affairs and beach stones

Peacehaven, December 1999

DR WELLS, OUR GP, came today. He's a youngish man – not past forty – with one of those funny little beards that cover only the chin. He has a swift but careful manner, moving about the room almost silently, which I find slightly unnerving. I'm sure his quietness upsets you, too. When he's examining you he doesn't do any of the hearty yelling that most of them go in for ('AND HOW ARE WE TODAY?' – as if being ill immediately renders you stone deaf), which is something of a relief, but this creeping about is almost worse.

'We need to have a quick discussion, Marion,' he said, after we'd left you to sleep. I have never suggested he use my first name, but I let it pass. We sat at opposite ends of the sofa and he refused my offer of tea, obviously wanting to get on with it.

He launched straight into his speech. 'I'm afraid Louis's health is deteriorating. There's been no real improvement in muscle coordination, speech or appetite for the past few weeks, as far as I can see. And he seems considerably worse today. I think he may have suffered a third stroke, in fact.'

Knowing exactly where this 'quick discussion' was heading, I leapt to your defence. 'He did speak. He said my husband's name. Quite clearly.'

'You said. That was some time ago, wasn't it?' 'A few weeks ...'
'Has this happened again?'
I couldn't lie, Louis, although I wanted to. 'No.' 'I see. Anything else?'

I really tried to think of some other evidence of the improvement I'm sure you're going to make. But we both know that, up to this point, you've shown very little sign of getting better. And so silence was my only answer.

Dr Wells touched his beard. 'How are you and your husband coping? The carer's role is a challenging one.'

Have you noticed how everything these days is challenging? What happened to difficult and downright bloody awful? 'We're coping fine,' I said, before he could start talking about social workers and support networks. 'Very well, in fact.'

'Harry's not here at the moment?'

'I've sent him to the shops.' The truth was he'd left early with the dog and I had absolutely no idea where he might be. 'For some milk.'

'I'd like to talk to him next time.'

'Of course, Doctor.'

'Good.' He paused. 'If there's no improvement in the next few days, I really think we should consider a nursing home.'

I'd known this was coming, and I had my response ready. Nodding gravely, I stated, in a firm but friendly voice, 'Dr Wells. Harry and I want to look after him here. Louis's very comfortable, even if he isn't making the progress you'd – we'd all – like. And you said yourself that he stands a much better chance of recovery amongst friends.'

The doctor drummed his fingers on his corduroyed knee. 'Yes. That is true. But I don't know how much longer we can talk about recovery in any meaningful way.'

'Are you saying he definitely won't recover?' I knew he wouldn't give a straight answer to that one.

'No one can say that. But if he doesn't, things may become – unmanageable fairly soon.' He started to speak rapidly. 'For example, what if Louis can no longer tolerate liquidised foods? He may need nose-feeding. That's not something I

recommend carers do at home. It's tricky and can be distressing.'

'Every day is tricky and distressing, Doctor.'

He gave a quick smile. 'The deterioration in stroke patients can be quite sudden, and we want to be prepared. That's all I'm saying.'

'We'll manage. I don't want him amongst strangers.'