Happier Times

Happier Times

I cannot possibly recall how many times I have done my little Ritual. I don’t know if I discovered it, or if it was taught to me, or whether it is simply something I have always held within me from whenever it was that I was born. My past becomes more and more confused the further back I go, a patchwork of dreams and nightmares, shifting uncertainly, and always coming apart at the edges; the mismatched threads of a tapestry constantly unravelling even as I strive to patch and expand it with fresh experience. Only my special Ritual remains constant, a golden seam that anchors whatever it is that is really me into my body. There are few other certain memories before a couple of years ago, when I took up my current occupation.

In some ways, hospice work has been good for me. There is something to the routine, the regularity, the consistency of it. I am eating better and more regularly, I sleep well, I look fine, as I’ve always looked. But there is also, quite naturally, something very depressing about it, so that I feel like I will not be able to continue too much longer. There is something about the atmosphere of the place, especially at night when my shift begins; the faint measured sounds of ventilator assisted breathing, as if it is the antiseptic corridors themselves that are inhaling and exhaling, not the sufferers in the cheerful, lifeless rooms. And in those rooms, the patients themselves, all full of regrets and long-past longing, the memories of happier times worn and discoloured by terminal agony.

I decided tonight that I would perform the Ritual with Mrs. Lassiter, for the third and I think perhaps the final time. They are so frail, and I have taken on so much concern for them; I do not like to think that I am hastening their departure. It comforts me more to think that perhaps I am easing their suffering, in my own special way.

Before I begin, I check that the corridors are clear. Life in the hospice is regimented, to an extent, but at any time there might be an alarm or emergency, filling the funereal corridors with urgent life. I do not need long to perform the Ritual, but I hate having it interrupted.

Along with my uncertainty about everything else, I sometimes wonder if all the aspects of the Ritual are necessary; but omitting any of them would I think do more harm to my sense of myself than could possibly be gained in convenience. With the door just barely ajar, I take out the little pouch in which I keep the essentials. A stub of red candle burning at the foot of the bed, a metal dish of salt and ash at the head, perched on her life support monitor. The old woman is sleeping, her skin as thin as her dreams, as I gently prise the morphine button away from her hand and close it around the jet amulet, before freeing the sterile needle from its packaging. I prick my own thumb first, sucking on it a moment and tasting something foul. Then I find the vein in her elbow, where my mark will not be noticed among the traces of blood tests and intravenous drips, and I make my prick. She stirs, a rattle in her throat, and I stroke her arm, soothing her as I massage the bony limb, bringing a single drop out to the surface. Then, after a final pause to listen for anything out of place, I utter the inscrutable series of syllables I have said who knows how times before, and press our wounds together.

Any fluid contact will do. When I performed the Ritual with the Carer who inspired me to take this work, it was a kiss, as we lay in a lover’s embrace, the words whispered gently before I tasted her lips. That time I was so weak, so near the full and final coming apart that I did not stop. I pulled almost all of her into me, unpicked her soul and stitched my own back together with the raw material, leaving a twitching shell which the doctors attributed to a sudden stroke. Now that I can perform my Ritual almost nightly, I do not need to take much. I try to be selective, though still everything that I take seems to have that spice of melancholy that seems now to be constantly building within me. I find the memories of her only son, and start to pick; a holiday in France, a school play, all rosy with pride. It is good, some of the happiest times I’ve had in a while. So I continue. Julian, his name is. Such a bright boy. I hear the rattle again, a little shudder from the old woman, a soft moan, and, when finally I pull away, I see a tear rolling down her cheek. I gently lick it off, before taking a moment to compose myself, as I always do after the Ritual, pulling myself together. Then I collect my components, and the Carer’s slightly worn smile returns to my lips. I make some notes on her chart before leaving for other duties.

He visits later that day, little Julian. A man of twenty six now, his face lined with worry. On my break, I see him sitting in the little courtyard garden, a redness about his eyes and an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. I sit down, to comfort him, to care.

“You’re Mrs. Lassiter’s son? She often speaks about you.”

That seems to touch him deeply. He tells me that when he had visited earlier, she had seemed not to remember him at all. Brain cancer can be a horrible thing, I explain, filling my mask-like face with sympathy. Memory can be affected; but she had shared some of those cherished moments with me before they were lost. It seems to comfort him; he opens up. This whole thing has been very hard on him, he tells me, the strain has cost him a job and his future wife already. He seems close to tears; such a thing to endure at such a tender age. I gently lay my pale hand on his and look into his eyes.

The quality of the sadness that I see there is so different to that in the eyes of the dear patients, which had already begun to gaze on infinity and forget the fleeting patterns of life. Behind the pain, I can see the Julian I know now better than anyone; the vitality of his youth, with dreams and aspirations still alight, the fresh memories of childhood and adolescent indiscretions, so bright and alive, such strong material.

I run my thumb gently over the faint impression of the discarded ring, and move my lips into his mother’s kindest smile.