What scares me? Death doesn't scare me as such, but a long, lingering mental or physical decline, probably in a care home does. I know some care homes are great, my mother-in-law is in a fabulous care home and loves it. But its not for me.
What is it about a care home that scares me then?
Its the constant of presence of others when all you want is five minutes peace and quiet. Its your coffee not quite as strong as you would like, again. Its the constant noise of chatter, its someone else deciding the daily menu, the list goes on. Oh and being obliged to join in with sing-a-longs and bingo.
And later, as you decline, someone taking you to the loo and having to wipe your bum, someone helping you to dress and later deciding what you should wear. The creeping lack of dignity. The gradual withdrawal of who you are to become a shell that needs care and attention.
These things, when I read them back seem dreadfully trivial but they represent an erosion of self. And all there is to look forward to is a wooden box.
So in the early morning hours of a sleepless night, these things flit through my head.