Check The Cupboard

Movie and television studios spend hundreds of millions of dollars on productions to scare people. But why? All they have to do is have a reality TV crew follow me around for a day and observe my life.

It wouldn’t matter which day. They’re all the same. They blend into each other.

7:00am - Be woken by a harsh nurse with anger management issues, who administers a rough sponge bath after roughly removing my overnight diaper.
8:00am - Breakfast in the dining room, exchanging mumbled greetings with the other residents as we shovel grey gruel into our mouths with plastic spoons.
9:00am - Medication. TV. Maybe a stroll outside if my hips are up to the task and the weather is between 16C and 21C.
10:00am - Morning tea. Lukewarm tea or coffee. Soft, stale cake. All served by a hungover volunteer who’d rather be in a crack den than serving me food as penance for a drunk-driving charge.
11:00am - Lunch. More mushy food. More greetings exchanged with other dead-eyed residents.
12:00 noon - Board games. Jigsaw puzzles. TV… hopefully the antenna is working. All interspersed with nurses wiping dribbles from my various orifices.
2:00pm - Afternoon tea. Leftovers from morning tea, served by a different volunteer. This one is usually a little perkier. Maybe the morning girl finally achieved her life-long ambition of dying from an opioid overdose.
4:00pm - Dinner. More sloppy foods, easy to swallow. When I was young, I used to make fun of seniors having dinner so early. Now, I relish it. I especially love the jelly.
5:00pm - Medication. TV. Daydream about my glory days.
8:00pm - Re-read one of the three worn books on my bookshelf. Sneak a cheeky piece of shortbread, stashed away from last year’s Christmas present. Or was it my birthday present?
8:45pm - Nurse whines-a-lot wraps me in an adult diaper for bed.
8:55pm - Check the cupboard.
9:00pm - Go to bed.

There are some exceptions to this routine. Sometimes, rarely, my son checks me out for the day so I can spend some time with his family. They don’t feel like my family, however. They’re strangers. I see them so rarely, I can’t even remember their names.

These outings normally occur on my birthday, or at Christmas. Not on Christmas Day, mind you… I’d be too much of a burden to have around on the actual day. Normally he’ll pick me up a day or two before Christmas, introduce me to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, give me a box of shortbread, then take me back to the home. Hopefully not too late for dinner.

The repetitiveness of this mind-numbing routine is a form of slow death. Sometimes I envy the residents with Alzheimers. Sometimes I’d love to forget. I see the light in the eyes of the other residents slowly fade over time. The same must be happening to mine.

Today, however, is different. Everything changed today.

8:55pm - Check the cupboard.

“Hello,” Death said, his voice gentle and soothing. “Would you like to come with me now?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”