Care Homes: Post Four - Edward

This is the last in a series of four posts based on my experience of planning people's funerals. These posts were inspired by an interesting debate on Jane's blog. I wanted to share some of the stories on the subject that I've heard from families over the years.

Edward was a tall man who looked as if his clothes wore through quickly at the knees and elbows. He came to greet me, his bone-handled walking stick seeming more of a style statement than a balance aid.

‘Zinnia. Charming.’ His smile warmed me like an open fire. ‘So glad you could visit.’

‘No problem, it’s lovely to meet you.’

‘Shall we sit in the conservatory?’ He gestured down the hallway with his stick. ‘It’s pleasant at this time of day, and we’re unlikely to be disturbed.’

‘Fine by me.’

His stick tapped on the sand-coloured flooring as we walked. Halfway along the hall, he gestured to a door. ‘My wife’s room. She’s had a massive stroke, you know. Doesn’t recognise me at all.’

‘That must be very difficult for you.’

‘Bit tricky,’ he said. ‘Especially at first. I’ve got used to it now. I visit her every day.’

‘Nice that you can be here together.’

‘Makes it easier. Here we are.’ He held the door open, and I went through into a conservatory overlooking the garden. Half a dozen upright winged chairs stood in a semi-circle, and we seated ourselves in two of them.

I fished out my laptop and switched it on. ‘So, I know you want to plan your funeral.’

‘Yes. Not every last thing, but I want to be sure it will be a humanist service. You see, I’ve been bad with the arthritis for years, but I can cope with that, it’s only pain and learning to manage. But I’ve got this wretched cancer now and they tell me it’s a matter of time.’

‘Is it giving you much trouble?’

‘No, no, not really. Not now they’ve sorted out what it is. They’ve got good drugs in here.’ His grin was roguish, and for a moment I thought he was about to offer to sell me some. ‘I could be good for another six months, maybe a year. It’s hard to tell.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said.

‘Same with Connie. She could go any time or hang on for ages.’ He looked out at the trees. ‘I hope she goes before me, really. It’ll be hard for Adam, otherwise. That’s our son.’

‘Does he live around here?’

‘Yes, just the other side of town. He’s a stockbroker, got pots of money. Wanted us to go and live with him and his wife after Connie had her stroke. They were going to adapt the house, get full-time carers in, nothing was too much trouble. He meant it, too, but I said no. Didn’t want to be a burden.’

‘So you chose to come here?’

‘Connie had to go somewhere, and I wasn’t much use on my own. She used to look after me, you see, before the stroke. And, well, this probably sounds silly, but I wanted to be independent.’

He was looking at me with a mildly truculent expression that I interpreted as anxiety, so I tried to be careful with my words. ‘Then is this independent because it’s your choice? Because you came on your own terms?’

‘That’s it.’ Edward let out held breath. ‘I didn’t mind Connie looking after me, in sickness and in health and all that, but I didn’t want my son doing it. Or his wife. Not that I don’t like her, she’s a lovely girl. She’s a teacher, like Connie and I were. Hard-working. She and Adam have enough to do between them without old duffers cluttering up the place.’

‘Does it suit you, then, living here?’

‘Suits me down to the ground. Lots of pretty girls taking care of me. I never touch, but I’ve always liked to look. Used to drive Connie mad.’ His roguish grin was back. ‘And there are some interesting people living here. Of course some are very incapacitated, like Connie, but others are more like me, sound of mind but not so sound of body. The staff take us on trips, and get people in to do things with us, arts and crafts and so on. And I’ve started a Scrabble league.’

As he spoke about his life in the nursing home, Edward looked entirely happy and at ease. The choices he had made in his life had led him to this point, and he was comfortable with that. He didn’t seem particularly bothered about being terminally ill, either. He had the time and the ability to put his affairs in order, right down to planning his own funeral. Which didn’t amount to much – we chatted for a couple of hours, about life and death, families, priorities, religion and belief – and in the end I realised it had been a kind of interview.

‘Adam will sort out all the details with you when the time comes,’ Edward told me. ‘He knows what I want. And you’ll help him, won’t you? It’ll be hard for him, I think.’

‘I’m sure it will be hard for him. I’ll help him all I can.’

Edward nodded, satisfied. ‘Thank you. I’m glad to have met you, and I know I’ll be in good hands.’