The Shape of Comfort

I probably need a new mattress. The recommendation is that we shouldn’t be sleeping on the same one for more than eight years and mine is well past its ‘use by’ date. I turn it once a month but because of the memory foam top it’s non-reversible in that I can’t flip it over and expect a good night’s sleep. So one month I settle in the slight indentation made by my own body weight. The next month I sleep in the hollow that Mags created, having spent most of those final weeks in what she called her “comfy spot”.

I imagine some might find it hard to understand, think it strange even, how I can continue to sleep in the bed where Mags died. But I’ve never given it a second thought. There were conversations during which we weighed up the pros and cons of dying at home. Sometimes it seemed absolutely the right thing to do. Sometimes there was a nagging doubt about reaching the end of life at home. What if home was remembered as the place where Mags died rather than the place where she lived happily for almost two years? There is no way of knowing or accurately predicting these things. In the end it was Mags’ choice and I was 100% supportive of whatever decision she made. Only she knew where she wanted to die, and once the choice was made I did all that I could to ensure she got what she wanted.

So, the mattress. It’s not getting changed anytime soon, that’s for sure. When Mags’ imprint is across from me it’s a comfort to rest my hand there before I go to sleep. When I’m actually laying in the shape she made I feel safe and secure. Similarly, throughout my waking days, even the bad ones, I can usually find some peace, not within any definable shape but in a space Mags’ created where I could and can always be me. A space where memories can be relived but always left as found lest they collapse and become trip hazards. A space that, were it to have any shape at all, might well resemble two hearts.