Bert Steps Up

 

This week was eventful in a lockdown sort of way.

Monday. Quiet for Nellybert but Chez Liz heavy things went down. Bert’s Aunt was in extremely angry mode and made a lot of people cry. With hindsight, one wonders if rage is a symptom of corona virus.

Tuesday. Still Nellybert’s Day Off. Aunt pressed the panic button that summoned Favourite Cousin because she wanted to get up two hours earlier than usual and her fire needed sparked.

Wednesday. The early morning carer couldn’t access Aunt’s abode and Bert had to rush up there to see what gave. He expected the worst but it turned out the door was simply stuck and the carer, new to the case, couldn’t figure out how to deal with the rustic half-door. He hung out until Favourite Cousin and Favourite Niece arrived to pack Lizzie’s case for her two-week all-expenses-paid respite to a very nice little place in Antrim.

Wednesday Evening. Favourite Niece returned Chez Liz as she was feeling poorly and was scared. FN settled her, made her as comfortable as possible and went home.

Thursday. The news came through that the Covid-19 test that Aunt had been given as a condition of her admission to the very nice place in Antrim had come back positive and respite was cancelled. Favourite Niece and Cousin had to take a big step back as both are vulnerable. Bert steps up. He is now her sole family support and spends most of the day with her in two sessions. She is very unwell and continues to deteriorate.

Friday. Bert spends entire day with his Aunt with short return home for lunch. Community Nursing Team, GP and Social Worker pull out all stops to get Lizzie admitted to hospital care. The Social Worker clears her desk and sits vigil with Bert until paramedics arrive. By this stage Lizzie is so unwell that the paramedics are not sure she will survive the trip to hospital. Administering oxygen revives her a little and the decision to remove her is taken.

Friday Evening. Bert returns home, very shaken by what has taken place and in absolute awe of the dedication of the nurses, GP, paramedics, social worker and the care team. He is also really spooked that he was in such close contact with a live coronavirus case. He’s still worried.

Saturday. Little news about Bert’s Aunt. She is ‘settled’. The truth is, hospital staff have barely time to communicate with relatives. And we cannot visit. These are strange and awful times. Favorite Niece and Cousin and Bert were all contacted by Track and Trace. All advised to self-isolate for ten days. When Bert explained that he was the only person who could help Lizzie he was told he could do so but he was to go nowhere else. I am allowed to go to shops as it was nearly a week since I’d been with Lizzie. That’s what Track and Trace said but daughter Hannah said I’m not allowed to go to shops at all.

An amusing aside. Bert was very particular about PPE, His consisted of disposable gloves, a mask, a heavy cotton boiler suit, woolly hat and fleece. After each return from Aunt’s house the boiler suit, fleece and hat were divested for laundering. I’ve never washed so many boiler suits in my life. And was glad to.

Selling Sweeties

So, there was Granny about to tell one of her interminable tales that begin,

When I was a young girl...

And Evie chips in,

And now you're an old woman.

I laughed and said,

It's not so bad being an old woman.

And she says,

Yeah! You don't have to go to work!

I couldn't help but think - that child isn't even in Year 3 of primary schooling yet and already she's looking forward to her retirement. She must have realised that running that sweetie shop is going to be a pretty tough ride.

Looking Forward

In around four months time I will be, at last, in receipt of my State Pension. I'm rather looking forward to it. It's not a fortune but it will bring me a bit more financial independence. I won't be getting the full amount as there are some gaps in my National Insurance record. But not to worry, for if I buy credits amounting to around £1,800 I can increase my pension by £1.13 per week. which means that by the time I reach my 95th birthday I'll have broken even on the investment. Yay!!

Not going to do that.

While I was doing these calculations I also worked out how much I lost out on because the government raised the pension age. Almost all my life I expected to retire at 60. If everything had stayed as it was I'd have pocketed around £35,000 by now. But don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining as I'd probably have spent it foolishly anyway.

Careless

Sometimes when I am watching old film footage from the sixties, say at a festival or a Rolling Stones concert and I see all the hairy hippies and flower children and I find myself thinking how old they must be today. And I hope that they are coping with this thing we call 'old age'. And that if they have reached the stage of their lives where they need people to help them that those people are kind people who live up to the title of 'carer'.

I once knew a lady who had lost her legs due to diabetes and she told me that her carers threw her about “like a bag of corn”. She said that the young ones would be helping her and all the while they’d be talking about what they’d got up to on a night out. My friend complained that she certainly didn’t want to know about how drunk they'd got or who had got off with who. Young girls can make wonderful carers but often they patronize the elderly people they look after. They can find it hard to fathom those old people were once young and vibrant and full of vim and vigour.

In a Ballyclare home there was a lady in her mid-fifties who was suffering from a degenerative disease. She had lost the power of speech and was unable to feed herself. I watched a carer spoon food into her mouth all the while conversing with a colleague and never once speaking to the person she was feeding.

