Not much of a life

It was a yoghurt of two halves. The first began full of hope, but petered out. The lower reaches of the pot remain uneaten, and the doctors are shaking their heads.

Perhaps strawberry isn’t one of her favourite flavours. Or wasn’t. Maybe her bags really are packed this time, and she doesn’t have time to waste. Who knows? Not me, not the medical staff. We’ve asked them enough times, and are getting exasperated by their incompetence in the star-gazing department. This does not match our benign prejudices about weary-eyed people in white coats. A reporter at the scene quotes one of them as saying: “It could be weeks rather than days, and weeks rather than months.”

My comatose sister “stopped responding to medication” a fortnight ago, so they gave up administering it. The drip keeping her hydrated was removed four days later, and attempts to feed her were suspended. For another week she ingested nothing but hospital-scented oxygen. Bored visitors came and went. I suppose they prodded her gently and delivered monologues and wondered about the other patients and ate most of the grapes. I was packing my bags and clarifying with HR what a dying sister was worth on the compassionate leave matrix. More than an uncle it seems, but trailing a long way behind a spouse. And it has to be death, or all bets are off.

Then a couple of days ago we had the yoghurt bombshell.

Two mouthfuls of water are also reported missing. I wondered then, and am still wondering, whether the glass is now half full or half empty.