The Blue Eyes

I knew I was going to miss my lift. Susie had warned me that she couldn’t wait around as she had to do the school run this morning. "Totally understandable," I told her. I was not so forgiving of the day shift who always seemed to arrive late, without the decency to pretend to be sorry about their casual tardiness. The walk home wasn’t that long, but I would have preferred an easier finish to the night, so I could get the rest I craved.

The warm, sun-filled morning walk brought no solace. Marjorie weighed heavy on my mind. She had been admitted 10 days ago and everyone knew from that moment she would never return home; the only unknown was time. I recalled her younger glory, a vivacious and intelligent woman who could have given Cleopatra a run for her money. Now, merely a shadow of her former self.

Professional standards demanded that I treat her like any other patient, and to that end I determined that I would banish the memories of my one and only long-lost love to be enjoyed in the seclusion of my dreams. The injustice of the loss pressed heavy on my mind as I unlocked my front door.

The flat was cold and unwelcoming when I needed warmth and comfort. Sleep, I decided, was the only way to escape my troubled mind. Sleep, however, would not come. I knew what I had to do. It would be easy; it was just a matter of being decisive. Nobody would question her death; it was coming anyway. I was merely facilitating an earlier exit package.

I turned to catch the gaze of my mother’s blue eyes from the bedside locker. I longed for her comforting words of wisdom, but like Marjorie, she was gone too soon. The double death of dementia, first the loss of the person, followed by the loss of the body it had left behind. I wondered if Mother would have been grateful for an early release from a helping hand. As tears stung my eyes, my thoughts returned to Marjorie. Beautiful, wonderful Marjorie, who no longer remembered how she had stolen my heart all those years ago.

A pillow gently pressed; she would be too weak to put up any real fight. I was repulsed by the thought of her frail hands fighting back and quickly banished the notion. Perhaps a morphine overdose would be kinder, a nicer gentle death. Yes, morphine, quick and simple, and who would even question her death? Her sudden demise would raise no eyebrow and she had no family to demand any answers.

Frantically pacing the kitchen now, I was equally exhilarated, and distraught. The cold kitchen floor reminded me of the ward floor – hard and sterile. The blue eyes gazed sharply from the kitchen wall now. This time they brought with them the voice that no longer existed and it rattled me back to reality.

She was right of course. Who was I to take a person’s life, no matter the circumstance? My pain at seeing Marjorie’s suffering was no justification to play God. I smiled on realising Mother was right, as always.

Falling back on the pillow I resolved that I would go to work that night and do my duty. I would mop the floors with the surgical precision and care I always gave them. The matters of life and death, I would leave to the doctors, as it should be.

Sleep came and I surrendered.

Samantha McKenna is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 10.45m in the Annebrook House Hotel.