The Man Who Didn't Call

by Rosie Walsh

It’s my contention that everyone has a choice, in everything. On some level.’ I watched him. ‘What they do, how they feel, what they say. It’s just somehow become the received wisdom that we don’t have a choice. About anything. Jobs, relationships, happiness. All beyond our control.’ He shooed the tiny spider back into the grass. ‘It can be frustrating, watching everyone complaining about their problems, never wanting to discuss solutions. Believing they’re a victim of other people, of themselves, of the world.’

The parents looked like mine: just beginning their transition into old age; greyer, more crumpled, but still firmly in their lives, not looking back on them.

I had often wondered about the degree of consciousness held by the mentally ill as they began to deteriorate. How easily could they recognize a decline? How visible was the line between fact and fiction, before it disappeared completely?

‘I can’t do this,’ someone said. Me, I realized, after a pause. I had said it.

‘Sometimes the elephant is just too big for the room,’