З життя
Дати людині шанс на гідний відхід
Дати можливість людині піти спокійно й гідно.
У середині літа моя свекруха захворіла. Це було очікувано, 95 років — поважний вік. Вона померла. Мати чотирьох дітей, восьми онуків, дев’яти правнуків.
Була жінкою з характером, м’яко кажучи. Поки могла ходити, майже не приймала допомоги. Пральну машину не ставити, руками виперу, не з колонки ж вода; ремонт на кухні не можна, газ же прямо в квартиру подають, а креденц їй ще свекруха подарувала; ремонт у туалеті не можна, а вас би в мінус тридцять у сільський виходок; продавлений диван на ліжко поміняти не можна, на полатях не спали ж; підлогу мити не можна, не пані; мікрохвильовка не потрібна, на сковорідці котлету розігрію і так далі. Все до сварки.
Якимось дивом одній з онучок вдалося оновити ванну кімнату, а моєму чоловіку обманом замінити два вікна, на кухні та в її спальні, начебто збрехав, що сільраду оплатили. Холодильник ще пристойний вдалося купити, бо попередній від старості зламався, слава Богу.
З дозволеного було тільки: привозити продукти, завжди сварилася, що багато, пилососити, возити до лікарні та оплачувати комунальні рахунки.
Але настав час, і злягла ця залізна жінка. Досі не розумію, як так сталося. Куди поділися ціла купа кровних родичів та спадкоємців, можливо, складність характеру зіграла свою роль, але доглядала її я зі своїм чоловіком, її сином.
І тут починається суть мого написання.
Три тижні, лише якісь нещасні три тижні ми забезпечували її гідний відхід з цього світу.
Почну з того, що я в минулому реанімаційна медсестра. Знаю, вмію, практикую. Краще за мене ніхто не зробить. Були придбані: медичне ліжко, протипролежневий матрац, засоби догляду, спеціальне харчування і поїхали.
Ранковий туалет, вимірювання тиску, укол, годування, протипролежневий догляд, зміна білизни, короткий сон, прання, овочеві соки, денний сон, прасування, годування, укол, зміна памперса, миття, масаж, короткий сон, клізма, памперс, годування, вечеря, укол, зміна памперса, вимірювання тиску, розчесати, підстригти нігті, масаж, змінити нічну сорочку…
З радянських часів у нас, майже у всіх на головах, вкоренилося, що вмирати треба вдома. Нехай всі родичі крутяться поруч, співчувають, доглядають. Не дай Бог сиділку найняти. Це що ж рідні дочки та невістки гидуватимуть гівно виносити?! Що я в рідних стінах померти не можу? Нехай поруч страждають, дарма чи що ростили? Склянку води свою останню коли ж отримаю?
І тут мені хочеться сказати.
Гівно?! Це найкраще, що трапляється з лежачою людиною. Помити й памперс замінити, це найлегша частина процесу. Коли памперс повний і на запах зрозумілий, це радість. Бо знай, добути це гівно у лежачого, ще той квест.
Проблема — це неконтрольований біль, щоденні, майже марні клізми, серцева й дихальна недостатність, у квартирних умовах відсутність поданого кисню. Адже, можливо, у тебе й гроші є, але забезпечити кисень дуже непросто. Для більшості людей це неможливо.
А переважна більшість людей, що чекають свою склянку води, помирають від поліорганної недостатності, включаючи дихальну. І повірте, задихатися у повній свідомості, навіть у “рідних стінах”, це ще той жах.
Ніхто, ніхто (!!!) не вмирає в реанімації і відділеннях паліативного догляду від дихальної недостатності у повній свідомості.
Немає у людини, яка йде, тваринного жаху в очах, божевільних хрипів і судом. Немає у близьких, які поруч, спустошуючої безсилості, що переслідує багато років.
Всіх присипляють. Є препарати, прості та ясні, як черевик.
Ти можеш бути гарною дочкою або сином, забезпечити медичне ліжко, догляд, сиділку, але не можеш піти й купити їх як аспірин, в аптеці.
Вони дуже ефективні в досвідчених руках, дають змогу людині піти спокійно й гідно.
Тепер про близьких, які “подають склянку води”.
За всіх не скажу, але можу розповісти, що відчувала я.
У першу добу мегаакивність. Знайти, купити, доставити медичне ліжко, протипролежневий матрац, засоби догляду, памперси і т.д. Потім почалася рутина. День сурка. Починаючи з четвертого дня, щовечора була лише тривожна спустошеність. Приїжджаючи додому пізно ввечері, мені хотілося лише лягти, а треба було готувати курячий бульйон і робити пюре з овочів і фруктів, запускати пральну машину з білизною, вранці погладити, відвезти назад. Думки лише — скільки з’їла, тиск, пульс, стілець, невдала/вдала клізма, буряковий сік…
За ці три тижні я абсолютно запустила свій дім і бізнес.
