5th November 2005 - Remember remember.....what's in that bucket?

Today Ellie, Mark and I visited. The smell on opening the inner door caught your breath. We went to the Quiet room and I gave Ellie some chocolate buttons and Mark some chocolate bar. After 10 minutes or so I glanced over at the fireplace. There appeared to be chocolate all over the hearth and I was about to admonish Mark, when a horrible thought crossed my mind. I went over to the hearth and looked in the wastepaper basket that was just to one side. I knew as I neared it. I’d known from my chair really. It was full of shit. One immense motion. Gagging, I went to find someone to clean it up.

There are times I hate being me, being so bound in politeness or fear or inadequacy or whatever that I can’t react normally. This was one of those times. I’m sure it would be the normal reaction to haul a staff member into the room and point and shout and be righteously outraged. I found someone, said there was a bit of a spill on the hearth, I wasn’t sure what it was, and would she mind having a look and cleaning it up.

When she came, she gagged too. She said “I know whose that is too, don’t you worry”. I marvelled at this skill, although I couldn’t really think of a practical application for it. Game show? “Who’s shite is it anyway?” The residents that were in the room were oblivious to it all. I recalled being told that my Dad had been unable to find his loo in his room one time and had defecated in a plastic bag. He then carried that around with him until he could find somewhere to get rid of it. So maybe he was the waste paper basket offender. I found myself thinking of an ex-neighbour of mine who didn’t like my cats. She would constantly fling lumps of cat poo across the fence into my garden. I wasn’t sure my cats didn’t go in her garden and she was convinced that they did, so when she turned up on the door step with a nappy sack full of the stuff and a “Yours I believe”, all I could muster was “Thanks I’d been looking for those” and to take the bag off her as I shut the door. I moved quite soon after, but I made sure I knew that the new people had cats. Not good for my karma but there you go.

We left the quiet room and went to his room. Mark always prefers Dad’s room because there’s no loopers, screamers or dribblers. I don’t like his room because we’re surrounded by photos of ‘the family’ and it reminds me of how little his life has resulted in. I find it incredibly sad being in his room with my Mum, Gran, Uncle and Aunt smiling down from the walls. What was the point of their lives, why did Mum struggle, scrimp, stultify and stay married to this man? How would she feel if she knew he was walking around with a bag of his own shite? Then I feel guilty and promise myself, my Mum and my Gran, that I’ll do better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be nicer to Dad. I’ll not be revolted.