Then I worked a couple of shifts in a care home in Ballymena. It was tremendously well run and luxuriously appointed and the standards of care were very high. One evening towards the end of the shift when the work was all done and carers were waiting to go off duty, to pass the time, I went over to chat with a bright nonagenarian who came from my part of the country. She had attended the same country school as my father and was full of interesting stories. When I returned one of the permanent staff said to me, “Why were you talking to that old bore?” I’d previously spent my tea break in the company of this particular staff member and had found her very dreary. All she had wanted to talk about was her Christian faith and to criticise other staff members who didn't live their lives according to her high standards.

Carelessness happens here too. Pearlie's carers came in the other morning chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen. It was all “she said and then I said and she said and if they don’t like it and imagine putting in a complaint and Jill said to Nancy that Lorna said and I said and then I just said and she goes and…”

And by this time they were in with Pearlie and I heard the clank of cot sides going down and the conversation never stopped. No “Good mornings, how are you today’s?” to the lady in the bed. They continued with washing and changing Pearlie and never lost their momentum or missed a beat.

Then I heard Pearlie pipe up,

Can you turn out the light again?

And this reply…

Just wait Pearlie. Can you not see I’m doing something else?

Then (rather shortly)…

There that’s your light off.

No goodbyes, no see you laters. Just out the door with them.

On Growing Old

As you'll know elders are a big feature in my life right now. Both my mother and my mother-in-law are in poor shape at this time. Both find life difficult, both get very tired of living. But somehow they fight on to see another day. Bert and I were talking about this, wondering how we'll be when we're old, infirm and ill. Bert reckoned he'd be bitter. I hoped I wouldn't. But hey! Think on this. To get to be old - is that so bad?

There is somebody young right now, somebody related to me, although I do not know her, somebody who is very seriously ill. I hope and pray she gets to be old.

We'll Be Old Ourselves Some Day

Poor old Matty does not get it easy with her arthritis. It is only in her hands, mainly her thumbs, but she seems to suffer a lot from it. The only treatment her GP has ever offered her is painkilling medication but doesn’t seem to help much. She recently had an x-ray carried out and I have made her an appointment to discuss the results with her doctor and it’s not until the 16^th November. I really want to tackle this with the doctor, make sure that everything that can be done is being done. With this aim in my mind I asked her not to confuse the issue by discussing any other ailment she might have during her consultation. This was over the phone and I got the impression that she was a little deflated at the prospect.

Well. Is there anything else you’d like to see him about?

Well, you know how I’m tortured with my eyes.

Can you not leave your eyes until another time?

They’re driving me mad with the itch and the water pouring out of them and I’m always rubbing at them.

But that’s why they’re annoying you because you’re always rubbing at them. I’ll see if I can get you something at the chemist.

I got something from the chemist before and I couldn’t see for half the day.

OK. We’ll talk about it later.

I went to see her at lunchtime with the utterly useless potion I got at the chemist. I found her engaged in cleaning out drawers whilst bent over at the waist in that very position that always brings on her angina pains. I made her stop it and told her to take some of her spray before an attack came on. Thwarted out of an angina episode she made the tea while I finished tidying her cupboards. Her new cleaner was coming at two and she wanted the place spick and span before she arrived.

We sat down to a cuppa and I started talking about what I hoped to achieve with the doctor. But all she was interested in was her itchy eyes and her itchy knee and her itchy fingers.

The doctor says it’s just dry skin.

Do you not use moisturizer a-tall?

Ach sure I was never used to moisturizer or anything like that.

But you’re in your eighties now! You used to have fairly oily skin. Now it’s dry. You need moisturizer!

The doctor gave me a big jar of stuff once. I forget what you call it.

Why don’t you get some more?

Sure I still have it.

Well why don’t you use it?

I’ve had it about three years.

Jesus! Don’t use it! Throw it out.

I decided to change the subject to take her mind off her itch. Perhaps my choice of subject was not ideal.

Pearlie is complaining of a very sore neck.

Is she?

She said the other night that she wished she was dead.

I can understand that. All old people wish they were dead.

Do they? How awful. Even the jolly-natured ones?

Maybe not them so much. They just persevere and don’t let anything get them down.

So it’s just the miserable ones that wish they were dead?

I dare say.

Still Here

I've spent a good part of this evening reading old correspondence. Letters from decades ago, letters written from before I was born. Pearlie hoarded everything. I cannot bear to throw these old letters away without reading them first so that I can find out what hidden, historical gems they might contain.

Weddings were just as important in the forties and fifties as they are now but maybe not as extravagant. Long engagements weren't common among Pearlie's circle. Husbands were often chosen from the local neighbourhood. They didn't travel far in search of a spouse. I suppose too, better the devil you know....

