28th October 2006 - Goodness had nothing to do with it

I went to visit this morning at 10 – I usually go later on a Saturday but I’d just dropped Mark off at his Dad’s and figured as I was in a bad mood anyway and I had to go past the home to get to mine that I might as well ‘get it over with’. So much for being ‘good’ to go and see him - I’m often told that I’m ‘good’ to go to the home as often as I do. I’m always far from comfortable about this, because I know – in a Mae West style – goodness has nothing to do with it. In my defence it’s not all badness either – it’s not as if there’s money in it – all his money will go to the home – it’s not as if I think I’m storing up brownie points for the life hereafter as I’ve never been more convinced that dust is what we’re headed for than now. It’s because if he can bear to be in there, then I have to be able to bear to go and see him.
I’ve spent my life being afraid of being found out. At school and Uni I was always afraid people would find out I was stupid – that I didn’t belong there. At work – no matter how successful I was – I was always afraid someone would notice that I was useless at my job. In an Emperor’s new clothes way – all it’d take was for one person to point out how crap I was and it’d be obvious to everyone. And now, now I’m afraid someone will notice I’m not a ‘nice’ person. I’ll be found out as the flawed, selfish individual I am. Nope, I’m not ‘good’ to go as often as I do.

Anyway, he was asleep when I arrived, as were most of the other residents. Gwen was beside him. She came to live there slightly after Dad and her decline is on very similar path to my his. She’s drooping in her chair, mouth agape and her skin is stretched taut over her skull like Dad’s. Bertha was sleeping in the chair next to Gwen and she’d fallen asleep mid breakfast. Her paper bib was still round her neck and the remains of a slice of toast were in her hand. As her mouth drooped open I could see the mouthful she’d been chewing still resting on her tongue behind her bottom teeth. Beside her was Annie, sleeping, then Patricia the stripper, sleeping, then Margaret, sleeping, then a sleeping Dottie. On the other side of Dad was an empty chair, then Nina. Nina was awake and eating cereal. “PorrraporraporraneeeweeeneeeweeeBABABABABA” she was saying as she rocked back and forth feeding alternatively herself then some invisible breakfast guest. Spoon about, one for me one for you fashion.
I took the empty chair and woke Dad. I asked how he was, but didn’t get much sense. I asked if he had his breakfast and he said that he thought he had – was there some doubt about it? I talked for a little but every time I ran out of steam he’d fall asleep again.
Susan had put on a CD – “Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,And smile, smile, smile,While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag,Smile, boys, that’s the style.What’s the use of worrying?It never was worth while, soPack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,And smile, smile, smile.”

These lyrics have struck me before as ridiculously tragic for the thousands upon thousands of young men killed in the First World War but when a couple of residents spark up singing along I start to fill up. Again. Why is it music in that place always does it to me? Bruce wanders over doing his polar bear back and forth act - his lips soundlessly forming the words of the song. Over by the door to the day room I see Dolly, she’s dressed to go out but Karen’s explaining to her that she can’t let her go out on her own – she’ll need to wait ‘til her husband comes in this afternoon or until there is a member of staff free to take her. There’s never a member of staff free to take anyone – unless one of the staff needs something from Tesco’s when sometimes they’ll stick a resident in a chair and wheel them off down the road. Dolly’s very together – the most together resident they have just now. She’ll like Dad was 2 years ago and more when he came in. Trapped, being fobbed off with reasons why leaving is not allowed. No-one ever actually says “You’re never going to leave here again” but the residents like Dolly, and like Dad was, must know. As Lily is apt to shout “You’ll leave in a fuckin’ box ya daft bastart that ye are!” Dolly is looking upset, frustrated and upset. She sits down – “Have a wee seat. You’ll get a nice cuppa in a bit” - but she keeps her jacket on and buttoned, her bag clutched under her arm and her hat on, her face buttoned down and resolute too – she’s going to be ready when the call comes to go out, no matter what.

Dad wakes for a moment to say “Is Moira here? Everything will be ok then” but I have to tell him it’s me, not Moira, and he looks at me, focussing. I ask where his glasses are “I dropped them over the side of the Queen Elizabeth, I’ve told you before” he replies archly, “Your sister would remember, Moira would remember, you know”. He drifts off to sleep again. I stay for another 45 minutes or so, but eventually I can’t think of a point, so I leave. I hope he’ll remember I came to see him when he wakes. I hope he won’t spend the rest of the day thinking no-one has visited him. Poor old sod.