The hand in mine is not my mother’s, but my heart still aches with the memory of her. Her, lying in bed, me at her side. Her labored breathing. The slight, desperate squeeze of her fingers matching mine. Such an intimate form of communication that needs no words to convey meaning.

The room is dim, painted by a hidden projector casting a rainbow galaxy of tiny stars and nebulae, slowly orbiting the walls and ceiling. Solemn acoustic covers of wartime tunes drift from a speaker, anchoring this vigil in another era.

On the bedside table, a single birthday card stands propped beside a plastic beaker of water and a soft-bristled mouth care brush. The air is warm and still. Peaceful, as it should be in these final moments. But I am a poor substitute for someone else’s son.

A call bell rings in the corridor, shattering the tranquillity. I don’t move; someone else can answer it. My place is here. 

The woman’s frail body tenses, her fingers tightening on mine. She lets out a gentle groan as she squirms, the sound of the alarm disturbing her peace. Or perhaps the pain is clawing its way back. Beneath the sheet, the syringe driver emits a low, clinical hum. It is working, steadily pumping its cocktail of quietude into her arm.

The darkness is claustrophobic, the air dry and static. Even with the window cracked, there is no breeze. The small oscillating fan in the corner of the room merely stirs the heat, offering no relief. Palliative care has its own atmosphere, and its own scent. It is a distinctive, chemical odor. What I’ve come to recognise as the smell of a body quietly breaking down on the inside. Sticky and unmistakable, it clings to the curtains, to the skin, to the back of the throat.

In these last few days, there is always a stillness—a reverence, even for the most difficult of people. We take turns to watch over the resident when their own family cannot. To be there with them so they are not alone. But recently I have noticed something else, something troubling.

This building is tainted, its corridors filled with the memories of so many past residents. Their absence is highlighted each time someone else drinks from a personalised mug or wears a favored cardigan that has quietly found its way back into circulation. The worn chair by the window that captures the early evening light, the nameplates that easily slide on and off bedroom doors.

This is a place of care, of love, and of patience. But it is also a machine. The beds will empty. New residents arrive. The names on the doors change. The conveyor belt never stops moving. It is the final stop on the journey to whatever lies beyond. The long and short of it is that, however the brochures feather it up, this is where people come to die. Maybe that plays heavy upon my heart. Maybe these past thirty years of caring have slowly eaten away at me. The burden gradually compounded with each goodbye. I find myself searching for a label for this exhaustion, trying to find some understanding of the burden I carry.

My eyes drift to the wall, tracing the colourful nebula as it crawls from floor to ceiling. Bright purples, deep blues, and hot pinks wash over the plaster, but my shadow remains stubbornly black. A static dark figure. Its features are completely obscured, yet it possesses a dreadful weight. It feels less like a trick of the light and more like a dark reflection sitting across from me, watching me.

When I shift, it shifts also. It mimics my posture, but its unseen eyes never leave me. Its gaze is intense and draining.

Reason dictates that sitting before a light source will cast a shadow, but mine feels too intimate for that. Less an absence of light and more an extension of myself. It has mass. I raise a hand, spread my fingers slowly. The shadow mirrors the gesture, and a cold thought slips into my mind: am I controlling the shadow, or is it controlling me?

My wandering thoughts halt when a sudden change in breathing draws me back to the bed. The old woman squeezes my hand, struggling for air. Her breath is jagged and harsh, crackling in her throat and then—nothing. A silence descends that freezes the very air in the room. I scrutinize her chest for the slightest of rises and falls. Five seconds. Ten. Time stretches, thin and agonizing. Then, she gasps. A massive, desperate intake of air, as if she had just broken the surface of water she had slipped beneath for too long.

I’ve heard many people say that the body knows how to die. It slowly shuts down, organ by organ—an innate and perfectly orchestrated domino fall, like the lights in a long corridor systematically going out. They say the best thing to do is just ride the wave and let the body do its thing. Yet, as an observer, it rarely looks like a peaceful process. 

The call bell rings again, a sharp spike to my already anxious state. It is the unavoidable intrusive soundtrack of a residential care home.

“It’s okay, Janice.”

I squeeze her hand to offer some reassurance, a physical reminder that someone is still with her. There is the slightest squeeze back, a faint groan, and another strained squirm.

“Janice?” I ask, as if I expect a response, but it is nothing more than a nervous reflex. I have been here many times before, sitting by a bed, holding a hand, accompanying someone on their final journey. But that doesn’t mean the job gets any easier. It never gets any easier. 

