joyce

Dan and Joyce live in Unit 2, behind me. Dan is 82 and has pulmonary fibrosis. He weighs 45 kgs and he’s disappearing before our eyes, dying.

Joyce feeds Idji the ginger cat when I’m away. She comes to my front door at seven, negotiates the deadlocks, gets the kangaroo mince from the fridge, gives the cat more than he should get.

Dan used to buttonhole me in the drive, go on and on about this and that: Chester’s car’s too heavy for the concrete driveway, Adrian drives too fast down the drive, a fence-post in his yard is loose. Joyce rolls her eyes, wanders off to get his tea ready.

Dan can’t get to the top of the drive now. He’s been haemorrhaging from where a tooth used to be, wakes with blood around his mouth, Joyce says. Now I see her in the driveway, taking out the bins, going for the morning paper, off to the bus stop. Yesterday she tells me Dan fell on Saturday afternoon, split the back of his head. She was out. So was I. He came to my door for help.

She’s always respected his privacy, never gone into the doctor’s rooms with him. He’s told her the pulmonary fibrosis is getting better. The other day, she says, she went in with him. The disease is extensive, incurable, in its final stages. Her daughter has checked with Dr Google. Dan’s been keeping it from them.

I stand at the top of the driveway with her. Joyce’s eyes well a bit. Not much to look forward to, she says. I’m sure she’s known for a while that Dan’s on his way, but a country girl from St Arnaud just gets on with things.

“I never wanted to be a nurse,” she adds. “Still don’t want to be. I’m 78. It’s enough.”

The cat eats but doesn’t want to go out at seven. Joyce comes back at nine and he’s sitting by the back door, ready for the day now. After late afternoon tea-time—she feeds Dan about five thirty—Joyce comes back, lets the cat in, feeds him again, more than his due. She says he’s all over her when she’s getting the food, runs away from her outside.

I’m loath to ask her to feed the cat these days. She has Dan to care for. I’ve asked so often lately—six trips away in six weeks. She says it’s no trouble, always obliges. I thank her profusely.

She’s a hearty soul is Joyce. I expect she’ll have ten or fifteen years after Dan goes. I hope she enjoys them.

Rock on.