Life takes funny old turns from time to time, so I’m currently wildly off my planned course, working as a dogsbody in a rest home for little more than the minimum wage. But it has its compensations, the main one of which being the honour to escort some twenty two elderly women and men through what is probably the last phase of their lives. I’m deeply tempted to explore the concept of what value we, as a culture, place on the importance of our elderly – considering that I got this job for having the right number of limbs and a willingness to wash up – but I guess this isn’t the time or the place. Instead, I’ll focus on what I’m learning about the venerable state of old age.
I don’t want to cover old ground. We all know that old age can be cruel, stripping one of memory, cognition and compassion as the veneer of adulthood peels away to reveal the secret self. It seems that the weaknesses of the body are more easily coped with, are somehow more acceptable than the inner losses of one’s mind. Interestingly, a fair sample of English people reside within the home I work in, elegant ladies of dignity, common sense and education alongside foulmouthed harridans and everyone in between. I thought I’d be able to discuss illness and death with them, be a comfort and an ally in a world that avoids their issues, but I’m useless. All I can do is react honestly when spoken to… I’m far too much of a coward to raise issues – mostly because I’d underestimated the power of selective hearing. It’s possible, in normal conversation, to raise a controversial subject quietly, and if it’s not picked up, let it slip away unnoticed. Easy for the other person ‘not to hear’, or misunderstand, and interpret or ignore as desired. In this situation, perhaps six people have reasonably unimpaired hearing but three of those have dementia to some degree. For everyone else, a high level of volume is required and no unexpected words or concepts. I’ve already been in several nightmare situations when an ill-considered remark has lead to increasingly futile and desperate explanations, all at the top of my voice. And these were about the most innocent of things. Can you image the possible reaction of the almost completely deaf lady, who told me about the funeral she has arranged and paid for? Her (late and unlamented) husband was buried, so she’s going to be cremated and her ashes scattered at sea, but she stopped being happy with the idea when she realised the tide would bring her back to shore eventually. She concluded by saying that it was all out of her hands anyway. Sorry guys, but I let it go.
And then there is Lily, a lady of 102, who lives in room 12. She is frail beyond belief, essentially well in body and mind but close to exhaustion. Overwhelmed by pity, I experienced a feeling similar to that I had when finding a kitten on a dustbin in the rain. I wondered why my Lady requires her to go on living, for what can she be learning still? Blind, nearly deaf, so tired that sleep and a cup of tea are her only pleasures. It didn’t take me long to realise that she is teaching; not overtly, but by example and simply being. It took a coincidence of language to jolt me out of the complacency of my ‘carer’ role, the arrogance of the young and healthy.
I’d helped her back to bed and made her comfy, and she grasped my hand and said “Thank you, Goddess” …er, this lady was born in 1887. Grew up in pre-First World War Britain and was administering charity and good works in her middle age, shortly after the Second World War. By the time the 1970s and the women’s spirituality movement came along, she was already old. Shouldn’t she have called me ‘angel’?? She is an individual, with a natural good humour born of inner peace. She is one of life’s adults, not reverting to the petulance and temper of a second childhood, nor the apathy that consumes those already beyond hope or caring. Her awareness touches the limits of her world, and she has the imagination to be concerned with the welfare of others. She is tired. Her whole being seems to cry out for permission to go home…and I wonder if a voice visits her, perhaps in dreams, saying “Not yet. I’ve not finished with you.”
Years ago I was a care assistant in a home that cared for ex-psychiatric patients, and they talked about death and dying and the after life, or lack of it, all the time. I was an atheist then, and unaware of the legalities of death, so I could only talk cheerfully of a well-deserved rest and escape from the current hell they were all clearly inhabiting. I’d assumed other rest homes would be similar, but this one, at least, is not, and no one mentions dying much at all, except in the bleakly humorous way peculiar to the British. I do indulge in a lot of mindless reassurance – telling people it’ll be ok, be it about their damaged glasses (which I can’t do anything about) or soiled dress (which I can). People are so often anxious, upset, afraid…seldom for rational reasons as seen by us, in our arrogance (of youth and health). The world shrinks in illness and old age, and petty concerns loom large. It irritates me that they can be so impatient and unkind to each other…then sometimes I am privileged to see the real affection some feel for others; people forced to live and eat and survive alongside those with nothing in common beyond an inability to care for oneself anymore.
The perceptions of the carers can be very limiting. To say, “Her mind is wandering, poor thing” about Lily, or more bluntly “She’s losing it“, shows a lack of awareness that’s quite scarey. Lily’s remaining senses are limited, and she has only left her room in the past few years to enjoy an occasional outing. It makes total sense that she creates an alternative reality, in which she can see shops and the seafront and talk to old friends, to fill the long hours. It doesn’t distress her, and the confusion it occasionally gives rise to is easily smoothed over. Life is much harder for the lady who continually shuffles up and down the corridor, her life defined between bedroom and living room, bathroom and dining room. Similarly, when making judgements about our older citizens, we must not fall into the trap of seeing ourselves as having the privileges of adulthood while they do not. However much we glibly refer to a ‘second childhood’ the fact remains that these ‘children’ have no future as adults to prepare for. It is not for us to teach social skills to people who have found them obsolete, nor berate them for putting themselves first – it’s probably for the first time in decades. Respect, then empathy, is absolutely essential for anyone involved in caring work. Sadly, ‘being kind’ seems to have to do.