JOHN

Palliative care is nicer than being in a hospital, an irony in that wasn’t lost on me. Everything was sunnier, brighter and more relaxed. The drugs were stronger. I’d even gotten used to the antiseptic smell in here. I also didn’t believe them when they said it would be a small scratch when they came anywhere near with a needle. I’d had a lot of practice with needles. Cancer and old age do that. I was ready for either one of them to take me. John was waiting for me.

I wondered if the John that would come meet me at the end was the young, dashing John or the older, squishy round the edges one. Either way, I didn’t mind. I missed both of them equally. I couldn’t even contemplate that there was nothing after death; it would make life sad and depressing if we all just blinked out of existence. Logically, I thought that was the case, but I followed my heart and believed that the love of my life was waiting for me.

The nurses here were all smiling and happy, it was contagious. Either that was it, or I was so drugged up I didn’t care. I smiled, too.

John and I were 16 when we met. The 60s were just starting, and we loved life. All the music, fashion and being together it was magical. We married in our 20’s produced four children, moving up the property ladder. Everything was perfect, until John got sick.

He was only 60, just retired. We never got to do the things we had promised each other. We never did the cruises or walk the passeggiata in Italy.

Cancer got him too. He never looked ill. Not even at the end. His eyes hurt, though. I could see his pain. I could see when he’d had enough. I loved him enough to want him to go.

Nearly 20 years I’ve been without him; children and grandchildren are a blessing, and I love them dearly, but it’s not the same. It’s not that warm body next to you on a cold night, not forgetting the cold feet. But they were his cold feet.

I’m uncomfortable in this bed; my pillows feel like lumps of concrete, and I don’t want to bother the nurses; it might remind them I’m here, and they will stick me some more with needles. I just want to die. I’m ready.

My youngest daughter comes in daily, though I appreciate it, I hate the look on her face. She is one step from tears. Platitudes always and nothing of the kind of thing you imagine you will say when faced with someone in their last days hours. My other children are further away, and I guess they think they have more time. Grandchildren have their own lives, and that makes me happy. I don’t need them here. I want my John.

It won’t be long now; I’m a different kind of tired. Which John will it be?