Сніданок був тьмяним, на бігу-йбігу, спілкування з дітьми через Вайбер, уваги не вимагають і гаразд. Чоловік став потрібен лише як постачальник розхідних матеріалів для догляду.
Я закинула роботу, не знайшла в собі сил для участі у відео конференції, а там було представлення нового гендиректора, і вперше в житті підписала найважливішу додаткову угоду до договору франчайзингу не читаючи. Не підписувала документи не читаючи, з 92-го року. Ще повна спустошеність, байдужість до життя і відчуття, що тебе випотрошили.
Того дня, коли померла свекруха, я лягла в ліжко ввечері й встала лише через шість днів. Вимкнула телефон. Доходила до туалету, іноді курила, пила воду, щось жувала з того, що приносили.
Увесь цей час думала лише про те, що я безвольна ганчірка і як живуть люди, у яких на руках багато років лежачі родичі або ментальні інваліди. Це занурювало в ще більшу депресію та нікчемність.
Здавалося б, зробила все, що називається “соціально схвалюваною поведінкою”, все й навіть більше. Добровільно. Дякувати ні від кого не чекала. Мій усвідомлений вибір. Але точно зрозуміла, що сама йти так не хочу!
Хочу. Чисту палату, яблучне желе на сніданок, кисень, веселих усміхнених медсестер, упевненого лікаря, який приспить, розуміючи, що агонія близька, не відчувати сорому за обісраний памперс.
Не хочу. Щоб мої дочки покидали навіть на кілька тижнів свої сім’ї, роботу, життя, щоб забезпечити гідний мій відхід самостійно. Не хочу їх сліз безсилості та багаторічного потім самобичування, що можна було зробити якось краще.
Я за будинки для літніх людей і палліативні відділення. Дуже сподіваюся, що подібна індустрія розвинеться у нас як у багатьох цивілізованих країнах, до того моменту, як я зберуся помирати.
Поки що все не так, на жаль. Очевидно, немає запиту…
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The Manor Smelled of French Perfume and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands—Those of the Housekeeper, Nora. But One Day Money Disappeared from the Safe, and Those Hands Were Gone Forever. Twenty Years Passed. Now Lizzie Stands on a Doorstep, Her Child in Her Arms and a Truth Burning in Her Throat… *** The Dough Smelled Like Home. Not the home with a marble staircase and three-tiered crystal chandelier where Lizzie grew up, but a real home—the kind she invented for herself, sitting on a kitchen stool, watching Nora’s hands, red from washing, knead springy dough. “Mum, why is dough alive?” she would ask at five years old. “Because it breathes,” Nora replied without looking up. “See how it bubbles? It’s happy—it knows it’ll soon be in the oven. Strange, isn’t it? To rejoice at fire.” Lizzie didn’t understand then. Now—she got it. She stood by the side of a battered country lane, clutching four-year-old Micky to her chest. The bus had spat them out into the grey February dusk; all around, just silence—the singular village quiet where you can hear snow creak under a stranger’s boots three houses away. Micky didn’t cry. He had almost stopped crying altogether in the last six months—he’d learned. He just looked at her with dark, uncannily grave eyes, and every time Lizzie flinched: her ex’s eyes. His chin. His silences—the kind that always hid something. Don’t think of him. Not now. “Mum, I’m cold.” “I know, sweetheart. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was alive—twenty years had passed, a lifetime. All she remembered: “Pinewood, Oxfordshire.” And the scent of dough. The warmth of those hands—the only ones in that whole big house that ever stroked her hair just because. The lane led them past tilting fences; in some windows, lights glowed—dull yellow, but alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage, simply because her legs would go no further and Micky had grown too heavy. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps up to the porch. A weathered, peeling door. She knocked. Silence. Then—shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt dragging. And a voice—hoarse, aged, yet so unmistakable that Lizzie’s breath caught— “Who’s out in this darkness?” The door swung open. On the threshold was a tiny old lady in a knitted cardigan over her nightie. Her face—like a baked apple, a thousand wrinkles. But the eyes—the same. Faded, blue, still full of life. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then slowly lifted the very same hand—knotted and work-worn—and touched Lizzie’s cheek. “Merciful heavens… Lissie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood there, clutching her son, unable to speak, tears streaming hot down her frozen cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?” Not “why?” Not “what’s happened?” She simply unhooked her old wool coat and threw it round Lizzie’s shoulders. Then gently lifted Micky—he didn’t even flinch, only watched with those solemn eyes—and pulled him close. “Well, you’re home now, my darling,” Nora said. “Come in. Come in, love.” *** Twenty years. It’s enough time to build an empire and lose it. To forget your native tongue. To bury your parents—though Lizzie’s were still alive, just as distant as hired furniture. As a child, she thought their house was the whole world. Four storeys of happiness: a lounge with a fireplace, her father’s wood-panelled study, which smelled of cigars and sternness, her mother’s plush bedroom with velvet drapes, and—down in the basement—the kitchen. Nora’s kingdom. “Lizzie, don’t be in here,” nannies and tutors would chide. “You should be upstairs, with Mummy.” But Mummy was always on the phone. Always. With friends, with business partners, with lovers—Lizzie didn’t understand, but she sensed: something was wrong. Something not right in the way her mother laughed into the phone and how her face changed when Dad walked in. But in the kitchen, things were right. Nora taught her to pinch pierogis—crooked, lumpy, ragged seams. They watched the dough rise together—“Hush, Lizzie, don’t make a sound or you’ll upset it.” When shouts started upstairs, Nora would sit her on her knee and sing—something simple, wordless, just a melody. “Nora, are you my mother?” she once asked at six. “Of course not, miss. I’m just the help.” “Then why do I love you more than Mummy?” Nora fell silent, stroking Lizzie’s hair. Then she whispered, “Love doesn’t ask, see. It just comes, and that’s it. You love your mum, too—just different.” But Lizzie didn’t. She knew it, even then—with a child’s forbidden clarity. Mum was beautiful, Mum was important, Mum bought her dresses and took her to Paris. But Mum never sat up when Lizzie was ill. That was Nora—nights on end, her cool hand on Lizzie’s brow. Then came that night. *** “Eighty thousand,” Lizzie overheard from behind a half-closed door. “From the safe. I know I put it there.” “Maybe you spent it and forgot?” “Edward!” Her father’s voice was tired, flat, like everything about him in those years. “All right, all right. Who had access?” “Nora cleaned the study. She knows the code—I told her to dust.” A pause. Lizzie pressed herself to the wall, feeling something vital tear inside. “Her mother has cancer,” Dad said. “Treatment’s expensive. She asked for an advance last month.” “I didn’t give it.” “Why?” “Because she’s staff, Edward. If staff gets handouts for every mum, dad, brother—” “Harriet.” “What, Harriet? You can see for yourself. She needed the money. She had access—” “We don’t know for sure.” “Do you want the police? A scandal? For everyone to know we have thieves in our house?” More silence. Lizzie closed her eyes. She was nine—old enough to understand, too young to change a thing. Next morning, Nora packed her things. Lizzie watched from behind a door—a small girl in teddy bear pyjamas, barefoot on the cold floor. Nora folded her few possessions: a robe, slippers, a worn Saint Nicholas icon from her bedside. “Nora…” Nora turned. Calm face, just puffy, reddened eyes. “Lissie. Why aren’t you asleep?” “You’re leaving?” “I am, love. To my mother—she’s not well.” “What about me?” Nora knelt—so their eyes were level. She always smelled of dough—even when she hadn’t baked. “You’ll grow up, Lizzie. Grow into a good person. Maybe one day you’ll visit me in Pinewood. Remember?” “Pinewood.” “Good girl.” She kissed Lizzie’s forehead—quick, secretive—and left. The door closed. The lock clicked. That smell—the dough, the warmth, home—vanished forever. *** The cottage was tiny. One room, a stove in the corner, a table with an oilcloth, two beds behind a faded floral curtain. On the wall, that familiar Saint Nicholas icon, blackened by time and candle smoke. Nora bustled—putting the kettle on, fetching jam from the larder, making up the bed for Micky. “Sit, sit, Lissie. There’s no truth in tired feet. Warm up, we’ll talk after.” But Lizzie couldn’t sit. She stood in this poor, shabby hut—she, whose parents once owned a four-storey mansion—and felt something strange. Peace. For the first time in years—real, solid peace. As if something pulled tight within her had finally gone slack. “Nora,” she managed, voice cracking, “Nora, I’m sorry.” “For what, love?” “For not protecting you. For saying nothing for all these years. For…” She faltered. How to say it? How to explain? Micky was already asleep—gone the instant his head hit the pillow. Nora sat opposite her, tea cup in gnarled hands, waiting. So Lizzie told her. How after Nora left, the house became utterly foreign. Her parents divorced two years later—her father’s empire was a house of cards, lost in the crash, their flat, their cars, their country cottage vanished. Her mother fled to Germany with a new husband; her father drank himself to death in a bedsit when Lizzie was