It’s four and half years now I find myself watching the slow and steady decline of my mother. My days are structured by her ingestion and digestion, and the proper preparation of her medication. In between I find some time to work, to read books to enter a universe not ruled by approaching death. Which according to Camus is not feasible as we are all condemned to death. Sure, he’s right and what I’m doing makes no sense at all, still I’m doing it – la femme révoltée.
five stray minutes 
your devotion and support is wonderful. It brought up for me the thought that one day I will be in the position of your mother – and this is something I definitely look towards with horror! I hate the thought of being dependent on anyone, and especially putting my children in a situation where they have to either do what you are doing or place me in a hospice! I shall rebel till the last – wish there was a magic pill that would sort me quickly and painlessly into the long sleep!
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Guess we all would prefer this magic pill.
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It’s hard to watch someone you love leaving you slowly, I empathise with you. I am not the least worried about being dead, since I’m looking forward to the next adventure already. But I am increasingly worried about the manner of its arriving! often have fantasies I will start to live increasingly dangerously as I get older, in the hope that dependence will be taken out of my hands, but in reality, that seldom happens!
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La femme révoltée indeed – or how not to be la femme révoltée. It is by no means easy to maintain your own self when caring for someone close to you. I am not sure the existentialist view wins the day in cases like these, for that philosophy eschews the redemptive power of love. I am filled with immense sadness when I discover someone has to shoulder the responsibility of care.
I used to think about that “little blue pill”, as we called that notional majic pill. I always wondered if I had it, whether I would end up by taking that little blue pill too early, thereby being foolish enough to deprive myself of possible pleasures beyond the current hell.
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Well, I don’t think Satre is of much help in such cases but actually I find myself thinking a lot about Camus recently. Thought of rereading “La Peste” also wondering if I can still manage it in French. Basically he wrote a lot about living while fighting death, fully knowing that the battle has to be lost but going on nonetheless. And living for him was also being emerged in the Mediterranean summer with all the sounds, sun and heat, and blue skies. I can relate to that.
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