It is better to burn out than rust out.
Last month Aunt Eve suffered a fall and broke her hip. She’s just turned 90 and has lived alone since Uncle Reg died fifteen years ago. Up until now she’d insist on doing everything herself. She’d walk to the shops or go into town to get her hair done. She was fiercely independent. But the fall changed all that.
We arrive at the nursing home and the staff help Eve out from the car into a wheelchair. Her stony face reveals a grim countenance and she says nothing. Her room is small, but adequate. The bed looks comfy. Eve remains silent as we unpack her things. I can’t shake the feeling that some part of her is absent. She’s on auto-pilot.
After a couple of hours I kiss her goodbye and promise to return tomorrow. Leaving the room, my eyes are drawn to the room opposite Eve’s. An aged woman sits on her bed, head lolling from side to side, eyes resting on something unseen - far past the man who sits in front of her and holds her hand tenderly. She’s muttering incomprehensible musings addressed to nobody in particular. He watches her, his face a sad picture of love tinged with grief for one still living but already departed.
I think on who she was once. Was she a mother, did she go to University, did she find a career she loved? Did she have a happy life before a cruel act of fate robbed her of all her life experience and joys? I suddenly find myself wondering if this same fate will visit Aunt Eve, here in this nursing home, Death’s waiting room. Here those who can’t look after themselves, can’t recall their children’s names and occasionally shit themselves, wait patiently for the merciful end. Euthanasia should be legal, I think, surely it is better to burn out than rust out.