Wedding presents consisted of pillowcases, bedspreads, blankets and cheval sets. Canteens of cutlery and china were popular gifts. One new bride boasted delightedly of receiving 'a fireside chair'.

They weren't just about weddings. There were letters from far-flung relations in Scotland, Canada and Australia. Some hinted, only hinted, at family scandal. I suppose 'reading between the lines' was a skill better understood in those days of paper and ink.

There was one far-flung cousin whose missives were a litany of woe from start to finish.

Recognising her scratchy hand-writing I said to Bert,

Here's another catalogue of misery from your one that's always sick, or her man's sick or the weans aren't well.

Aye. And if they do happen to be enjoying a brief spell of good health then the weather's shite and he's out of work again.

I started to read. The letter started as usual with complaints about the weather, the strikes (it was the Winter of Discontent) and the dreary Christmas they'd had. Then she started to write about her husband's old aunt. This aunt was in hospital but not doing well. It appeared the old soul had dementia although the word wasn't mentioned. The letter writer and her husband had been having a dreadful time with her. She was waking all night, going out in her nightdress and threatening her neighbours with a potato masher. To make matters worse this old doll was a keen letter writer herself and she was sending missives around all the friends and relatives claiming that the ones closest to her were neglecting her, never coming near her and worse again, hitting her. It seemed that 'cheeky' letters were being written back to to the old aunt's carers accusing them of mistreating the old girl. Little wonder the letter continued '...and I am not a well woman myself. There are days I can hardly get out of my bed.' No doubt she was deeply depressed but depression, like dementia, would hardly have been acknowledged in those days.

I finished the letter feeling a great deal more sympathy for that long dead and put-upon woman.

Our troubles all come to an end eventually.

Pearlie spends a great deal of her time in one room. Her interests have narrowed. Her conversation is dreary and uninteresting. She spends her time doing simple puzzles or reading the bible. She eats hardly anything and is obsessed with her bowels. She is negative about everything. She cares very little for her appearance. She has no interest in the past or the future. Her youngest sister died just over a week ago and it hardly affected her.

Matty is different. She's still full of beans and I pray she will always be like that. She is interested in people and interested in the world. She cares what she looks like. Maybe she's a bit too fixated on her health problems but she tries hard to stay positive.

I wonder what kind of old, old lady I'll be. If it's the Pearlie kind I don't want to get there. If it's the Matty kind it might be alright. No matter what sort I become I hope there will be no-one peeking round my door in the morning watching my shallow, sleeping breaths and thinking to herself, 'Not dead yet.'

Something To Think About

I picked up an old book recently entitled Modern English Short Stories. The writing may have been modern back in the 1930s but not so much now. I found this story by Mary Webb (Gone To Earth, Precious Bane) very moving and thought-provoking. I keep coming back to it when I feel negative and scared about Pearlie coming to live with us.

Keeping Busy

I found this research on how a sedentary lifestyle speeds up the ageing process very interesting. As Nellybert's respective mothers Matty and Pearlie enter their 82nd year it's remarkable how differently they are managing their very old age. Pearlie is failing and unable to get about much while Matty is doing comparatively well for her age. True Matty has angina, a touch of arthritis and never stops complaining but Pearlie is literally 'done' and can do hardly anything for herself. Matty keeps her independence. Pearlie depends on a shift of eight carers a day and lots of help from her family. Matty may look like an old lady but Pearlie, only a few months older, looks ten years older again.

Matty has always been a very busy woman. Rearing seven children kept her on her toes. She went out full-time working in her forties and on retirement continued to keep very active. Up until the angina took hold she gardened, she sewed, she painted, she wrote, she decorated, she walked and she cycled. She stills keeps herself occupied and is the most fidgety person I know. The thing she resents most about old age is the way it has curtailed her physical activity. On the other hand Pearlie was very inactive all her life. She would spend endless hours in front of the fire. Where Matty would be haring around like a blue-assed fly, Pearlie would be shuffling about hardly bothering to lift her feet as she went. Pearlie never had a job in her life and spent her later years doing damn all. OK. She'd knit dishcloths and patch her aprons and knickers but that was about it. Maybe she'd occasionally go out looking for hen's nests but she never baked or gardened or danced or took a brisk walk to herself. And there is a reason Bert's an only child.

There was one physical activity that Pearlie enjoyed and it used to baffle me. She loved a day out in the moss gathering and bagging turf. Bert and I hated the moss and I could never understand why Pearlie relished it when she was usually so idle. But maybe she was thinking that 5 or 6 days spent toiling in the moss was a small price to pay for 360 indolent evenings sitting mazling her shins at the Rayburn.

Must Be Getting Old Then

The other day Hannah says to me,

Mr X has got a really chubby ass.

Has he? I never noticed.

Then I realised - I've met Mr X on many's an occasion and I've never once looked at his bum. Obviously Hannah has. This is yet another sign that I'm getting on in years. Young men's bums no longer hold any interest for me.