so do I…but I gave up.
L— brought me grapes for Christmas. It’s what I asked for. “All I want for Christmas is my bunch of grapes. My bunch of grapes…”
L— gets the shortbreads Cathy brought out of the drawer and lets me have one. Once a week, when she visits, I get a biscuit. And a chocolate wafer from the tin. They’re nice. But I still want grapes!
Maybe I can get some for my birthday? If I remember, I could ask. I don’t know when it is, or who to ask.
Susie…or Lucy?…my little dog… I know chocolate isn’t good for dogs, but I try to feed her the wafer. I touch it to her mouth. She isn’t interested — but I don’t have any dog biscuits to give her.
When I was in the garage, this woman came past shouting at me “Why don’t you feed your dog?” I know I should. I forget, you see.
L— keeps asking me if V— came to visit. I just say “She came at New Year’s.” That seems to satisfy her. I don’t know who this V— is. L— thinks she’s important. I couldn’t say. I don’t see her enough to remember.
I like the birthday cards. I ask L— to get the cards out, so I can have a look. There’s a card from this V—, and from C— and B—, who are kids. I like the cards that have sparkles. You can feel the raised up bits.
B— made me a green bracelet, out of beads. I wore it every day. But now, it broke.
One of those kids made me a sunflower. A crochet one. It’s supposed to stand up, but it won’t. L— has a lot of trouble, every time. Trying to make it stand straight. But it’s still here.
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