A Bed of My Own

This is embarrassing!

Creak, crunch, heave – the bed announces even the slightest movement I make. As if it wants to spill the secrets it’s been carrying through these years. Of sweet-nothings whispered, of promises made (and broken), of sultry passionate nights, and cold detached evenings. It is this bed where I’ve spent most of my life — crying, resting, dreaming, making love, nurturing family, and more recently, waiting.

I wake up to the chorus of birdsong outside. The morning sunlight filters through the half-open window in golden shafts. I stare at his empty side of the bed beside me, waiting for the dull throbbing in my heart to pass. The pillow on his side still bears the shape of his head, frozen in time. It looks grimy. I haven’t fluffed it out, nor washed it. How can I erase his touch? I talk to the empty space on the bed every day, ask questions, and wait for a reply. A reply, that I know, will never come.

We had planned so many things for ourselves — weekend gardening, beach trips, yoga sessions, and mountain getaways. It’s just that a memory, a void, wasn’t one of them.
I crave the tea he made me every morning. Or the way he massaged my shoulders and kissed me before getting out of bed.

Cancer took him fast. In three months flat, from diagnosis to death. This same bed turned into a battlefield where he fired every possible salvo to defeat the malaise. The bed moaned and groaned along with him, through the agonising days and interminable nights, till he sank into its comforting embrace, my arms wrapped around his withered frame, his breath slowing like a lullaby fading out.
They took him away, and I came back to our bed.

Now I lie here alone and pretend he’s still next to me. I remind him of the dreams we can’t chase any more, and of our special days that I celebrate solo, reprimanding him for the promises he broke.

This morning feels different, though. Lighter. Like something has changed. I sit up and look around. The room is quiet, but not desolate. I can feel his presence around me – like a faint echo, like a fingerprint on my soul.

A soft knock on the door startles me. A young lady in a smart, sky-blue uniform and white cap walks into the room. She smiles at me – a smile that could light up the dreariest of days. I complete my morning ablutions under her watchful gaze. I spot a couple of others hovering around the door — a swish of white coats, some hushed conversations, and a rustle of papers being passed around.

A cheerful young man in scrubs enters, holding a chart. He looks mildly familiar.
“Good morning, Ma’am! You look bright today! Ready for your walk?”
I nod, still groggy. He offers an arm. I take it. In the hallway, I manage to look at a mirror —and freeze. The woman looking back isn’t me.

She’s much older. Fragile, like how my mother was in her final years. Wiry scanty hair, sunken eyes, and a deeply lined face, much like the tired veins on a jaded autumnal leaf. A face which has forgotten to laugh, or dream, or hope. Yet, hanging on to a life that is still unfinished. I recoil in disbelief! My lips form a question I do not ask.

I hobble through the enormous lounge and beyond, clasping the hand of my young companion in a death-like grip. As I walk back, my mouth curves into an imperceptible smile, as if applauding this small triumph.

Back in the room, the lady in blue greets me enthusiastically. “Wow Madam, today you walked for a full ten minutes more than you did yesterday. And you don’t even look tired! Now, let’s have a quick wash and then tuck you right in!”

As she fastens my fresh gown, I look around. Is it the same bed that I shared with him? But aren’t the sheets different? Cleaner? And the walls are white, smelling of antiseptic.
A familiar haze blurs my brain. Moments later, a few jagged images flash across my mind, like memory fighting its way back before sinking into the dark again. The smiling lady in uniform is the nurse. The man walking me was my gem of a doctor who always made an exception for me. And this is a geriatric care home, of course!

I remember a few more snippets — my daughter visiting me, her anxious eyes trying to hold my attention. Scanning my face for a flicker of recognition.

My mind… faltering, slipping.
Terminal Delirium
Such a fancy name for my condition! I remember writing it down somewhere while struggling to keep my head above the abyss of oblivion.
The fog clears some more.

My husband is gone. Now talked about only in the past tense.
He’s been gone twenty years now. It was a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.
As for this spacious, solitary bed – it’s a luxury I never desired.
It isn’t our bed I’m lying in.
It is mine alone.