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Gabrielle again
Mar. 9th, 2009 08:32 pmMy little sister died ten years ago - ten years and a couple of days, to be precise, though I never do manage to be precise about it: my memory, which stores and cherishes trivia of all kinds, won't hold on to the anniversaries of deaths, and I had to clear a path to the filing cabinet to find the exact date.
She didn't die easy; she didn't do anything easy, as I've said before. It was one of the most admirable and one of the most infuriating things about her. But she died as she wanted to, in her own home. When there was nothing more the hospice could do for her, an ambulance brought her home, to her hospital bed. They arranged for Macmillan nurses to be there all the time, and her friends drew up a rota so that there was always someone there she knew and loved, night and day. The family came and went as best we could, scouring the local shops for the one kind of ice lolly she would still eat, that would soothe her dry lips and constant thirst. The cancer killed her quickly - less than a year from diagnosis to her death - but those last days were long. Even unconscious she was still stubborn.
Some day perhaps I'll manage to write about her life, or at least about some of the things she did. I've sat here this evening, writing the same paragraph and deleting it, over and again in different words, but it has set me remembering, and although there's much that I know only from our long phone calls - and much more that she never talked about - still perhaps there are things I could set down. Not tonight, though - tonight all I have is the flat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and the scent of lilies, and people coming with food, and music, and yet more flowers. And the respite of the walk from my mother's house to my sister's each day, and back again, twenty minutes each day of clear cold March air, through the London streets with the gardens and the trees coming into bloom, a week or two ahead of the season at home in the north. I've never felt the same about early spring, ever since.
She didn't die easy; she didn't do anything easy, as I've said before. It was one of the most admirable and one of the most infuriating things about her. But she died as she wanted to, in her own home. When there was nothing more the hospice could do for her, an ambulance brought her home, to her hospital bed. They arranged for Macmillan nurses to be there all the time, and her friends drew up a rota so that there was always someone there she knew and loved, night and day. The family came and went as best we could, scouring the local shops for the one kind of ice lolly she would still eat, that would soothe her dry lips and constant thirst. The cancer killed her quickly - less than a year from diagnosis to her death - but those last days were long. Even unconscious she was still stubborn.
Some day perhaps I'll manage to write about her life, or at least about some of the things she did. I've sat here this evening, writing the same paragraph and deleting it, over and again in different words, but it has set me remembering, and although there's much that I know only from our long phone calls - and much more that she never talked about - still perhaps there are things I could set down. Not tonight, though - tonight all I have is the flat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and the scent of lilies, and people coming with food, and music, and yet more flowers. And the respite of the walk from my mother's house to my sister's each day, and back again, twenty minutes each day of clear cold March air, through the London streets with the gardens and the trees coming into bloom, a week or two ahead of the season at home in the north. I've never felt the same about early spring, ever since.
