In recent weeks, Anthony is either in bed or in a broda-chair (armchair on wheels). It is a long time since he has been able to walk or sit in a regular wheelchair and, although he is able to weight bear to an extent sometimes, he is more or less bedridden now. I am becoming used to what is still a bit of a shock.
Yesterday, I visited in the late afternoon (something that I had intended to do more regularly – famous last words). He was in bed, looking very comfortable and content. I fed him his vitamised dinner which he gobbled, and some chocolate that I had brought with me. At one point he raised his hands underneath the blanket and they kept getting in the way of the spoon.
Me: Why are you doing that with your hands, Ants?
Anthony: Because I lost them five days ago.
Me: Oh! When did you find them again?
Anthony: Last night.
Me: Where were they?
Anthony: At the nun’s place.
Me: You mean Sister R?
Anthony: Yes.
Me: She’s amazing isn’t she.
Anthony: Wonderful.
We aren’t Catholic but we do have a very good friend who is a nun and she has blessed Anthony on several occasions over the years, so I put two and two together. The way Anthony’s memory works now fascinates me; it is fragmented and peculiar but sometimes wonderfully symbolic.
At around 6pm, he began to drift into sleep and, as I stroked his head, I felt a lurch of bittersweet emotion. I whispered goodbye and kissed him, thinking he was asleep.
Me: You are the most beautiful man in the world, Ants.
Anthony (murmuring): I know.