Monthly Archives: April 2016

A Woman of Ninety

When I go into her living-room, the heat and the smell hit me simultaneously. The heat is from the small electric fire, which is always on, making the centre of the room a furnace, whilst icy blasts from the winter outside creep in at the edges, around windows and under the ill-fitting door to the unheated kitchen beyond. The smell is that of stale urine and faeces, radiating from her, almost palpable in the sudden fetid warmth of the air in the tiny room, strong enough to make one gasp and mouth-breathe involuntarily.

She sits in front of the fire, her body angled slightly towards the large television in the corner, its sleek lines and modern look entirely at odds with the net curtains, the threadbare carpet and the few pieces of 1950s furniture. The volume is turned high and she fixes her unseeing gaze on the flickering screen, her face registering no emotion whatsoever as a toothless man on The Jeremy Kyle Show is booed by the studio audience for leaving his wife for her younger, thinner sister and a punch-up ensues. There is one card on the mantelpiece, wishing her a happy 90th birthday, from the care agency engaged by the Council to deliver basic care to her. Her birthday was several months ago and this appears to be the only card she got.

She is wearing a long, summery skirt in mid-winter, with an old, food-stained, hand-knitted jumper and her feet, with long, yellow toenails and fissured heels, are bare, toasting in the heat of the fire. I see a new looking pair of fur-lined slippers in the corner of the room and bring them to her, trying to guide her feet into them. It is no good – on closer examination, her swollen lower legs and feet, so unexpected given her otherwise emaciated appearance, are of variegated hue and the purpled flesh bulges painfully over the sides of the slippers. She starts to get cross and I put them back in the corner.

A carer – a cheerful, breezy, strong-looking woman who comes every morning – lets herself in. I excuse myself and stand in the icy kitchen whilst the carer expertly hoists her charge to her feet and changes her incontinence pad. The carer then bustles briefly into the kitchen, emerging shortly afterwards with tray containing a bowl of microwaved porridge, a small sugar bowl and a cup of tea. The tray is balanced precariously on an upturned wastepaper basket in front of the old woman, the stained carpet at her feet bearing testament to the apparent inadequacy of this dining arrangement.   With shaking hand, she takes a heaped spoonful of sugar and sprinkles it liberally over the porridge, returning again and again to the sugar bowl, repeating the sweetening multiple times, until her breakfast is more sugar than oats.   Then she starts to eat, lifting the spoon to her mouth, a good deal of porridge soaking into the wool of her jumper as it drips from the spoon. Without attempting to help further, the carer announces brightly that she is finished and will call back at lunchtime. She has been there only twelve minutes.

I ask her if I can turn the television down, so that I can try to talk to her about something important. She does not answer me, so I do it anyway. I ask her if she will talk to me about whether she will accept more help and whether she would like to move to somewhere she can be taken care of. I tell her that it seems that she is sleeping on her couch (she has some blankets to one side which she may or may not pull over herself) and, with her last care call being tea time, is not changing her clothes, her incontinence pads or even her seating position through the night. The morning carer reports that she is always sitting in her usual position on the couch when she arrives, wearing the same clothes as the day before. She becomes upset and shouts that this is her house and no-one can force her out of it.

I come back to visit her again, and again, to see whether I am able to communicate with her and understand what she wants. She always sits in the same place, staring unblinkingly at whatever is showing on the television. Sometimes she smiles at me, sometimes she shouts from her own, private world which I cannot gain access to. She claims that she is climbing the stairs daily to air the bedrooms, that she is walking out to the local library with her father and that she is cooking good plain food for herself.

She has advanced dementia. She has no friends and no family. Apart from the scheduled care calls three times a day, and occasional professionals’ checks, she has no visitors. She is a million miles away from someone else who has recently had a 90th birthday.

I find the loneliness and vulnerability of her old age almost unbearable.

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Animals

I hate how their smells linger

In cars and houses, on clothes and fingers.

I hate their dribble, drool, sniffs and licks,

Their nips and bites, barks and kicks.