twenty-three. She was all alone. “Then there was Tom,” she said, staring at the table. “We knew each other since school. He used to visit us—you remember? Skinny, messy, always stealing sweets from the bowl.” Nora nodded. “I thought—this is it. Family, at last. Mine. But… he was a gambler, Nora. Cards, slots, you name it. I never knew. He hid it. By the time I found out—it was too late. Debts. Lenders. Micky…” She trailed off. Logs crackled in the stove. The candle-mote flickered against the icon, its shadow trembling up the wall. “When I said I was filing for divorce, he… he thought a confession would save him. That I’d forgive. Appreciate his honesty.” “Confess what, love?” Lizzie met her eyes. “He took the money. All those years ago. From the safe. Saw the code—peeked when visiting. He needed… I can’t even remember why. But yes—for his debts. And you were blamed.” Silence. Nora sat motionless. Her face unreadable. Only her hands around the mug whitened at the knuckles. “Nora, I’m sorry. I only found out last week. I didn’t know, I—” “Hush now.” Nora got up, slowly knelt—creaking with age—as she had twenty years before, meeting Lizzie eye to eye. “My darling. What are you guilty of?” “But your mother… You needed money for her treatment—” “She passed a year later, poor soul.” Nora crossed herself. “What of it? I live. Veg patch, goats. Good neighbours. I never needed much.” “They shoved you out—like a thief!” “Doesn’t life sometimes take us to the truth through a lie?” Nora whispered. “If I’d stayed, I’d have missed my mother’s last year. Being with her then—that was worth everything.” Lizzie was quiet. Her chest burned—shame, sorrow, relief, gratitude—all in a tangle. “I was angry,” said Nora. “Of course I was. I’d never so much as scuffed a penny in my life. Yet there I was—a common thief. But after a while… the anger faded. Not right away. Took years. But it did. Because if you carry bitterness, it eats you alive. I wanted to live.” She took Lizzie’s hands—cold, rough, knotted. “And here you are now. With your boy. At my old door. That means you remembered. Means you loved. And that’s worth more than any safeful of cash.” Lizzie cried. Not like adults do—quietly, to themselves. Like children. Sobbing, face pressed to Nora’s thin shoulder. *** In the morning, Lizzie woke to a smell. Dough. She opened her eyes. Micky snored beside her on the pillow. Behind the curtain, Nora clattered softly. “Nora?” “You’re up, sweetheart? Come, the pies will go cold.” Pies. Lizzie got up and, dream-like, stepped into the kitchen. On yesterday’s newspaper sat a tray of golden, misshapen pies, crimped at the edges just like when she was small. And they smelled—like home. “I was thinking,” said Nora, pouring tea into a chipped mug, “they need help at the village library. Pays little, but you don’t need much here. We’ll get Micky into nursery—Val’s in charge, she’s lovely. After that—we’ll see.” She said this so simply, as though everything was settled, everything perfectly natural. “Nora,” Lizzie faltered, “I’m… I’m nobody to you. All these years. Why did you—?” “Why what?” “Why take me in? No questions? Just like that?” Nora looked at her—that same childhood gaze. Clear, wise, kind. “Remember asking why dough is alive?” “Because it breathes.” “Exactly, love. And so does love. You can’t fire it, can’t dismiss it. If it settles in, it stays. Twenty years, thirty—you only have to wait.” She set a pie before Lizzie—warm, soft, filled with apple. “Come on. You’re skin and bone, dear.” Lizzie took a bite. For the first time in years—she smiled. The sky lightened. Snow shimmered under the first rays, and the world—vast, unfair, complicated—seemed briefly simple and kind. Like Nora’s pies. Like her hands. Like the quiet, steadfast love that cannot be sacked. Micky tumbled out, rubbing his eyes. “Mum, it smells yummy.” “Grandma Nora baked for us.” “Grand-ma?” He mouthed the word, studying Nora. She smiled—crinkles scattering, her eyes lighting up. “That’s right, love. Come eat.” And he joined them. For the first time in months, he laughed—when Nora showed him how to shape silly dough men. Lizzie watched—her son and the woman she once called mother—and understood: here was home. Not walls, marble, chandeliers. Just warm hands. Just the smell of dough. Just love—plain, earthy, unspoken. Love that can’t be bought or sold, that just is—while ever a single heart still beats. Funny thing, the memory of the heart. We forget dates, faces, whole eras, yet the aroma of mum’s pies lingers to our last breath. Maybe because love doesn’t live in the mind. It’s somewhere deeper, where neither hurt nor years can reach it. And sometimes you have to lose everything—status, money, pride—just to remember the way home. To the hands that wait.
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