I sometimes wonder where all the grief goes, where all the cumulative burden resides. Day after week after month after year. It never gets easier, and yet I keep coming back. There are plenty of less demanding ways to earn minimum wage, and yet here I am.

I notice my shadow again. It seems even more solid than before. Black and unmoving against the swirling expanse of cosmic light that fills the room. Strange how it seems larger than before. Perhaps it’s the position of the projector, or maybe I’ve shifted my weight and increased my distance from the lens? Or maybe it is just my tired mind playing tricks. Still, I don’t think I have ever seen my shadow look quite so dense, so completely dark. I turn my head to the left, then to the right, tracking the shape from the corners of my eyes as it mimics me. My head turns again. Except, this time, I didn’t intend to. It feels like a guided movement, as if, for a split second, the shadow has taken the lead, and I am merely compelled to comply.

The bed hums. The specialist airflow mattress wheezes as it distributes its pressure, spluttering and rattling mechanically. It is too harsh a noise for such an occasion. Janice doesn’t stir. Good. These automated necessities should really be more courteous of their guests.

I check the clock. 7 pm. Only three hours until my shift ends. I stretch my back and breathe deeply, feeling the tightness in my muscles. What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath to ease this weariness. Lately, the aches have been settling in deeper. I guess it comes with age. God knows how I’ll be when I’m like Janice. 

No. Scratch that. I don’t want to get that old. The loss of mobility. The erosion of independence. The indignity of becoming entirely dependent on strangers. Becoming the one who attends all your friends’ funerals, until there is no one left to attend yours. Outliving your senses. Outliving your own children. It’s no wonder these rooms are so often thick with tears and regrets. I’ve lost count of the mornings I’ve been asked, voice heavy with sorrow, “Why can’t I just die?”

It’s an impossible question to answer. Sometimes I offer a reassuring hug, a gentle joke to briefly lift the dark thoughts. Other times, all I can muster is, “How about a nice cup of tea?” Surprisingly, that works quite well.

To be honest, I don’t know why some of them carry on for so long. Some might say it’s a blessing, others a curse, especially given what usually accompanies extreme old age. My own mother was only sixty-four when she died. A youth next to Janice. It’s been six years since I sat at her bedside, holding her hand, when I had only a fraction of my current experience and know-how. I remember the panic of watching her respiration change, mistaking the long pauses between breaths for the end. I was helpless. 

I still question whether I could have done more for her if I’d known then what I know now. That is a cold weight. But maybe that’s exactly why I’m here. There must be a reason I endure the hardships and stress of this work. Maybe I see in each resident the opportunity to offer what I couldn’t give my own mother. Lack of knowledge cannot be made up for with love, and she had that in abundance.

There is a gentle tap on the door before it opens, and another carer enters. The harsh light from the corridor slices a wedge through the make-believe cosmos, exposing the raw reality of the room.

“How’s she doing?” they ask.

I offer an awkward, grimacing half-smile and slowly shake my head. “Any luck with her granddaughter?”

“Still not picking up. I mean, why leave an emergency number if you never answer? Do you need anything?”

“No, we’re good, thank you.”

“Well, I’ll be back in five, and then you can take a break.”

“Thank you.”

The door closes and with it the light retreats, returning the room to its starry, hypnotic darkness. Order is restored.

Here we sit, Janice and I. For this brief time, we are the centre of the universe. All the stars and planets orbit us. Somewhere, a phone rings, unanswered. I try not to judge. We each deal with death in our own ways, but I know only too well we never get these moments again. You can’t get back the opportunity to say goodbye.

Still my shadow sits with us. Darker now than it has ever been, like my anchor to reality lest I am carried along with Janice into the distant beyond. Solid, dense, and unmoving against the light of the projector.

Can a shadow have weight? Can the darkness feel like an extension of the self? More than a likeness—almost real, almost a being of its own. Within that darkness, I feel those unseen eyes looking back at me. The silhouette is massive now, twice my size, towering over the bed, dwarfing me. Dominating me. My throat has dried; my chest has tightened. Every breath has become an effort.

I raise a hand to touch Janice’s forehead. She looks cold, terrifyingly pale. The movement takes immense effort, though, as if the shadow is like a heavy fabric, weighing me down. I push my hand forward, inch by inch, my progress hampered as if moving through deep water. The air turns thick, and the pungent odor of decay strikes me with a sudden dominant force. I hesitate just inches from her skin, paralyzed by the memory of all the times I’ve done this before. So many tentative touches to check for life. So many cold foreheads.

