Wednesday, 11 April 2012

WHEN THE CLOCK HALTS.

My name is Sparta, 89 and masculine, preferably the macho sex. Astonishingly I have been living with dementia for a decade, abruptly deteriorating fast after my 85th. I do embrace my dementia as self inflicted, coupled with the fact that the numerous head injuries and facial fixations I received as a result of direct punches through my adorable career as a boxer has affected my thinking fatally, hold on, I had always enjoyed my alcoholic lifestyle, I believe that life is short and I better celebrate mine before anyone else does after I'm gone. I've always managed to stay ahead of people's plans, adjustment policies is all I've lived upon and never bothered a bit about what other people say. All that I had to do with the outside world is the visits I receive through the local agency, a company providing domiciliary care for the borough, believe me when I go nuts these CARERS dare not mess around my haven. I don't know why but I once booked an ambulance ride to A&E for one of my CARERS that I knocked unconscious. I think I plunge into my end quicker not because of my too often binge sprees of alcohol but due to my wife eloping with my money as she was too scared by my dementia and Parkinson's infectious acquisitions, bless her, else she could have inherit an early dark world of six feet.
Now after all my heroics and assertions I found myself on a hospital stretcher and not just properly stretched but shaken, like seeing myself on the other side in a few minutes to come, with my clock ticking to a halt. How did I get here and what on earth I'm laying so low for, really I would never leave my premises and the only times I could, certainly would have been taking those transient rides with the police to the hospitals or for a four sided enclosure they assumed for correction. Since I lost my parents, anxiety and depression has coiled me deep into myself, I lived through negligence and injuries of bone fracturing instances. On top of my glorious life I lie motionless with the beauty of it not knowing why, all that I know is the feeling of true lifelessness, if my eyes are open then I can confirm my temporal blindness, the fact I do not bother because I could hear though perceiving through my only remaining sense, all other organs might have shut themselves automatically but my ears, I knew that it was too late to admit that I admit my fear.
Fear not because hope just sprung out of nowhere, again I was hearing a possibility of surviving a knockout punch this time delivered with a sharp pain through the deepest of my heart. I just thought and it breaks a heart knowing there is a probability that I would not see the sun in it's jealous skies ever again, I felt just like a lifeless little chicken, why not, for the word rude and arrogant was just bread and butter in my youth but now I am not prettier than a mere piece of mutton rejected by a local abattoir.
Amazingly I heard one of the doctors said, "ask the carer", and after a while I could hear another doctor, "he had a heart attack and more or less now in a cardiac arrest condition", I thought of shut up I have been here before. Then suddenly I heard, "you need to give us permission to continue or stop". I could not believe my life was right in the hands of a carer, all he has to say is no or yes to my resuscitation. That was the moment I had no family nor next of kin, all I allowed into my aged world was CARERS and had proved judgemental.