What goes around, comes around
I could not but smile as I read my colleague Arthur Nelson’s post yesterday [The Problem With Oldies, 8th December] because it illustrated one, perhaps extreme, angle on the world of those of us ‘beyond a certain age’.
However, it is not the only one.
If you hold to the view – as I do – that human beings continue to learn throughout their lives (I hesitate to use that hackneyed word ‘journey’ as in ‘continue their journey’ which these days seems to be trotted out upon every occasion and circumstance) then one can be confronted with another, different, and perhaps sometimes difficult, perspective.
I have an ancient parent who in his declining years has reached the stage where he needs the assistance of a succession of live-in carers.
Last week I rang the current incumbent to discuss my ongoing plans for future visits.
In the course of our conversation – turning to how things had been going recently – he mentioned that the previous day he had encountered a situation in which my father had been somewhat … [he then paused for a moment to seek the right word] … so, trying to be helpful, I suggested “had been a bit difficult and/or aggressive?”
“No, …” he responded, “… a bit confused.”
He expanded. At some point after breakfast he had left my father with a newspaper in front of the television for a short period in order to nip upstairs to tidy the bedroom.
When he returned he found that my father had since moved to the drawing room and taken up a position sitting in a favourite armchair, where (the carer spotted) he was apparently smoking an imaginary cigar.
In other words, he was placing his right hand, with his thumb and finger curled as if around a sizeable Havana cigar, to his lips – taking a huge drag upon it – and then moving his hand to the side, tapping the ‘cigar’ as if to loosen the resulting ash from it into an ashtray on the table beside him.
[My father hasn’t smoked for at least sixty years].
Upon noticing that the carer had entered the room, my father asked him “Have you seen my wife?” in a tone which implied that she had been with him a few minutes ago but had since disappeared off somewhere and would return soon.
[In another month it will be twelve years since my mother died].
My father had then continued smoking his cigar.
In mentioning the above I do not seek to mock or make fun of my father, nor indeed to reveal to the world intimate Byford family secrets that in all conscience would be best kept to themselves.
It’s just that – as time and life go on and assuming that elderly relatives live to a ripe old age – dealing with such things becomes part of everyday life for the families involved.
I’m treading lightly here (hopefully) but what I’m trying to register is that serious illness, and indeed death – and the consequences thereof – visit all families at some point or another. Dealing with these things becomes at first a novel and sometimes puzzling or distressing experience. But then everyone involved gradually becomes used to it.
Well, sort of used to it.
Plus, everyone reacts differently to the experience. And sometimes differently at different times – I know I do.
Let you give me a couple of examples.
These days my father doesn’t contribute to conversations as much as he used to. Mostly he just sits in a chair, turning the pages of a newspaper and pretending to read them – quite whether he takes in anything upon them is a moot point. Meanwhile, as a visitor sitting with him, one either makes such conversation as one can, or either also reads a newspaper or watches television in silence – the main benefit of the exercise being that of simply spending time together.
Then later, as the time comes to depart to return home, my father – who up to that point may have said little or nothing all day – suddenly becomes animated on the theme of “When will I next see you?” and then a ping-pong session begins as we tell him we will be back (say) next Tuesday.
As more bagging up or collection of items continues, he asks again “When will I next see you?” and the exchange repeats itself until finally one forces an exit and departs.
It’s a sad scene that gets played out upon every visit.
At other times my father has a fixation about putting things away.
For example, no sooner may we have finished a leisurely lunch on the terrace together than he may begin agitating about placing the garden table back under the eaves of the house. This at about 2.00pm, just as we have moved back to our easy chairs after leaving the table. One is therefore faced with the alternatives of asking why we need to do it now; refusing to do it because later we’ve planned to use the table for tea; or … just immediately doing as he says, simply in order to keep the peace.
Some of the family get routinely distressed at the state my father has reached when – only a few short years ago – he was still an energetic, dynamic, chatty and eternally positive leader of men.
Others, like me, just try with varying success to relax and ‘roll with the punches’, opting (if we can) for ‘live and let live’, despite the inevitability that occasionally my parent can be somewhere along the ‘irritating’ spectrum [“Could you drop me off?” … “Where do you want to be dropped off?” … “Where I live …” … “You live here …” and so on].
We have to keep reminding ourselves – as each of the carers keeps counselling – that my father is not the man he was. He’s now somebody completely different.
There is no point in wishing things are not how they are, but back how they were. It’s not how life works.
And it’s going to come to us all one day.
