The husband of a dear friend of mine has just died in the dementia ward. He was a sweet dear man who always had a hi and a smile for us as we wandered past.
But now my sweet, surviving on his intuitive senses only, has started talking again about being kilt.
There is a back story here from about 3 years ago, when one of the bodies was taken out through the little lounge area when everyone was there.
Well Don and his friend freaked out, deciding this was proof they were being held prisoner to be killed and eaten. The eaten theme sounds like my guy in his worse hours of delusion. i must have written about this before (and heaven forbid this blog gets boring, although it is my life so i guess if i want to be boring, i can! Reading is optional)
Anyway, the guys held a mini jail riot, Don tearing papers off the walls and his friend overturning the laundry cart. And who could blame them, operating on the limited evidence they could access and process, and the clear facts that they were locked in and people were dying…
Honestly, they weren’t that far off, except for the eaten part.
Anyway, now my friend’s husband has departed and the being kilt has returned to my love’s shadow mind.
“Let’s walk around here,” i suggest, pointing down the same old hallway that bores me to screaming after almost 4 years.
“Sure,” he says brightly, smiling, not in the least afraid. “Is that where we will be kilt?”