ON THE MOVE AGAIN

The two first photos above are from my balcony a little over a year ago. The third one was taken on Friday. Symbolic, I think, of the fact that no flowers grow in this home any more. I'm packing up and leaving this lovely new apartment, after having lived here only 18 months. This was no abiding-place for me.

We sold our house - where we had lived since we got married in 1983 - and were preparing to start a new and easier life in a completely new apartment block immediately outside Oslo, in the popular area where the Oslo Airport used to be. Lift straight up from the garage, everything on one level, bathroom en suite two steps from the bed - every interior detail designed to our satisfaction, especially the beautiful and practical kitchen, perfect for my cooking hobby. Huge balcony, with exits both from the bedroom and the living room, room for comfortable furniture and flower pots and lanterns. I'll have my morning coffee out here, my husband said.

Wrapping it up - banana boxes and bubble wrap

We bought the apartment while it was still on the drawing board, a plan in an office. We inspected the site and found it suitable for us. A place where we could grow old, without the effort of stairs from floor to floor. We signed the contract in October 2012. Exactly a year later - on October 9 - my husband was diagnosed with a brain tumour, malignant, stage 4. The tumour was removed, and he underwent chemotherapy and radiation, which was only life-prolonging. We moved into the apartment at the beginning of December 2014, but by then he was so ill that he was granted a temporary stay in the Hospice while I did the the actual moving with the aid of my daughters and son-in-law Josh. He came especially to Oslo from Melbourne to help.

My husband moved out on February 3, 2015, back to the Hospice. By then he couldn't walk or see, and I was practically carrying him around the apartment, pushing him in a wheelchair whenever that was possible, feeding him, helping him on and off the toilet, shaving him, showering him, dressing him. Never leaving him alone for more than 30 minutes while I did the grocery shopping. You might say that "everything on one level" was no good in any case, but better than the three floors we had before.

He never got to enjoy his morning coffee on the balcony, but at Christmas 2014 he at least had a few cigars out there with his friends. The last time he was at home was Valentines Day - when I took him out of the Hospice to throw a party for him. He spent the night beside me, but had a fall from the toilet in the morning. All he wanted was to go back to the Hospice, where he felt safe.

I realised then that that was it. I had said to the doctor at the Hospice that I was planning to have him move back home. I don't know what I was thinking. The doctor persuaded me that it wasn't an alternative, and she had also spoken to my husband at great length. "I see a man who has deep insight into his own illness," she said to me. "He wants to spend the rest of his days in the Hospice." I had no idea he had such a deep insight into his own illness - he did not discuss that with me. He was always optimistic when he talked to me. I realised later that all he wished was to protect me, to spare me the worry.

So - next Sunday - a week from now, I am closing the door on this our mutual project. The place where we were going to grow old together.

I am choosing to grow old somewhere else.

Oslo has been the warmest city in Europe these days, so I've used the balcony a lot!

Flowers and herbs in my sister Kari's garden!