I hate the way they scamper and scuttle

And mortifyingly crotch-snuffle.

 

I loathe how their fur covers my clothes,

Gets into my hair, creeps up my nose

Giving me outbreaks of hives, a fear of fleas

Swollen eyes, a frightening wheeze.

I loathe how encountering their dander

Makes me tear my skin asunder.

 

And yet I love them when outside,

Seeing them flying free, running wild

Or on a screen, when a documentary

Makes me gasp, wonder, laugh involuntarily.

I adore their galloping majesty,

Love stories sentimental of canine loyalty.

 

And when one of them looks at me,

I feel our similarities.

A life lives, a heart beats.

I cannot eat their meat,

Cannot stomach flesh, sinews, veins

Minced and chopped, served up as my main.

 

 

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Time-keeper

refNo.1 son stood with head respectfully bowed. But I could tell he was looking at his watch, counting down the seconds before he would have to blow his whistle. His very first task as a trainee referee was to supervise two minutes silence on Remembrance Sunday. A weedy peep, betraying his anxiety, barely audible on a wind-buffeted playing field, signaled the end of the silence and that play could get under way.

The role of the time-keeper is essential to sports. From timing races to determine winners on land and water, to careful marshaling of the playing duration of rugby, hockey, netball and football matches, to clocks that limit breaks in tennis, constrain routines in gymnastics and force attacking play in basketball. Even cricket’s colonisation of whole days is prey to the clock, with lunch, tea and drinks breaks to be timed and enforced.

How well suited would my older son be to the task of time-keeper? All the evidence from home-life is that he would not be playing to a known strength.

The morning of one of his football matches typically involves him having to be woken up. He may even have to be woken a second time. “We need to leave in 45 minutes”, Mother in the Middle or I will specify. A little later, as he takes a leisurely breakfast, irritation ill-concealed, “Can you get dressed now. We’re going in 20 minutes.”

This prompts a move to the shower. The argument that he should wash after, not before, a game was made, won and ignored long ago.

“Five minute warning!” we yell, which may disturb him from his social networking activity.

When we’re kicking our heels at the front door, already swaddled in jumpers and coats, glancing at our time pieces, there will be a flurry of activity. “Where’s my socks? Which kit are we playing in? Who’s had my shin-pads?” Frantic searches, allegations, cross words enliven the house. Whatever’s lost will be found stuffed in a school bag or buried beneath clothes heading to or returning from the washing machine.

“Are we going to be late?” no.1 son will ask urgently, accusingly as he stumbles out of the front door, feet not properly in boots, coat dragging on the ground. Some days I resist the impulse to set out how any degree of organisation or time-awareness could have negated the need for this rushed, bothered exit; and some days I don’t. This, with age appropriate adjustments, has been going on for years. And my contribution truly sits among that list of futile things parents do (and should stop doing, but somehow don’t).

Once, when no.1 son was only nine or ten, I decided not to nag. Having told him the time we would be leaving the house, I left it up to him to get himself ready promptly. Half an hour after we should have left home, he was sat watching TV. We arrived barely before the match started. My stand had achieved nothing but inconvenience his coach and teammates.

Therefore, alongside the referees, umpires, scorers and judges, as time-keepers critical to junior sport, we should recognise the parents. Not equipped with high-tech chronometers, or backed by rule books, it’s mums and dads persuading, chivvying and marching their offspring out of the door that ensure junior sports fixtures start promptly. 

Watching the first half of no.1 son’s first match as referee, I started to become anxious. His nerves before the game were overt as he questioned me about various aspects of under 12 football: the duration, substitutions, off-side, identity of linesmen. With all that uncertainty in his mind, I began to worry that he might have forgotten to time the half. I tried to work out how long the game had been going. An even bigger puzzle was how I was going to gain his attention when, by my estimate, the first half would be over. I paced circuits around the pitch, trying to work out if he seemed aware of the passage of time.

Then suddenly and with impeccable timing, two loud blasts on the whistle, as no.1 son brought the first half of the first game of his refereeing career to an end.

 

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Filed under old head, parenting, sport gives us..