Christobel

Christobel Part 6

Chapter 6

A few days later they visited Dieter, Andreas's father and Frieda's grandfather. Chris had a good idea from Frieda of what to expect as they walked up the distinctly neglected, weedy front garden path bisecting a less-than-immaculate lawn, to the house. He'd lived there all his married life with now-deceased Sofia, so Frieda said. It was sad, Chris thought; the old man would have been less and less able to maintain his garden over recent years as it gradually became a greater and greater burden as his disease progressed, until finally he couldn't handle it at all. Presumably he got paid-for help with it now, unless Andreas or Birgid helped out when they could, although it was rather sporadic help by the look of things.

The carer-on-duty opened the front door to them. It was a young man, blond, freckled, rather plump, smiling warmly at them. Speaking German of course, as he said a friendly 'hallo' and ushered them inside. Frieda knew where to find her grandfather: in the now all-purpose room on the left of the hall. He was in bed though, not in his wheelchair like the last time she'd visited; her mother had forewarned her of that. He was finding even the effort of sitting in his chair holding his head erect a struggle now; such was the wasting of his muscles, the progression of the motor neuron disease. And there was an oxygen cylinder by the bed; that was something new. Although she was used to seeing him, Frieda suppressed a gasp. She'd been observing his decline in sad snapshots of time trickling away, because her visits were not as frequent as they really should have been. So each time she saw him, the decay of her once-vigorous grandfather was markedly more advanced. Five years ago he had been a tall, sprightly, ramrod-straight seventy-six year old who with his thick silver hair, piercingly blue eyes behind his rimless glasses, still-trim waistline and graceful bearing looked a decade younger than that.

But now it was a husk of a man lying there in his bed, his sparsely white-haired, liver-spotted head listlessly askew on the hill of pillows propping him up. His face had lost its sharp, forensic intelligence; the gleam in his once-bright eyes was now dulled. Soon, Frieda reflected, he would lose the power of speech: his conduit to the world. That would be particularly cruel for such an articulate man. And with it, probably, the ability to swallow, so feeding would have to be direct into his stomach; it would no longer be a residual pleasure in a desert of increasing joylessness, simply a medical intervention to extend survival. And then his breathing control would go too, and there would be a tracheotomy tube and ventilator to keep him hanging on, just about, to life.

Frieda knew he had lost the will to live eight months ago though, before his health had reached its current low ebb, when the love of his life, his dear Sofia, had died, victim to a sudden cruel stroke. Frieda remembered him at the funeral, in his wheelchair, a forlorn, slumped figure, red-eyed, trying to appear brave and strong and dignified. Poor man, she had thought.

Of course she and brother Curt (although he, typical young male, had been at a loss as to how to react to the situation really) and Mutter and Vater, had tried to support him; give him some of their strength. And holding his hand and murmuring kindnesses was fine as far as it went, but really, she knew, he was fighting a lonely, personal battle, both with bereavement and the prospect of his own demise. There was only so much they could do.

Yes; poor Opa.

They approached the bed, where there were chairs already drawn up on either side, doubtless from previous visits. Frieda bent to kiss his forehead and took one of his limp hands. 'Hallo, Opa.'

She sat down, keeping hold of his hand, and Chris took the other chair. Dieter smiled weakly. 'Hallo liebling.'

His eyes shifted tiredly to take in Chris. He continued in German, his voice thin and reedy. 'So this is your young man then?'