Yesterday had a phone call from the (formerly) Beloved One. This was after me phoning him, by way of a reconciliatory (wow is that hard to spell) gesture. Talking was like old times, except that he didn’t trot out any of his stories about schooldays (the time he threw a knife into someone’s bum because they took his lunch orange), girlfriends (the stripper who could have sex standing on her left big toe) or, well, I’ve forgotten the other ones, no doubt it’ll come back to me. Afterwards I thought, what if he comes here or I go there, and he says, I’ve realised I actually do love you. Instead of ‘One day I will fall in love, it might be you, it might be her, it might be anyone! Wait and see!’. In fact his attitude to me is much like my attitude to the Hairy Chested One.
Read an article about dying in the NYT. It made me think about my mum, who had pneumonia last year and nearly got it this year, except someone forced her to go to the doctor before it developed that far. The family has decided to have a talk to her about what to do if she’s sick – her preference is not to tell anyone and to pass away in secret – or so it seems. So someone has to say to Mum, hey, if you want to die, ok, but there are ways and ways. Nobody is putting their hand up. I”m not so sure Mum really wants to die, maybe she just thinks she ought to, so that all us poverty-stricken kids get some money to live on. And we can stop using our precious free time to visit her. She’s terminally guilt-stricken. But it’s true she doesn’t enjoy life much, since it’s painful, with arthritis and so on, and boring, since she’s nearly blind and not very mobile. But nobody really wants Mum to die, now. Maybe some time. In the future. But not now. And (maybe this is just me though) not as a result of choice. I’d rather she be just taken away, not choose to go. Choosing to go implies we weren’t making life good enough somehow for her to stay. That’s the selfish viewpoint though. I wouldn’t inflict it on her.