Those tiny, impossibly beautiful ‘Peacock’ spiders. I lie here, still, and they dance on the inside of my eyelids, opal-coloured backs held aloft, displayed for my enjoyment. I recall finding a whole family nestled amongst the potted succulents on the verandah. They love to dance in the early morning, backlit as those first rays reach the window sills; me snug, well-wrapped, nursing my first short black.
But now? I lie here, still. I know the curtain has been drawn back, I can feel those streaks of warmth sneaking through the venetian blinds. They touch the blankets. I have been restless, sheets scrunched, pillows damp and I sense, maybe smell the stale, fetid room. Mum is in the corner, watching, waiting; she’s still wearing that same old orange nightie, worn when attending my nighttime asthma attacks. It was always such a comfort.
I lie here, still. I cough; a phlegmy gurgle, reluctant or unable to move anything. Breathing difficulties have increased recently, and my throat hosts several musical vibrations. I listen to the symphony. There is a thin, raspy cadence, a quick, painful swallow and the pitch changes, deeper, around an obstruction.
I remember the enjoyment of getting seats at the theatre that enabled me to look down into the orchestra pit. The delicate strings, the bold bass, trumpets and trombones, sometimes, the magical harp, and the timpani working with the conductor to keep everyone together. We went to Sydney once, the Opera House: what a wonderful occasion!
I lie here, still. Someone settles a moist face washer on my dry, chapped lips. Gentle movements as the bed linen is changed. My old body is being washed and I have fresh pajamas. Do you remember those midnight bedside visits: “Gran, I’ve had an accident” and we all went into the laundry and bed-making routine? They’ve grown up now. There are six grandchildren, I think, or is it seven?
We all loved the beach, the shack we rented, the same one each year down at Rosebud, hot sand, shallow, safe swimming, sunburn, fish and chips, barbeques and the youthful experiments with the sweet cream sherry and the cigarettes! I don’t think any of them smoke now, thank God!
There’s a light shining; not bright but it is disturbing the dancing spiders. I think someone is talking, quietly, importantly. I lie here, still.
There is a terror in my system: it upsets the spiders. It comes to me at night, rummaging around in my pelvis, near my kidneys, sometimes up in my chest; always unwelcome, always painful!
I feel the prick of a needle in my arm. That’ll be the morphine – such wonderful medicine, but in recent days it has been losing the battle. Everyone knows my wishes. No pussy-footing around when the time comes!
I lie here, still. Mum is coming over to see how I am. She suggests we go outside and start to deadhead the roses. She has secateurs. That light is getting brighter, but I’ll just lie here, still.