Going around, coming around

This is about Peter Ballox, who's getting closer to the end of this life and/or the beginning of the next.

I spent Monday evening with him when he was up for his (pointless) chemo. The deterioration in his physical condition was quite shocking, but though the body is fading the mind's sharper than for years. I know for a fact he was in considerable pain, but he hid it artfully, making quite a show of his remaining abilities and minimising his increasing disabilities.

We talked about the dug, his immaculate new housing association flat in the Borders village, sci-fi, the US elections and his now constant thirst. In the air was that we both know his life expectancy was estimated at 2 months a month ago.

Because I'm a hard bitch, I asked why he's still having chemo, and why he's not yet hooked into the Good Stuff from palliative care for his pain. I'm not supposed to know about the pain. He hid it well, but a horrorshow enacted the previous evening had proved that if dying painfully, you're likely to receive better practical compassion from a vet than from a 5-star NHS teaching hospital.

Peter used the death-word and the dying-word a few times, allowing me to ask what kind of these he wanted. The denial-wish kicked in and was behaviourally evident- getting up to feed the dug, offer me unwanted tea, fetch cold milk for sipping (quickly puked back up). But I'm a hard bitch and came back to those words when he was calmed. In a personal conversation, we covered some practical and aspirational aspects of the how, when, who and why of the d-words.

Peter was at his very best: ripping the piss out of me in such a charming and affectionate manner, and disclosing some personal regrets of astonishing grace.

I wrote to Peter's Borders GP that night, because though he'd rather die than ask, the Ballox now needs the Good Stuff. And the GP listened, I think, since he persuaded the Ballox into being admitted to the Borders hospital today to optimise his pain management.

The Ballox has always despised H.etc.'s cat, but puss became very ill too this week, requiring expensive surgery. It fills me with pride that Peter has quietly paid for the cat's operation, when he's never before put his hand in his pocket for H.etc. It's late in the game, but never too late.