Janice’s next breath breaks the paralysis, and I place my hand upon her brow. She is warm and clammy. Despite the swirling rainbow lights, the dark hollows of her eyes and the blueness of her lips are unmistakable. Tiny, brutal details jump out at me: the stray whiskers on her chin, the dry saliva encrusted at the corners of her mouth, the half-closed lids exposing gray vacant eyes, her fingers grow cold, though her faint grip reassures me she is still here. The purple mottling of her skin has become more pronounced across the backs of her hands.

“Oh, Janice. You’re okay,” I lie automatically. It is the absolute opposite of okay, and if she could still understand me, she would attest to that. But the words just spill from me without thought.

Behind the bed, my shadow now dominates the wall—a looming, dense entity that dwarfs us both. It swallows the projector light, leaving Janice exposed to the cruel reality of the room. It has grown exponentially over the last few minutes; it is fuller, larger, heavier. It stretches across the mattress to merge with Janice’s own silhouette, until I can no longer tell where my outline ends and hers begins. There is a second gentle rap upon the bedroom door, and a head appears through the gap.

“Go on, go for your break. I’ll take over for a bit.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice sounding distant even to myself.

“Of course. Don’t worry, go get some air.”

I stand up, and Janice’s hand drops away from mine. As my shadow moves with me, her form is temporarily plunged back into the deep hues of the projected cosmos, masking her sickly pallor again until my silhouette is replaced by my colleague’s.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

My gaze lingers upon the frail old lady, curled like an infant in its cot. Her bones are prominent beneath her tissue-thin skin. Her fingers no longer possess the substance to hold a wedding ring.

I turn away as a sudden wave of exhaustion hits, a visceral reminder of how much this shift has already taken out of me.

I exit the room, pulling the door shut with practiced care—the quiet click of the latch signifying my departure.

The corridor stretches out, lined with identical doors, each housing another resident. Here, the sour chemical smell of decay is replaced by sharp floral disinfectant, the gentle acoustic melodies swapped for the din of distant televisions, fragmented laughter, and the relentless buzz of a half-dozen call bells. The noise hits me like a physical blow, a jarring wall of sound in contrast to the peace of Janice’s room. The sound of the factory floor.

I make my way to the staff breakroom, swiping my security card to enter. I brew a cup of tea and sit alone at a small table. The sink is full of dirty pots, the microwave smells of stale curry, and the cheap plastic kettle sweats with condensation. It is so quiet here. So ordinary.

I swallow a couple of acetaminophen with the last gulps of my tea to dull the throb in my head. I check my phone. No messages. I yawn, forcing myself to stand; it’s not good to sit for too long. I need to save that for home. My dog, my armchair, my sanctuary. 

I think about my family. It strikes me suddenly with bitter clarity that the only people who truly remember I worked these extra hours are the ones I left behind at the dinner table. I need to save something for them. I give so much of myself to these corridors that only a hollow shell returns home. An irritable, exhausted, poor reflection of myself. My family deserves a better version of me, but he is already spent by the time I clock off.

I check the time; my break is over.  I rinse my mug and drop my phone into my bag. This cramped staff room offers no real respite. The muffled ring of the call bells still penetrates the walls, confused residents occasionally peer through the glass door, and the corporate wellbeing posters—though well-intentioned—only serve to remind us of the toll this work takes. Glossy laminated sheets hang obtusely with borrowed blu-tack, curling at the edges. They offer generic advice about mindfulness written by executives who have never had to change a soiled bed sheet at three in the morning. Their words are, however, hauntingly perceptive: ‘Sometimes we say we’re fine…when we’re not.’

The collective we. Not I, or you, but we. All of us. We are either actively caring or waiting to be cared for.

Turning back into the corridor, I confront my shadow again. Black and ominous, it stretches out before me along the scuffed linoleum. The overhead strip lighting flickers violently for a split second, like lightning before a storm. The residual white glare stings my eyes. The bells ring in my ears, my head throbs, my back aches.

All around me, colleagues are busily pacifying residents, darting in and out of doorways, carrying drinks, laundry, incontinence pads. They don their blue latex gloves and their smiles, they wave, and they chatter. It is a thriving metropolis of dependency, a finely orchestrated ritual. And I notice more distinctly than ever before that every single carer is dragging their own dark burden. A unique shadow, pinning them down. 

The heavy weight of care is a constant companion. 

As I step back into the throng of activity, my own shadow pulls at my heels like lead, like wet tar underfoot. It makes my stride tacky, laborious. I can feel the burden growing heavier with each passing shift. There aren’t many miles left in these shoes. How many years before this institution wears me down completely—how long before I am the one lying in the bed, with someone holding my hand, telling me I’m okay?