27.05.23

It's a beautiful, sunny Saturday. It's been almost a year since I last visited my friend. He's been in a care home for just a little longer.

I knew him for about five years before that as one of the most eccentric, generous and funny people. On big occasions he would gatecrash parties dressed in fancy costume. Most other weeks I'd spend an evening with him, enjoying life's simple pleasures. He wasn't immune to health issues but they never got in the way of him having a good time. His infectious attitude and outlook on life would rub off on me while I kept him company or helped him with digital tasks.

But that person is now gone. Today I'm in the lounge of the dementia ward, where my friend sits. He smiles when he first sees me but says nothing. He looks the same as the last time I saw him – so my shock is more subdued this time round, or maybe I'm even relieved that he hasn't physically declined – but I can tell that he's gotten worse otherwise. Last year he at least tried to say my name and recall how we knew each other even if it came out as mostly unfamiliar sounds.

The TV is on – a juvenile ITV gameshow – but it doesn't drown out the sound of the woman sitting behind me who's loudly groaning and switching through monosyllabic noises. She seems agitated but the nurses in the room are mostly unfazed. "Aye, aye, aye", she shouts, hardly taking a breath except only when taking a sip of water. The other residents in the room are curled up on their chairs, either snoozing or staring out at the window.

I find myself also staring out the window, watching the locals toiling away in their gardens. I don't have much to say to my friend after checking that he's doing ok and reminding him that it's his birthday next week. I hand him a small cactus plant that I'd brought with me. He tries to take a bite of it. I'm not sure if it's him being his old playful self or if it's a manifestation of what his sudden health decline has done to him.

I'm just a visitor here – not even a regular one – but I find care homes depressing. I'm not the first to reach this conclusion, nor is it the first time I reflect on this thought. In a way I'm used to the environment after similar experiences with my grandma. But that doesn't change the reality of today.

After a little while, I find the woman's loud groans both unbearable and now familiar, almost comforting. It gives me and my friend something to trade a smile about.

I try not to think too much about the memories that I shared with my friend and how most of those now only live with me. I try not to think about what he's going through or what the care home staff have to regularly endure.

Instead I think about how I don't want this fate to be mine. Definitely not my parents'. But it feels inevitable or at least unavoidable. The first time I saw my friend like this I struggled with the irreversibility of it all. That's it, the joyful person I once knew is now gone? And yet he's there sitting opposite me.

I feel grateful that my grandma is in a more privileged position. The condition of the people in this room is not easy viewing.

I think about how cruel life can be and how we as a society are still so rudimentary in this area. Where is these people's quality of life? What's the point of their suffering? Is this how they want to be remembered by their loved ones? The solution isn't an easy one. Their situation doesn't seem dire enough to justify assisted suicide. But who is benefitting here? There has to be a better way.

I join my friend in his bedroom for a little bit before carrying on with the rest of my day. I leave, feeling guilty that I can just disassociate. Not straight away. But my life will go on. Until next time.