The Look

Saying goodbye to Rosemarie at the end of a visit is an emotionally complex event. It almost always happens after she has been put to bed and we have spent some time listening to music and eating some chocolate. Sometimes she is chatty in her incomprehensible way, sometimes she writhes around in an agitated fashion talking urgently to someone on the other side of the bed who isn't there, and increasingly she just lies there quiet and uncommunicative.

Sometimes she just lies there crying.

I hate to leave her when she is crying, and I will wait until she stops on her own (it happens occasionally) or she exhausts herself and her eyes droop.

I hate to leave, anyway, even though sometimes I really want to because I feel tense, drained and exhausted. It always seems like a small betrayal. She will be alone for several hours until she falls asleep (often not until after midnight) and I have no idea what emotional roller coaster she will be on. But I can't stay till midnight every day and sometimes it seems my presence is doing more harm than good: if she is trying to communicate something then the longer I fail to get it the more frustrated and angry she gets.

I start to tidy up and push the chairs and table back, and put my jacket on while I tell her that I need to go and I will be back tomorrow. I lower the sit up part of the bed, leave the music on and turn off the light directly over her bed so it is not glaring in her eyes as she lies back. I try to make it a bit of a ritual so she will associate it with me leaving because she usually shows no sign of understanding what I am saying.

I lean over and kiss her (if she will let me) and say something like "Goodnight my love. Enjoy the music. Sleep tight and I will see you tomorrow." She hardly ever responds.

I head for the door, open it and go through, and turn to close it.

Sometimes, particularly if she is agitated, she will be oblivious of me and talking urgently to the space the other side of the bed. Sometimes, if she has been quiet and unresponsive, she will be just lying there staring at the ceiling.

But other times she will have a distressed look on her face and be reaching out to me wordlessly, and I come back in the room, walk back over to the bed, squat down, take her hand and try to comfort her.

But sometimes I look back and she is just looking at me. I blow her a kiss. Nothing.

I cannot interpret or describe the look on her face. It is not hatred or anger or despair (I think), but neither is it peace or contentment. There is no trace of a smile. The nearest I can get is a kind of stony indifference while behind her eyes she is working something out.

Like a robot I set the switch that sets the alarm that will sound at the Nurses Station if someone opens her door, and walk down the passageway, haunted by my last look at her, and her last Look at me.